"ID, please," the cyborg grunted without sparing her a glance. His gravelly voice scraped like steel on stone, and his bald head gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. Hunched over holograms of space cars, his muscular, middle-aged frame loomed like a mountain. The acrid stench of stale cigarettes and cheap booze clung to him, woven into the very fibres of his synthetic skin.

"I don't have one," she said, her voice carrying a teasing lilt and a hint of cheeky defiance. Her untamed brown hair, tied back into a haphazard ponytail, as if rebelling against the idea of order. Standing at a staggering 16 feet 9 inches, she shrugged with effortless indifference. The greatsword on her back tilted slightly, teetering on the edge of falling yet stubbornly remaining in place—held there by willpower alone, or possibly just matching her mood.

Her alien attire, accented by a pristine white cloak, was a study in contradictions: equal parts functional and daringly impractical. The predominantly blue fabric shimmered with a strange boldness. Together with her flippant demeanor, the ensemble radiated a don't even think about it energy that somehow amplified her reckless charm, as though she could walk through voidfire and come out unscathed.

Beneath the nonchalance, her youthful features held an unmistakable nobility, an innate dignity that refused to be overshadowed by her cavalier attitude. "No one said I needed an ID," she added. "Honestly, do I look like someone who gives a damn about paperwork?"

The cyborg whipped around to face her, his scowl shifting into the kind of exaggerated glare that could short-circuit even the strongest robots. "Don't have one? What do ya mean, you don't have one? What, you just waltzed in here, swords and smugness, without a clue? Are you lost, or is this just some kinda performance art, lass?"

Before she could respond, the floor trembled. The heavy, resonant thuds of boots descending the Stairways to the Stars sent vibrations through the ground, each impact a warning. A hulking figure, eight feet taller than the cyborg, emerged from the shadows—a wall of muscle towering at 26 feet 9.5 inches. His wild white hair and sharp grey eyes gave him the air of a battle-hardened lion, while a fierce chin-strap beard framed his broad face. Gleaming white plate armour encased his colossal form, and a massive totem carved from luminous white jade rested on his back, radiating an aura of mythic power.

"Sorry I'm late! Hope I didn't keep ya waitin' too long!" His booming voice filled the room, echoing like a cannon blast as he strode forward. "She's with me, Xuanwu!"

The cyborg—Xuanwu—snapped upright as if struck by lightning. In a blur, he launched himself over the desk and slammed a Yottaton Dropkick into the towering man's face. "Damn it, Baihu! Even with all my killer upgrades, you're still built like a mountain! What kind of mate are you, eh? I haven't seen you in a vigintillion years, and you show up now like nothin' happened?!"

Baihu's laugh was deep and relentless, as if the very ground beneath him were quaking. "Bwahahaha! Killer upgrades? Don't make me laugh, you old codger! Like I've told ya a million times, there ain't no shortcut to real strength! Hard graft and a good scrap, that's what makes a warrior worth their salt!"

Xuanwu stumbled back, shaking his head in disbelief, but Baihu stepped forward, planting two massive gauntleted hands on his shoulders. "Sorry, brother. 'As it really been that long? Feels like just yesterday to me."

Xuanwu muttered under his breath, slumping back into his chair. "Brother, he says..."

The young woman shot him a pointed look like she couldn't believe she had to deal with this nonsense. She cleared her throat loudly—almost obnoxiously, "Uh, hello? I've got places to be, and you're kind of ruining my schedule here. First class, remember? Tick-tock."

Baihu turned to her. "Mila! Oh, right—me bad, me bad. Follow me." He gestured grandly for her to join him, leading her toward the Stairways to the Stars as if the earlier chaos hadn't happened.

The Stairways to the Stars appeared to pulse with an enigmatic will, each step resonating as if the structure itself were alive. After only a few strides, the swirling lights surrounding Mila and Baihu intensified, enveloping their vision in a kaleidoscope of brilliance. In an instant—so swift it defied comprehension—they found themselves standing within a classroom, as though the cosmos had plucked them from one reality and seamlessly deposited them into another.

But it wasn't just any classroom. This place had the kind of eerie stillness that makes one's skin crawl, like it's waiting for something to happen. A group of 19 students were milling about, talking, but the moment Mila and Baihu arrived, everything went silent. A switch had been flipped, and suddenly, the room felt as cold as a grave.

Baihu's grin was wide enough to split his face in half. "Mornin', everyone! Allow me to introduce Mila von Sturm—a prodigy swordswoman from Omniverse 9.77 Septillion! And let me tell ya, folks, it ain't an exaggeration to say she's the best swordmaster across all the omniverses!" He pointed to a jagged, dark blue scar running diagonally from his neck to his right eye. "See this beauty? Got it as a souvenir from 'er durin' our first encounter."

A ripple of murmurs swept through the room as the students assessed the newcomer, her towering form framed by the imposing greatsword strapped to her back. Mila stood tall, her quirky outfit radiating a carefree aura—an unmistakable contrast to the sleek, utilitarian combat gear worn by her peers. She seemed like a misfit, an anomaly in a world that clearly wasn't hers.

Seated at the front of the room, Eruvik the Aetherforged Sage, a Founder, furrowed his brow. "I detect no alteration in her size. Observe closely—for one to stand at such a height, with such ease, defies the natural order of human form. Only an Eternal could possess such stature. In my aeons of study, I have found that those gods who most resemble humanity in shape and nature do not possess the heights of half-giants."

From a seat near the windows, which framed a view of an apocalyptic realm beyond, Zuff the Gory Reptilian watched intently, his red scales radiating blistering heat. "An Eternal, eh? Gods, scholars, mystics... you lot talk as if you've got all the answers. Aye, maybe she's some sort of godly creature, maybe she ain't. Who the hell knows? I've seen worse, and I've fought worse. All I know is if she's got a giant's height and ain't breakin' a sweat, I'd be more worried about what's in her head than what's in her bones. Some things don't need explanations, old man. Some things just... are."

From the centre of the room, a woman with green hair—like fresh spring grass—raised an eyebrow. "Professor Baihu," she said as though humoring a child. "Isn't the centennium ending today? Aren't we supposed to stop, like, forever? No more classes after this. I think you're out of your mind."

