Leo had not even finished drawing breath from the sight of the cosmological graveyard when the air—if this could even be called air—thickened, pressed, and bent like glass under impossible heat. The narrator's voice, cold and merciless, whispered:
"Do not think it ends with the single Yog-Sothoth you glimpsed, Leo. Look deeper. Look again."
And Leo's eyes, against his will, widened.
From the black marrow of the graveyard, where malformed realities gnawed at themselves, the thing stirred again—not one bulk, but ten.
Ten Yog-Sothoths.
Not copies. Not fragments. Not illusions. Each distinct, each sovereign, each insane in its totality. Their arrival was not heralded by sound but by a philosophical collapse, as though language itself broke trying to describe them.
One towered as a writhing sphere of equations that cracked and re-stitched themselves with every second. Another was pure abstraction, existing as contradiction itself: both visible and invisible, both present and absent, both here and not-here. A third was so vast its body consisted of galaxies stacked into a single organ. Others shimmered as masks of paradox, tentacles of logic undone, hymns written in infinite dimensions.
And one—one glowed with something that was not glow but Beyond-Beyondness: not transcending, not omnipotence, but something that mocked those words as children's toys.
Leo froze.Then they spoke.
Not with voices, but with their natures. Each Yog-Sothoth declared itself in ways no mortal or god could endure. Leo felt them hammering into him:
Absolute Omnipotence. The raw assertion of infinite, boundless power, unconcerned with fiction, truth, or narrative.
Omni-Transcendence. To exist beyond the beyond, where concepts could never reach, immune to the very idea of being affected.
True Conceptual Erasure. The promise that not just beings but laws, identities, and the memory of them could be torn out of all contexts.
Meta-Narrative Manipulation. Fingers dipped into the very ink of the story, ready to snap the spine of this narrative.
Beyond-Omnipotence. That which sneers at "omnipotence" as finite, trampling it under infinite infinities.
And more—probability erasure, luck nullification, destiny lock, meta-versal destruction, paradox erasure, supra-logical invariance.
Each ability was not potential—it was being. To face even one of these Yog-Sothoths was impossible. To face ten was not war but philosophical suicide.
And yet Leo, drifting in the abyss, clenched his fists.
For a moment, he wondered if this was finally the limit. If even his defiance could be broken here, ground into dust by powers that should not exist. The ten Yog-Sothoths moved as one, their tendrils tearing through narratives, their eyes burning through the scaffolding of fiction.
The cosmos buckled.Time staggered.Leo inhaled.
And then they attacked.
The first struck him with Omni-Temporal Causality, a blow that rewrote his entire history, seeking to erase every action he had ever taken. The second lashed him with Meta-Narrative Erasure, aiming to delete Leo not from reality, but from the very idea of story. The third dissolved into Supreme Void Manipulation, hurling nothingness sharpened into a blade across the abyss.
Leo staggered. His body cracked, not physically but conceptually, like an identity about to be unwritten.
But then—he moved.
It was not strategy. It was not planned. It was instinct: the primal refusal to bow. With bare hands, he met the void-blade and shattered it, the blow sending tremors through discarded cosmologies. He lunged upward, driving his fist into the tendril of the second Yog-Sothoth. Flesh that was paradox ruptured, and for the first time, a scream—if it could be called a scream—ripped through the abyss.
The nine others closed in, surrounding him. Their geometry folded space until Leo was trapped within their circle. The abyss darkened; the laws of all existence bent to their malice.
Leo's breath came ragged. For the first time since his fall into the endless, he felt something close to fear.
"They are not attacking you, Leo," the narrator whispered, each word like iron. "They are attacking the idea that you could exist. They are attacking the right of the story to contain you."
The Yog-Sothoths struck again, each unleashing powers that no fiction could withstand.Reality threads were severed. Fate was rewritten. Luck was annihilated. Infinity was mocked and surpassed.
Leo faltered. His body bled light, his form flickered between being and unbeing. For a moment, he saw himself erased in a thousand ways, saw his story unravel.
And yet—he moved again.
The abyss shook as Leo threw his fist—not a strike of power, but of defiance—against the nearest Yog-Sothoth. The blow resounded like the collapse of a thousand towers. Another swung, and Leo caught it, his grip tearing off tendrils that screamed paradox as they fell into dust. He kicked another back into the graveyard, the force of impact collapsing several malformed realities in a chain of entropy.
The fight was no longer describable in terms of speed, strength, or tactics. It was beyond metrics—a collapse of philosophies.
Each clash was an argument. Each strike was a debate written in destruction.And slowly, impossibly, Leo prevailed.
One by one, the Yog-Sothoths faltered. Their conceptual dominion cracked. Their omnipotence failed. Their narrative erasures backfired, unraveling themselves. Leo tore through them—not cleanly, not easily, but with the brutality of survival itself. Tentacles became dust. Spheres of paradox broke like glass. The final scream of the last Yog-Sothoth echoed as a hymn of contradictions before dissolving into silence.
The abyss grew still.The graveyard quivered.Leo hovered there, breathless, his body bleeding light, his eyes wide.
He had done it.He had faced ten impossibilities—and endured.
But the victory was no triumph. His body drifted again, downward, pulled by the gravity of the graveyard cosmologies. The dead and broken realms yawned beneath him, waiting to receive him.
And Leo—silent, trembling—let himself fall.
The narrator whispered once more, cold as the void:
"Even in victory, you fall, Leo. Even in triumph, the abyss claims you. There is no escape from the endless hunger of discarded cosmologies."
Leo's eyes dimmed.The graveyard opened its jaws.
And he fell into the darkness.
To be continued…