The flare that had once been a spark now burned like a second sun above the metaphysical horizon, swelling and folding in on itself, reality buckling beneath its pulse.
Lucien stood before it—calm, hands clasped behind his back—his reflection split into countless fragments across the storm of unbeing.
The Watcher—the being who had been silent through the chaos—slowly stepped forward. His shape was clearer now, his presence no longer veiled by metaphor or half-truth. Words themselves bent to form his name, echoing like a chorus across all planes:
"I am Elyndor, the Watcher of Paraxis."
Lucien's gaze didn't waver. "Paraxis," he murmured. "The domain that exists beyond narration, beyond consequence. You've been watching me since the moment I left The White, haven't you?"
Elyndor smiled faintly, his voice the tone of turning pages and breaking time.
"I do not watch by choice, Lucien Dreamveil. You are the one thing I cannot unsee. You exist outside my script—outside causality itself."
A sudden shudder coursed through the plane. The Seventh Beast—Elyndraeth, the Thought-Born—began to unfurl its true form behind Elyndor.
It wasn't a creature, but a concept given flesh. It towered over both of them—an infinite fractal of shapes and shifting definitions. One moment, wings of pure chronos; the next, tendrils woven from collapsing timelines.
Each movement rewrote something in the metaphysical plane. Planets became ideas. Ideas turned to ash. Ash became stars again.
Elyndor turned, extending a hand toward the glowing monster.
"Behold the Seventh—my creation, my counterbalance to you. The one that feeds on narrative and causality, the very scaffolding that keeps universes coherent."
Lucien's expression remained unreadable.
"And yet," he said softly, "neither of those hold dominion over me."
"Exactly," Elyndor whispered, eyes flashing with a cold, almost reverent hunger. "That's why it can touch you. That's why I brought it forth."
The Seventh Beast roared—no, it narrated its roar. Each word in its cry became a law of physics, a declaration that the cosmos itself had to obey.
But Lucien's voice followed, low and absolute.
"Silence."
And reality obeyed him instead.
The metaphysical plane froze. Every vibration, every echo, every causal thread became still. The Seventh's maw closed mid-scream, its own essence betrayed by the void-born command that eclipsed narration.
Lucien's eyes ignited—rings within rings of voidlight, burning with awareness far beyond creation's logic.
"You thought to pit narrative against the one who exists outside story? How quaint."
Elyndor chuckled—genuine, unbothered. "Then prove it, God of Void."
The plane detonated.
For the first time in eons, reality bled.
The metaphysical sky cracked open as Lucien and the Seventh collided.
Elyndraeth swung its arm—a limb of infinite lengths—and struck with the weight of countless rewritten timelines. Lucien raised his hand, catching it between two fingers. The impact birthed supernovae of conceptual energy, each flash devouring several universes' worth of existence.
Lucien stepped forward. "Impressive."
Elyndraeth hissed—a language beyond mortal sense—rewriting probability so the blow had always landed.
But Lucien merely smiled.
"You're rewriting narrative," he said. "I exist beyond narrative."
And with that, he twisted his wrist, breaking not the creature's arm but the idea of its arm. Elyndraeth screamed as part of its existence vanished—erased from both memory and record.
Elyndor's laughter echoed from above. "Yes, Lucien! Do you feel it? The strain of omnipotence? You cannot truly erase what exists between creation and intention!"
Lucien closed his eyes. The entire plane stilled again. Then, his form began to shift—dissolve.
Not vanish—expand.
He spread through the metaphysical cosmos like light through a prism. He was everywhere at once. His consciousness filled the dimensions, his will flowing through every law, every definition.
Omnipotence. Omniscience. Omnipresence.
He was the metaphysical plane now—its breath, its memory, its dream.
Every living thought became visible to him. Every story, every probability, every fragment of meaning was laid bare.
But even within his boundless awareness, there were two black spots—two places even he couldn't reach.
One pulsed with Paraxis, the unbound dimension that Elyndor called home, where narrative itself was born before thought.
The other was the Creator's Realm, the true origin of existence, still sealed beyond all comprehension.
Lucien's gaze turned upward toward those unreachable points, voice a quiet whisper that reverberated across infinite distance.
"So… there are still doors I haven't opened."
The Seventh Beast rose again, repairing itself through self-written causality. Its wounds reknit as it declared:
"I am the concept that defines. I am the rule that binds all outcomes. Even you cannot escape—"
Lucien appeared before it instantly. His finger touched its forehead.
"You are bound by story. I am the reason story exists."
And in a flash of voidlight so absolute that even metaphysical thought dimmed, the Seventh's essence imploded. Elyndraeth screamed as Lucien devoured its narrative core, its ability to define cause and effect stripped and folded into his being.
The shockwave tore through Paraxis itself. Elyndor's realm shuddered. For the first time, the Watcher staggered, his composure slipping into awe and—perhaps—fear.
Lucien turned his gaze toward him, eyes glowing with the totality of understanding.
"Elyndor," he said evenly. "I don't destroy to prove I can. I destroy to understand."
Elyndor's mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile.
"Then you understand why I watched you, Lucien Dreamveil. Because when you finally reach Paraxis… even I won't be safe."
Lucien didn't respond. His form flickered, collapsing back into his human shape—the faintest trace of exhaustion glinting in his eyes.
The metaphysical plane began to mend, reweaving itself around his presence.
The six beasts, distant in the void, knelt as one.
Lucien stood in silence, gazing at the distant black barrier of Paraxis, the one realm still untouched by his will.
"Omniscient in all I see," he murmured. "But not all that is."
He smiled faintly.
"Then that's where I'll go next."
And with that, the God of Void—now the all-knowing sovereign of the metaphysical plane—turned his gaze toward Paraxis, where Elyndor watched still.
A realm beyond story.
Beyond even omnipotence.
And as his shadow vanished into the starless horizon, Elyndor whispered to the void,
"Let the true story begin."