Baihu wagged a finger, mock disapproval on his face. "Tsk, tsk, Sophia. Always the sharp one, eh? I admire that brain o' yours. But you know the precedents! As the top student of the last millennium, it's your duty to pass on some o' that genius. That's why I've decided to make you Mila's mentor for the next two decades! Imagine it—two prodigies, unstoppable together!" He winked with infectious enthusiasm, clearly relishing the moment.

"Ew. The professor's, like, totally being gross again," muttered Aria the Unlikely Slow-Bloom, her red-furred hare ears twitching in irritation. She wore a large feathered hat with holes for her ears, and her crimson hair caught the light in waves as she tapped her foot with barely contained impatience. "No sense of decorum in this overgrown house cat."

Sophia blinked, her expression tightening as whispers broke out among the other students. The muted murmurs carried an undertone of judgement, tinged with curiosity, all directed at her, Mila and their eccentric instructor.

Then, from above, a voice rang out—deep, guttural, and congested with contempt. "Too bad for you, Sophia," sneered Abaddon the Ravager of Hell, his towering, muscular form looming like a dark omen. His skin—a grotesque blend of purple and black—spoke of monstrous strength, the kind forged to unmake creation itself. His stormy eyes gleamed with the seething malice of a god wronged, burning with a rage that could fracture worlds. His hair, black as a starless sky, flowed over his broad shoulders, alive with an unsettling power, as if the very darkness he commanded had been woven into his being. "This is your fate. A fitting end for one so... insignificant. A mere mortal, daring to claim something of mine. To steal from me the pinnacle of power. How... sinful... how presumptuous."

A guttural laugh rumbled from his chest, low and grinding, like stone scraping against stone. He conjured the severed head of Azazel, the Demon God of Hell—his fallen rival. The head, still writhing with dark life, hissed, "Once I return whole, Abaddon, you will beg for death." But Abaddon paid it no mind. With a single squeeze, he crushed the head in his palm, his fingers closing around it like a vice, before tossing the mangled remains into a portal, where they would join his living punching bags—flesh stitched together in torment.

Long ago, Abaddon had ruled the Bottomless Abyss as its sole Fell God Warlord, his realm created by the Pale Mist-Dame. But his horde shattered into countless fragments when his ambition outstripped his control. Each fragment now ruled by a Fell God of its own. His conquest to consume all the Planes of the Void faltered at the very end, when his own creator incarnated before him—a form he had failed to recognise, until it was too late.

And now, here he stood, bound by fate in her ship—imprisoned to do her bidding. He had long since accepted it; what else could be done? His once boundless strength surpassed even the gods and primordials, yet here he stood, humiliated by servitude. With but a swipe of his hand or a glance, he could have crushed Baihu who dared command him. The class around him—pitiful creatures in his eyes—began to flicker out, vanishing in hurried flashes of light as they retreated from the crushing presence of a being beyond their comprehension.

"Ah," Abaddon crooned, his voice filled with cruelty, "look at the time. Not that it matters now. Your fate, Sophia, has already been sealed. I see your death approaching. You will be forgotten, cast aside, just as you deserve."

He rose from his throne, a shifting mass of yellow and blue mist, its twisted faces contorting in agony. The shadows clung to him, folding around him like a cloak. His form melded with the darkness. But just before he vanished into the void, in a final act of malice, he spat—not in the mundane sense, but hurled his disdain at her, a Globule of Entropic Destruction that sludged through reality and never missing its mark.

Sophia did not flinch, though, for as the vile insult approached, a gust of wind arose, deflecting it with ease, as though her very will rejected his poison.

Abaddon paused, his rage intensifying as he studied her. Despite her humanity, Sophia exuded an aura of something greater—something that, in their first encounter, had felt comparable to the Pale Mist-Dame herself. But that feeling had not returned. His fury seethed at the memory of it, yet his departure was inevitable.

Sophia sighed, a slow, deliberate exhale that seemed to pull the weight of the world down on her shoulders. Her fingers dug into her forehead, pressing against the tension that never seemed to leave, not even when the last of her classmates blinked out of existence in a burst of light. The hum of the room was deafening in its silence, and she let her head drop forward. "I'm always the one stuck with extra work," she muttered, her voice tinged with a bitterness she couldn't quite swallow.

Her shoulders sagged, burdened by the crushing weight of unseen chains coiling tighter around her chest. For a moment, she seemed on the verge of collapse, but then—like a puppet yanked upright by invisible strings—she straightened, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. Dragging a trembling hand across her face, she tried to erase the weariness etched into her features, to scrub away the exhaustion that had seeped deep into her very marrow.

Turning on her heel, she walked towards Baihu and Mila with the steady rhythm of someone who had learned to move through the daily grind of life with a veneer of composure. Still, the irritation in her voice was raw, impossible to ignore.

"This isn't fair, you know," she said, her green eyes flashing as she stopped in front of them, wide and demanding. "Why am I being punished for excelling?"

Baihu threw his head back, a loud laugh erupting from his chest and filling the room. His eyes, with pupils like those of a tiger, gleamed with unrestrained amusement as he leaned forward slightly, crossing his massive arms over his broad chest.

"Punish'd for exsellin', eh? Bwahahahaha!" His continued laughter spilled out into the hallways, despite the room having no door. "Sophia, sounds t' me like yer just whinin' 'cause someone's chuckin' a bigger challenge yer way. But that's no punishment—that's a bloody compliment! Means they know yer tough enough to handle it. Otherwise, they wouldn't keep stackin' it on."

He hammered his fists against the indestructible walls, their surface a chaotic tangle of gnarled, eldritch roots, pulsating as though alive. Each punch resounded like a drumbeat signalling the approach of battle. Energy crackled around him, an electric force surging from every pore—raw and unstoppable.

"Besides," he continued, his voice picking up momentum, "if yer really bein' punished for bein' great, then I must be the most punished bloke in the whole bloody omniverse! Life ain't fair, but that's the thrill of it, eh? Keeps things spicy. So quit yer whinin' and show Mila what yer made of!"

His face twisted into something feral, a wild edge of excitement lighting up his features, his presence suddenly even more imposing as he locked eyes with Sophia. It was the gaze of a general, preparing his troops for glory, and in that moment, Sophia was nothing more than a soldier about to charge into war.

