The void trembled.Not with thunder, nor with collapse, but with something far more sinister: the silence that came when all laws—the seen and the unseen, the written and the unwritten—were reduced to ash. The Almighty presence still towered, filling everything. A figure beyond measure, described not in height or in form but in dominion: seven-hundred and thirty-six quatrillion omniverses layered upon omniverses, the eternal calculus of Aleph-null into Aleph-absolute, the endless recursion of all infinities compressed into a single, blinding frame.
And against that immensity, Leo stood.
Not diminished, not erased, but simply—present. His body, no more than 218 centimeters of mortal geometry, still held the posture of defiance. To mortal eyes, his flesh appeared torn, fractured, and split, as though his bones had shattered into crystal. But this was no mere cracking. No, his veins had not burst from weakness—they had sharpened into razors of light. His circulation was no longer blood but an eternal green luminescence that ran like rivers of cut emerald beneath his skin.
When the fractures opened, the cosmos mistook them for wounds. In truth, they were revelations. Each glowing fissure was a declaration: that Leo's flesh was merely a veil, and beneath it lay something older, sharper, and stranger than anatomy. The veins were not a "source" of power, nor an external graft—they were simply Leo himself, at full resonance. The Almighty did not recognize it, because nothing about Leo aligned with divine archetype or demonic tradition. He was not born from ether, faith, abyss, or logic. His energy was self-born, and because of that, untraceable.
And in this arena where even the walls of reality had collapsed into a blinding white afterlight—a luminescence so absolute it earned a forbidden name: Lux Eternum Cæcus, the Blind Eternity—Leo did not flinch.
This afterlight was not light in the mortal sense. It did not illuminate, it erased. To gaze upon it was to surrender vision forever; not even the most sacred miracles, nor the most obscene sorceries, could restore what it stole. Countless pantheons had feared this radiance, countless gods had torn out their own eyes rather than be reduced to permanent night. Yet Leo's emerald veins burned against it, refusing blindness. He saw—not perfectly, but differently. Through pain and fracture, he saw patterns in the blindness itself.
And in that void of eternity, the Almighty finally moved.
Its colossal body leaned, then descended. The gesture was slow—so slow that Leo's mind rebelled at its absurdity. For him, time did not bend like this. His instincts screamed: You are being attacked, but his eyes revealed only molasses. The Almighty's hand stretched across eternity, each movement a sluggish crawl, like infinity itself had been placed on pause.
Leo staggered back. He felt his breath catch in disbelief. Why is it moving like this?
He leapt, rolled, evaded—though nothing was fast enough to need evasion. The Almighty's strike was an epoch masquerading as a punch. And yet his instincts, sharpened through fractures of reality, would not let him stand still. The slowness was a trick. It was not mercy. It was not clumsiness. It was a domain of warped perception mechanics, an attack masked beneath temporal deceit.
Leo's veins blazed, cutting through the distortion. Emerald surged like wildfire through his fractured lattice. He clenched his fist—one single punch against eternity.
And when his strike connected, the universe convulsed.
The moment his knuckles grazed the surface of the Almighty's omniversal mass, the slowness shattered. Time corrected itself with a violent snap. The white afterlight bent, folded, and screamed. Sound itself, which had been long dead, erupted once more—but not as a clean tone. Instead, there came a thousand voices layered atop each other:
Numbers, bleeding as screams.
Equations, collapsing into laughter.
Images, melting like wax.
Narration, splintering mid-sentence, describing nothing and everything.
Anti-thoughts, reciting anti-prayers to anti-gods.
All of it flooded the void. The absurdity was so total that the fight no longer obeyed medium or logic.
The white background glitched. For a second, Leo glimpsed it tearing into panels, as though this fight was not written but drawn, inked, and erased. Then the panels burst into fragments of narrative prose, sentences falling like broken glass, rearranging themselves into new forms before dissolving again. Sound became color. Color became silence. Silence became laughter.
It was unbearable. It was perfect. It was real.
The Almighty recoiled. The slowness dissolved. Now its movements were neither fast nor slow—they were beyond measure. Every strike it launched carried the weight of absolute infinity, not multiplied, not compounded, but stacked upon itself endlessly, the concept of force divorced from calculation.
Leo answered each strike with his emerald veins burning brighter, sharper. He moved through attacks not as counter, but as recognition. When a blow sought to erase his existence, he did not resist—he simply walked through the erasure as if the erasure itself had miscalculated. When soundless hymns tried to bind his will, he grinned, bloodless, veins burning green, and his laughter broke their meter.
And then came the absurd crescendo.
The Almighty's eye—the eye that was not one but many, a lens larger than countless galaxies stacked together—opened in full. The sight of it did not just see Leo; it saw everything Leo had ever been, everything he could be, everything he had already refused to become. That gaze sought to dissolve him into compliance.
Leo raised his hand, emerald veins flaring, and in a moment of madness—or inevitability—he bound the eye.
Chains of pure fracture extended outward from his veins, wrapping around the Almighty's colossal iris. Each link was not metal but narrative negation, strips of context torn from the fight itself and reshaped into shackles. The Almighty roared in silence, its sound destroying whole partitions of existence, but Leo pulled tighter.
The omniversal colossus strained. In its struggling, reality itself bent further into lunacy. Numbers collapsed into dust. Geometry laughed itself into knots. Every infinite regression stuttered. And through it all, Leo held firm, emerald veins slicing like jagged scars across the void.
His laughter rang hollow, broken, furious—but not weak. His eyes were wild, fixed on the bound gaze of a god larger than every story. The absurdity peaked. The contradiction sharpened. The void bent toward collapse.
And as the final chain locked, the narrative froze.
Words bled off the page. Sentences ceased. The fight did not end; it merely… halted, caught between frames. And upon that edge of impossible tension, the chapter itself dissolved into a single, unfinished phrase:
To be continued…