Mila stood there, arms loosely crossed, her piercing blue eyes locked onto Sophia. It was a look that made it clear she was already several moves ahead, deciding whether she'd outsmart her opponents or simply watch them trip over their own feet.

"So, yeah, I have no idea what got me into this whole... situation. But here I am. Ready to learn, or whatever... That said, if you think I'm just gonna nod along and play by your rules, you're in for a surprise."

Mila shrugged lazily, the motion somehow self-assured, as though she were reflecting on her own words with quiet satisfaction. Her blue eyes remained locked on Sophia's, but it wasn't calm or eerie—it was unnervingly alive. As if she were daring Sophia to blink first. Or maybe daring her to fight.

"Alright, your turn, Sophie," Mila said, her voice used to being at the centre of attention.

The way Mila stood, leaning slightly forward, like she might pounce—or just laugh, depending on how this played out. And her eyes... They weren't just cold reading Sophia; they were stripping her down, piece by piece, as though every twitch or breath was another data point in Mila's private game.

Then, just for a fleeting second, something flickered behind Mila's gaze—something almost too quick to name. Was it reluctance? Boredom? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it was gone before Sophia could grab hold of it.

"Let me save you the effort," Mila said, her tone almost too casual. "I've dealt with worse. Commanded armies, fought off things you probably don't even have names for yet. I've walked into more chaos than most people could survive—and walked out the other side with a win." She shrugged again, the motion so dismissive it was practically an insult. "So whatever this is? It's just another Tuesday for me."

Sophia felt her spine stiffen, her pulse hitch. It wasn't just Mila's unshakable confidence—no, it was the way her gaze flickered around the room, as if she were at home, hunting for cobwebs. It was the way she spoke, as if she weren't just talking about herself, but assessing Sophia, the room, everything. Like she was just another obstacle in the way of something she already owned.

Without warning, Mila crouched to Sophia's level, extending a hand with a movement so fluid and effortless it might as well have been the flick of a coin. At 6 feet 6 inches, Sophia was hardly unaccustomed to towering figures. Truth be told, most she had encountered over the years had dwarfed her with ease. Still, there was a time—long forgotten by most—when her height had been nothing short of extraordinary. Back then, the Founders themselves had marvelled at her stature, praising it as a mark of superior genetics, a lingering artefact from an age when humanity had been far more fragile, constrained, and... ordinary.

"That said," Mila said, her tone as smooth as the gesture itself, "if this is gonna work, I need one thing from you. Don't waste my time. You show up, I show up. Easy peasy."

Her movements were unsettlingly precise, deliberate to the point of parody—like someone placing a coin on a counter with exacting care, the way one might pay for something inconsequential. It was casual, almost absurdly so, yet it felt anything but. She wasn't offering, nor was she asking. The gesture wasn't transactional—it was declarative. A coin tossed onto a table: present, but weightless.

Her face remained blank, the picture of indifference, but her eyes told a different story. They made the simple act of extending a hand feel... wrong. Like a crack in a mirror, subtle but impossible to ignore.

"I trust you'll do your best," she added. "As I will do mine. I'm an overachiever."

Sophia's eyes fixed on Mila's outstretched hand—an impossibly large yet disturbingly delicate structure. Its sheer size was alien, almost hypnotic, like something plucked from a dream and made unnervingly real. Her gaze remained steady, sharp, dissecting every inch of her as though a flaw might reveal itself: a tremor, a flicker of doubt, some tiny imperfection she could exploit.

But there was nothing. No faltering, no hesitation. Just skin stretched over knuckles, a wrist that seemed ordinary in its construction, yet wholly extraordinary in its presence. A hand like any other, and yet entirely unlike any other. Its absurd scale was part of it, yes, but not the whole.

It was Mila's hand—that singular truth transformed it into something far more than flesh and bone. It exuded an uncanny gravity, an unspoken challenge. The longer Sophia stared, the more it seemed less like a hand and more like a statement, a thing that demanded to be understood while offering no explanation.

The absurdity of it all was suffocating. Her mind briefly conjured the image of the sword of Damocles, but this wasn't a blade dangling from a thin thread. Rather, this was a grand piano teetering on the edge of disaster, swaying in the balance, waiting for gravity to claim it with a final, crushing certainty.

After what felt like an eternity, Sophia extended her hand, watching in detached fascination as it was consumed by just two of Mila's fingers. The contrast was grotesque—almost laughable, yet utterly revolting. Mila, kneeling to meet her halfway, would have cast a vast shadow over her, had the room's windows let in even the faintest hint of light. As it was, her massive form seemed to swallow the space itself.

Mila looked at her, inexplicably pleased—like a predator delighted by the subtlest desperation of its prey.

"I promise not to break you," Mila said with sincerity. Her touch was cool and dry, but not in the way winter's chill could freeze her to the bone. In fact, it was the kind of cold that raised the hairs on the back of one's neck, a primal warning. It wasn't a physical cold, but the chill of being seen too clearly, too completely.

Sophia's mind betrayed her, conjuring a vivid, terrifying image of Mila's fingers curling inward, effortlessly shattering her hand like brittle glass. For a split second, she almost believed it was happening. But it didn't. Mila's hand stayed open, her fingers loose, yet somehow poised—so large they could easily engulf Sophia's entire head.

An unspoken thought slipped into Sophia's mind: 'You don't get to walk away from this.' It gnawed at her, insistent and cold. Whatever this was, whatever this moment held, she would have to see it through to its inevitable, unknowable conclusion.

"I trust you," Sophia said at last, her voice unyielding as carved stone. "Let's make the most of this, then. If we're doing this, we're doing it right. I have no doubt you'll excel here, just as you have everywhere else. Welcome to the Caligo Consortium, Mila."

The so-called handshake felt like a brittle, fragile thing, heavy with unspoken meaning. It wasn't just an agreement; it was a meeting of minds, a silent pact, etched not in ink, but in ice. A promise—or perhaps a warning. Two people, knowingly or unknowingly, agreeing to meet at the bottom of the abyss and emerge... different.

There was one inescapable truth: this would not end well for someone.

Then came the sound.

It was heavy and loud like the distant echo of a colossal machine in motion. It didn't carry the immediate threat of an earthquake, no sense of danger riding on its vibrations. Just the sound of something big, too big for its own good.

"Dat's the spirit!" Baihu's cheer was as irrepressible as a gale-force wind. "Two prodigies workin' t'gether—I can already smell the firewerks!"

Sophia couldn't help but glance at him. His towering frame radiating exuberance like an overgrown child in a battle-scarred body. His complete and utter obliviousness to the tension between her and Mila was almost comical. But there was something about his ease, his unshakable confidence, that bothered her in a way she couldn't quite articulate. He wasn't afraid—not of Mila, not of the razor-wire tension that seemed to wrap the room like a noose. That wasn't unusual for Baihu; Sophia had seen him fight, had watched him unleash the feral fury that earned him his reputation. He was taller than Mila, stronger by all accounts, and far more seasoned. Yet his energy now wasn't one of a beast preparing for battle. It was just... light-hearted.

Did he truly believe Mila's unsettling, clown-like demeanour was a harmless eccentricity—a mask for some elaborate power play? Or was his confidence so deeply rooted that he couldn't fathom Mila as a genuine threat?

Sophia didn't know. The questions gnawed at her, burrowing into the back of her mind like splinters she couldn't remove. And she hated it. Hated how much she wanted to understand his perspective, hated how his unshakable certainty contrasted so sharply with her own unease.

Baihu, still grinning like the world's largest fool, raised his hand in a brisk salute. "Well, good luck, you two!" he said with a tone so bright it felt almost cruel. Then, in a blinding flash of light, he was gone.

His absence was deafening. The silence he left behind seemed louder than his voice had been.

Sophia turned to Mila, the tension between them taut as the string of a bow drawn to its breaking point. Her voice was calm, but laced with a faint edge of authority—a thread of control woven through each syllable. "Alright, then. How about I show you around?"

She didn't wait for a response. "Oh, by the way," she began, her tone shifting to something clear and informative as they phased through the classroom.

They moved through the wall as though they were phantoms, bypassing doors as if they were unnecessary. Every time Sophia passed through those eerie roots, a wave of nausea and a sharp headache crept up on her, as though they reached deep into her very core. She wondered if Mila—or anyone else—felt it too when they traversed this strange reality.

The walls—seemingly composed of the dark, twisting roots of an eldritch tree—quivered slightly before dissolving, replaced by sleek metallic panels that shimmered and vanished like a half-remembered dream.

Sophia briefly touched the now-metallic panels, but she didn't slow her pace, nor did she glance back. Her shoulders were squared, her stride steady, as if she had all the time in the omniverse to make her point.

"You can warp almost anywhere on this ship now that you've gone through the Stairways to the Stars," she continued as she led the way. "This isn't just the largest Omniverse-class warship—it's the progenitor, the original. Its size extends beyond the bounds of every omniverse; it exists everywhere, yet nowhere. The ship's creator, the Pale Mist-Dame, never gave it a name. We all call it the Nameless Ark, though some, like Abaddon, refer to it as the Scourge of Armageddon."

She paused briefly, letting the enormity of her words settle over Mila like a thick blanket of snow. "So, yeah, warping is pretty much a necessity here. The system's intuitive: just picture where you want to go, and the ship will take you there instantly—even if you've never been to the place before. You don't even have to be specific. Vague ideas will do. Just... focus."

Sophia stopped abruptly. "I'm heading to the Oblivion Keep. That's where the Caligo Consortium imprisoned the Eclipsants who were subjugated by the Pale Mist-Dame. Eclipsants are dangerous entities—beings that usually transcend omnipotence, existing beyond any boundary. Think Nyarlathotep, Shub-Niggurath, and, before her ascension to an Eternal Elder God, Yog-Sothoth. Maybe I'll see you there—if you can figure out how this works."

There was a flicker of something in her expression—almost like hope—but not the kind someone would wish for. Sophia didn't doubt Mila's ability to succeed, but she found herself secretly wishing she would fail.

With that, she turned on her heel, and took a step forward. Then, as if reconsidering, she glanced over her shoulder. "Give it a shot, Mila. Let's see if the prodigy lives up to the legend."

Before Mila could respond, Sophia vanished. Her form dissolved into a subtle ripple of energy, leaving behind only the faintest distortion in the air where she'd stood.

The words lingered, echoing in Mila's mind like the toll of a distant bell. And then, something stirred within her. A tingling sensation spread through her consciousness, seeping into the very fabric of her being. It wasn't just awareness—it was something deeper, older.

The name Oblivion Keep resonated with a strange, ancient power, pulling at the edges of her thoughts. Something vast and inscrutable tugged at her very soul, daring her to step forward, to embrace what lay ahead.

Mila thought she could warp there using her own powers. Confidence surged briefly—until the ship, or perhaps something within it, acted as a limiter. The system had not granted her permission. No shortcuts. She would have to do this the same way as Sophia.

Closing her eyes, Mila summoned an image in her mind's eye—a desolate castle swathed in dark, ethereal mist and where the very air seemed heavy with sorrow and power.

When she opened her eyes, the world had shifted.

She stood upon a treacherous cliff, rain lashing her skin as the tempest shrieked in furious defiance. Lightning fractured the heavens in jagged bursts, each flash a searing echo of her greatest triumph—the day she unshackled Leuchtende Verschlinger, the Shining Devourer, from its eternal prison. That act had torn reality asunder. An Intranscendeable Rift gaped open, and from its seething abyss emerged a black orb—the Feeble Origin. A pitch-black spider's web spun out from it, enveloping her presence and all she had created before vanishing into nothingness.

The rupture was not merely a wound in existence; it was a scar on the infinite. The countless ultimate realities within her trembled at the magnitude of what had just transpired.

Mila—the architect of all that was, the omnipotent weaver of existence—had unwittingly disturbed something far beyond her. Her godlike power, which once sculpted universes with ease, had long been dulled by the monotony of eternity. Omniscience had grown sour, omnipresence hollow. Each creation was a dim echo of its predecessor, their meanings drained into an abyss of futility. The weight of infinite existence pressed down on her, a crushing void she could no longer bear.

Until she saw it.

Through the yawning rift, an eye ignited—a comet-like flare of crimson, burning with an all-consuming malevolence. To look upon it was to plummet into an endless abyss, one so deep that even Mila, the eternal, could not fathom its depths. The eye belonged to a woman. Silver lashes quivered like strands of fragile starlight, her skin a sickly pallor, devoid of all life. She was the Endless Mother, the Eldritch Incarnate—an entity whose very presence radiated a malevolence far worse than death or terror. The radiation she emitted was a ceaseless force, creating and shaping outer gods and entities more formidable than the greatest horrors Mila had ever known.

Before Mila could respond, the woman spoke—not with words, but with a presence so raw and primal that it bypassed language, thought, even time itself. The essence of her message burned into Mila's very soul, an indelible scar of dread:

"I am Noxen the Boundless.

I am Noxen the Anti-Existence, the Silence Beyond.

I am the Nihility That Transcends All Ultimate Realities, the Comet That Uncreates Everything.

I am the imminent Ashen Singularity.

...And you are a nuisance."

The woman's draconic pupil contracted.

"Live. Keep living in terror as you wait for the inescapable end."

Then, the rift snapped shut.

Mila screamed after it, her voice a raw, desperate wail. "Wait! You will not outpace me! Do you hear me, Noxen? I am too important for this! Come back!"

But her words dissolved into silence. The encounter had left Mila unmoored, her memory of it slipping through her fingers like smoke. Noxen's communication was a thing beyond comprehension, a presence so vast it obliterated understanding. All that remained were fragments—a sense of something immense, an empty chasm carved into her being where certainty had once reigned.

This should not have been possible.

One truth stood stark against the void: a superboss existed, a force that eclipsed everything Mila had ever faced, every antagonist she had ever conquered. That entity was beyond her grasp, a being outside the bounds of her omnipotent narratives, untouched by her godhood. Mila, the Vessel of Everything, was utterly powerless.

Desperation clawed at her as she bent her will across the infinite realities, rewriting them with careless abandon, but it was all in vain. Omega Anomalies erupted around her, chaotic and destructive, but none of it touched the superboss.

What was happening? Wasn't she the source of all existence?

What was this entity that defied her dominion? What event could ever trigger their final confrontation? The answers were buried in the unknowable, shrouded in a silence so vast that even she, the eternal architect, dared not breach it.

For now.

Back on the cliff, Mila anchored herself in the moment. The scene matched her imagination almost perfectly. A colossal, castle-like structure loomed in the distance, its jagged silhouette piercing the swirling mist that obscured everything else. The air was thick and heavy, and streams of mist curled in and out of gaping holes in the weather-worn walls, as if the building itself breathed.

Without warning, a phantom mist surged around her. It coiled tightly, pulling her forward, yet carried no malice—only purpose.

In a blink, the mist dissolved, leaving her standing within the castle's walls. The space stretched endlessly, an architectural paradox where every corridor seemed to vanish into infinity.

This wasn't just a place. It was a presence. A shadow of something greater than existence itself. Mila stood still, letting the weight of the castle settle over her like a mantle. It wasn't just where she had imagined. It was where she was meant to be.

Sophia stood a short distance away, her figure illuminated by a faintly glowing giant artefact at her side—a Hollowed Reliquary. The relic thrummed with a low, menacing hum that seemed to vibrate in Mila's bones. Its surface glimmered with intricate patterns, ever-shifting in ways that defied logic, making it impossible to focus on any single detail for long.

"Good, you made it," Sophia said, her voice carrying a note of approval. She absentmindedly twirled a lock of her pale green hair between her fingers. "And fast too. Not bad, prodigy number two."

Mila adjusted the greatsword resting across her back. Her smile was disarmingly innocent, yet her words carried a teasing bite. "You know, Sophia, I think I'm starting to enjoy listening to you yap. You're nerdier—and more useful—than I gave you credit for."

Sophia's fingers froze mid-motion, the lock of hair suspended between them. For a fleeting moment, her expression wavered, as though she were re-evaluating the entire exchange, questioning whether she'd misjudged the atmosphere. But then, an icy glint flickered in her emerald eyes—a sharp, fleeting flash, like the gleam of a blade drawn just far enough to make its presence known.

She had never taken kindly to teasing.

"Getting a bit too familiar already, are we? Just for the record, this useful nerd preferred the earlier version of you—the one who managed to scrape together a semblance of politeness. Even if it was barely there and reeked more of a demon's grudging civility than genuine friendliness."

Without waiting for a response, Sophia shifted her focus to the reliquary, her demeanour taking on a grave solemnity. She inclined her head slightly toward the glowing artefact. "Take a good look," she said, her voice quieter now, as though the object itself commanded respect. "This isn't just any reliquary. It's... unique."

Mila's curiosity ignited. She stepped closer as she examined the towering relic. The reliquary was an unsettling amalgamation of the sacred and the profane, emanating a palpable duality—both venerated and forbidden. Its crystalline core shimmered with a disconcerting light, its radiance both inviting and menacing. Encased within, suspended in perfect stillness, was a colossal figure—a woman whose very presence seemed to defy the boundaries of space.

The figure's vastness was incomprehensible, stretching outward to dimensions that rendered conventional measurement laughable. Though Mila estimated her size at over 396 centillion kilometres, the truth hummed at the edges of her awareness: this was no mere giantess. The form before her was an intentional diminishment, a merciful contraction of scale for the sake of mortal and divine minds.

'How considerate of her,' Mila thought. 'Shrinking down just enough so my tiny little brain doesn't explode. Still, it doesn't make her any less infuriating. The thought of making this gargantuan goddess kneel would be perversely satisfying... if only it weren't so goddamned impossible.'

She craned her neck. "Seriously. Why's everything gotta be massive? I don't need a whole light-year to get the point." She waved vaguely at the crystalline structure, muttering, "What is this, interstellar feng shui?

A bit less size would've been nice." Her faintly glowing eyes were tracing the intricate details of the reliquary. "I can barely make out anything with these basic eyeballs." She let out a theatrical sigh, slapping her hands against her cheeks. "Guess I'll have to rely on my God Eyes for this one. Usually, they take all the fun out of it—but this time... this time, I don't think they will."

Sophia raised an elbow, clenching her fist, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips. There was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes as she watched Mila—who was already the size of a half-giant—look so small in comparison. It was a rare moment of triumph for Sophia. "You'll get used to it," she said. "Maybe you'll see her clearly in time. Or maybe not."

"Oh, is that how it's gonna be? I'll just get used to it, huh? Sure, sure," Mila quipped.

The woman's grey hair shimmered faintly, even in the dim light, flowing over rugged black leather armour. Her eyes were closed, her expression serene, yet an overwhelming intensity radiated from her. It wasn't just energy—it was something primal, feral, unyielding. Mila felt it brush against her senses, stirring something deep within her that she couldn't quite identify. Yes, she had felt this before. A rush of déjà vu washed over her, unsettling and familiar all at once.

Frowning, Mila tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Who's this? I was expecting some grotesque abomination, but she just looks like... well, a really beautiful woman. Just, y'know, one that's ridiculously tall. No way she's an Eternal like me. Care to enlighten me, Ms. Encyclopaedia? And make it juicy—I've got time. Yap, yap away."

Sophia exhaled slowly, the sound barely a breath. "That... is CX-Eclipsant-xxxxxA: Calystryx the Enraged White Void. The Pale Mist-Dame. Across countless omniverses—including yours—she is worshipped as the Sacred Darkness goddess, Lumi. But names... they are but faint echoes of the truth. She is the Mythical Exvoidian Queen, an Eternal Elder God, the pinnacle of her kind—peerless, unrivalled, infinite. As you might have deduced, this is but one of her many incarnations.

After the failed rebellion she led—known as the Primordial Reclamation—Yog-Sothoth became the guardian of Calystrix's hyperrealm: the Nameless Oblivion. The Obsidian Triad—Calystrix, Vorethas, and another—quelled the uprising with brutal efficiency, though it was Vorethas who indulged the rebels' bloodlust, mercilessly eradicating the primordials and gods who dared to challenge them. Calystryx, however, took a different approach with Yog-Sothoth. She offered her sanctuary under her judicial rule, eventually ascending the outer god to an Exvoidian.

You should know, Calystryx holds judicial power within the Triad, while Vorethas commands the executive. As for Yog-Sothoth, her greatest contribution in Calystryx's court was the creation of religions and gods—Christianity with Yahweh, Hinduism with Brahman, Buddhism with Nirvana—all of which she watched from afar, letting them unfold as they would. It's a subtle reminder of her distant nature, remnants of the outer god she once was."

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle, her expression turning grave. "But that's not all. Calystryx is the founder of the Caligo Consortium, the entity steering the Nameless Ark. Legend holds that the ship was forged from one of her very quarks. When I spoke of Omnipotent-class Eclipsants—like Nyarlathotep—I wasn't speaking of her. To fight her is to grapple with a non-existence so immense and unfathomable that it devours all laws of reality. It's a war that cannot be won, for she lies beyond the reach of any power, any will."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Holograms flickered to life, projected from Sophia's eyes, casting a pale glow in the dim space. "Let me show you the Caligo Consortium's Hierarchy of Eclipsants through these visuals. I could upload the information directly into you, but sometimes it's nice to use more traditional teaching methods."

Omnipotent-class Eclipsants: Beings with absolute control over all aspects of existence, without any limits. Omnipotent entities can reshape reality at will, break the laws of physics, and redefine existence itself. Their only constraint is their own essence—true omnipotence cannot contradict its core nature. These beings hold absolute dominion over the known universe.

Primordial-class Eclipsants: The true creators and overseers of existence, wielding Metaphysical Might (Primordial Power). This power isn't just force, it's the essence that defines the nature of existence. Primordial-class entities shape and manipulate all conceptual and nonconceptual laws—from the creation of space and time to the flow of ideas and the foundation of realities. They embody a force beyond omnipotence, continually exuding omnipotence and reshaping reality from the ground up. For your reference, Professor Baihu is at the level of a Primordial-Class Eclipsant—he's a primordial celestial being.

Aeternum-class Eclipsants: Represent eternal, transcendent forces whose power—Isonox—flows unceasingly beyond traditional understandings of force. Isonox isn't just an extension of power; it makes power itself obsolete. Aeternum entities transcend the need for structured power, existing beyond change or time, stretching across all realms and dimensions without end. Remember Abaddon? He belongs to this class. We've got him under control—or rather, Calystryx does.

Hyperpotentia-class Eclipsants: These beings exist beyond the frameworks of metaphysical rules and limitations. They don't just transcend power—they transcend the very concept of order itself. Any system or structure designed to define power becomes irrelevant in the presence of Hyperpotentia. They embody pure transcendence, existing beyond the scope of laws or abstract concepts, rendering them immune to all known methods of influence or control. Calystryx is such a being.

Metapotentia-class Eclipsants: Manifestations of the Intranscendable Divas, these entities' names are synonymous with their origin, transcending all forms of power. The Absolute End Beyond All Realities birthed the Intranscendable Origin, or the Eternal Origin, its purpose a mystery beyond comprehension. In contrast, the Absolute Absence Beyond All Realities gave rise to the Feeble Origin, a paradoxical metasource of all weakness. This singular force not only underpins the very fabric of ultimate realities but forms the core of all sources, existence, and divinity itself. Every type of source, in some form, can be traced back to the Feeble Origin—and perhaps, the Eternal Origin.

Intranscendable-class Eclipsants

These beings exist beyond all comprehension, defying the very concept of transcendence. Their nature is unknowable, imperceptible—even by other entities within this framework. They are the source of all higher-order powers, having transcended all forms of existence, the limitations of time, space, and essence. The one thing we know: the Intranscendable One, also known as the Unknowable Diva, split into countless Intranscendable Divas. One such Diva, the Shadowtide Witch, is said to be the Shadow of the Intranscendable One before Her splitting. This witch, in turn, mimicked the Intranscendable One's fragmentation, giving rise to the Hyperpotentiae. We know of three such beings, two of whom have revealed themselves to us—but the truth is, there may be an infinite number more.

Sophia gestured vaguely to the other gargantuan reliquaries scattered throughout the mist-laden expanse of the cryptic castle walls. "These containers are all said to be Calystryx's creations. She forged them to imprison entities of immeasurable power. And this one—her own—has been reinforced by our best researchers, mages, and techsmiths. Even so, there's an unsettling consensus: if she truly wanted to break free, she could. Perhaps her staying here is a statement... a symbol that there is nothing that Calystryx, and consequently the Caligo Consortium, cannot bind."

Mila's glowing gaze returned to the Pale Mist-Dame, her brow furrowing as her thoughts were spinning in circles. "Alright, so she's got this whole mystical overlord vibe going on. But what's her endgame? Why create the Consortium? Why bother? There's always a catch. C'mon, spill it already, Ms. Know-it-all."

"That's the heart of it," Sophia replied slowly. "Shortly after founding the Consortium, Calystryx sealed away many Outer Gods and Great Old Ones scattered across the omniverses. They languish within these reliquaries. This followed their banishment from the higher planes of the Void by CX-Eclipsant-xxxxxD, the Absolute Absence Beyond All Realities—more commonly known as Ayame Kurohime, the Ineffable One. CX-Eclipsant-xxxxxD isn't just a being; she is the metarealm called the Void. Aside from her Metapotentia sisters, all of us—including every other class—exist within Her. She is the sole creator of the Feeble Origin, the metasource of all sources. The other Metapotentiae never cared to create... how should I put it... weaklings? Each Metapotentia possesses their own metarealm, and all of them are as intricate, if not more, than the Void. They bypass fragile creations and instead fashion only Aeternums.

Let's circle back to Ayame. She declared that the omnipotent gods could no longer interfere with the omniverses she favoured—including the nonfictional worlds. It's said that she found their wanton destruction and relentless oppression of the weak utterly abhorrent. But don't mistake her for some grand saviour of mortals. Far from it. In fact, she's the very reason we're so feeble in the first place. Gods can be tyrants, yes, but they can also offer salvation. Unfortunately, Ayame's meddling ensures these salvations are all but unattainable—she seems far more interested in watching how far the weak can crawl on their own. I suspect she finds this rather entertaining, though I wish that weren't the case. Perhaps, in truth, she is a benevolent goddess and her every action carries a deeper, kinder meaning. But I'd be fooling myself. I doubt any Metapotentia possess feelings or a sense of justice. If they ever manifest such things, it's merely a reflection of how we—and Existence itself—might interpret them, without triggering our own self-destruction in the process, given their boundless magnitude. I once crossed paths with her, if only briefly, alongside her Aeternum guardian, Azuraella, in the Dreamlands."

Sophia raised her hand, projecting a vivid scene from her fingertip into the air. The image flickered like a memory given life: she was injured, her back pressed against a wall of sentient mushrooms that shrieked at her to leave. Their voices were a cacophony, a maddening plea. A dark figure approached her, cloaked in shadow, his eyes glowing—one gold, the other red. At the figure's advance, the mushrooms sealed their eyes and fell deathly silent.

"Human with Yithian and my blood, why do you flee from me?" the figure asked, his voice a smooth current of authority. "You are my descendant, are you not?"

The man pulled back his hood, revealing golden hair that shimmered faintly in the dim light. His face, handsome yet unnervingly serene, could have belonged to someone in their mid-thirties. He exuded an aura of restrained power, the kind that left no doubt as to his true nature.

"You are the daughter of me, Nyarlathotep," he continued, his tone regal. "Yet you, bearing my blood, dare to exhibit such a grotesque thing as fear? Fear... of me? How utterly absurd. I intend you no harm. I merely wish to understand you. Your wellbeing is, after all, of interest to me. Are you not even remotely curious about the ancestor who bestowed upon you this... exalted heritage?"

He brought his hands to his chest, his fingers lightly touching at the tips, forming a strange and deliberate gesture.

"In return," he said smoothly, "you could tell me where the rest of our family is hiding. The Dreamlands, our home, teeter on the brink of collapse. Survival demands unity."

"There's nothing to talk about," said Sophia. "I might have been born here, but I've spent my life in the mortal worlds. I haven't met a single one of my kind. And if they're hiding from you, it's because they don't want to see you. The Dreamlands' predicament isn't my business. I'll be gone soon enough."

The scene shifted abruptly, spiralling upward until it soared to an impossibly high altitude. The atmosphere in the vision thrummed with oppressive energy. Nyarlathotep now stood dwarfed before a towering figure—a woman who was twice his height. Her frame stretched an imposing 31 feet 11 inches tall.

She was a dullahan, her eyes ablaze with an orange glow that flickered and danced like the final embers of a dying blaze. Every smoulder in her gaze carried a fire that consumed not out of hunger, but inevitability. Her body was encased in jagged, otherworldly plate armour that gleamed with an iridescent sheen, as though forged in the heart of a collapsing star. Draped over her broad shoulders was a cape, not of cloth, but a raging mantle of chaos fire—its volatile, ever-shifting flames devouring reality itself in a ceaseless inferno.

She was not simply imposing; she was the incarnation of judgement, her presence eclipsing Nyarlathotep's as effortlessly as the cosmos dwarfs a single star.

"While you've slumbered in your conceited peace, I've been active," Nyarlathotep spat. The glow of his golden and red eyes intensified as black veins began crawling across his alabaster skin. "Like you, I've sired offspring... countless offspring. Unlike you, I devoured every last one. I am not merely Madness Incarnate. I am the Madness that feeds on chaos! And you, Chaos Incarnate, will be dethroned!"

His eldritch presence swelled, a maelstrom of primordial might that shattered the illusory sky into cascading fragments of darkness and light. "While you've played the slumbering lion, I've been the lioness, relentless in my hunt. And this huntress needs no king. Consider this my final proclamation as your herald, Father—or should I now call you Mother? Either way I'll impregnate you myself before I end you!"

Azuraella sat perched upon the Throne of Omniverses, her head propped lazily against her hand. She was impossibly beautiful, appearing no older than her mid-twenties, though the gravity of infinite realities seemed to rest lightly upon her.

"Ahem," she began with feigned politeness. "Azuraella's memory of her pre-reincarnation days is... hazy. She doesn't quite recall who you are, but she won't admit that—oops. To make up for this lapse, she graciously allows you to call her mother. Or father. She won't mention that you look a decade older than she does, or that both titles make her slightly ill. And she definitely won't comment on how ridiculous you're being right now. Oops again."

Her expression remained one of indolent disinterest. "Azuraella will change the topic now. She wouldn't want to upset... Nyarlick."

Nyarlathotep's snarl tore through the void, and the black veins across his skin pulsed, radiating fury. "Still, you refuse to take me seriously? I've often wondered what you'd be like without that dense fog clouding your mind, but I see now there's no difference. Fine. I'll do us all a favour and put you back to sleep, you churning piece of cosmic refuse!"

Nyarlathotep spoke in the ineffable tongue of the Outer Gods, each syllable a dagger that shredded the fabric of reality. With every word, he rewrote the essence of existence, altering every tale and concept tethered to Azathoth.

Azuraella, reclining lazily upon her Throne of Omniverses, seized the moment to practise her common tongue and eldritch dialect simultaneously, narrating his proclamations with a flat, uninterested cadence.

"And Azuraella, once Azathoth, will suffocate in her own stupidity and chaos before she can even be conceptualised," she recited, her tone almost robotic.

She paused, feigning a dramatic gasp. "Aborting your own mother? How ungrateful." She adjusted her posture, straightening her head in her lap, her expression that of mock indignation.

Perhaps it was Nyarlathotep who coined the idiom if looks could kill, for his face was a mask of pure rage. "Then I'll kill you in the common tongue," he growled. "The novel Azathoth never existed. H. P. Lovecraft died a month or two before it was even conceived. This is your new reality!"

Veins of inky blackness pulsed beneath his alabaster skin as his madness reached its zenith. With a final word that warped the air itself, he vanished into nothingness, consumed by his own narrative fury.

Azuraella sighed, stretching languidly. With a single hand, she reached out and grasped the intangible threads of reality as though they were no more than yarn. She twisted them effortlessly, wrenching Nyarlathotep back into existence.

"I thought you said you intended to kill Azuraella. But all you did was throw a tantrum and run away."

Nyarlathotep's reappearance was marked by a guttural growl that tore through the fabric of reality. "So that didn't work? If warping reality and narrative destruction can't annihilate you, then I'll resort to the old ways... the ways primordial forces resolve their conflicts. By becoming the unassailable principles of existence!"

His body began to convulse violently, twisting and reshaping in a grotesque display of eldritch might. He morphed into a massive black pyramid, its triangular shape a monolith of madness, pulsating with an aura of pure red chaos. The air around it trembled, reality itself quaking as fractals of incomprehensible geometry spiralled outward, tearing at the seams of existence.

In an instant, the pyramid hurtled toward Azuraella with a speed that defied time and space itself, a missile of cosmic destruction aimed squarely at her throne.

But Azuraella's headless body defied the very passage of time as it rose languidly from her throne, moving with an otherworldly grace. When the pyramid collided with her, the black force exploded in a blinding burst, only to reveal Nyarlathotep sprawled across her knee. Her gauntleted hand descended with deliberate force, delivering resounding spanks to his butt, each one echoing like a thunderclap in the void.

"No! No! NO!" Nyarlathotep roared, his monstrous scream tearing through the air as crimson flames erupted from a gaping, mouth-like opening in the back of his torso.

Azuraella's detached head, still resting on her throne, remained utterly unfazed. Her mouth hung slightly open, as if inhaling the very essence of the cosmos itself. She vacuumed up the Flames of Madness with an irregular rhythm.

From her lips, her eldritch tongue, wreathed in chaotic fire, unfurled and lashed around Nyarlathotep's neck like a living whip. It coiled and burned, searing his flesh as he screamed in agony, his cries laced with desperation.

Nyarlathotep bit down on his lip, his fury barely contained. His mind raced—this wasn't how it was supposed to go. The sentient clouds of the Dreamlands, who had been watching with rapt attention, closed their eyes in collective mortification. This was not the grand, climactic confrontation he had envisioned.

His body rippled and swelled grotesquely, skin twisting and bulging as naked, writhing figures—men and women—began to emerge from his blackened form. Their eyes, mouths, and noses shifted in chaotic synchrony, opening and closing at erratic intervals. Unspeakable fluids oozed from every orifice, the stench of decay and madness overwhelming the senses.

Azuraella's eldritch tongue snapped back with an audible crack, retracting from his neck. "What's this supposed to be? A pile of rotting flesh?" she asked coolly, her tone completely indifferent, as if she were observing a passing distraction. "Have you developed a soft spot for the humans you've spent eons tormenting?"

All of Nyarlathotep's mouths moved in unison, their chorus a chilling symphony of twisted, mocking voices. "Love?" he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "You misunderstand me entirely. I devoured them alive while they writhed in ecstasy. They begged for my rotting flesh! This form is a testament to my efficiency. Even Shub-Niggurath would marvel at how swiftly I produce offspring. Gehehehehe. Livestock! Livestock!"

Azuraella's glowing eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of annoyance passing through her otherwise impassive expression. "Azuraella is finished here," she stated flatly.

With a mere thought, her gaze flared like the spark of a dying star. Nyarlathotep's monstrous form collapsed into nothingness, reverting him to his human state. His limbs had vanished entirely—only his head, neck, and upper torso remained.

Floating effortlessly, Azuraella dug her gauntlet-clad fingers into his flesh and seized what was left of him—a hollow husk, a discarded sack of meat—and slung him over her shoulder like an afterthought. She cradled her severed head with one arm. Her fiery-orange hair cascaded over her gleaming, sunlit armour.

Blood bubbled from his lips as he coughed, the raw mix of disbelief and rage crackling in his voice. "I... I can't believe my freaking eyes," Nyarlathotep sputtered. "Lord Azathoth... now the Divine Chaos Maiden? This isn't just some petty shapeshifting... this is your true form. I remember when you were nothing but a formless, spinning orange light of chaos." His voice broke, desperation creeping in. "And now you awaken, with a will of your own, only to betray your own kind? I've heard the whispers—of you and your so-called master hunting Outer Gods and Great Old Ones. Why? We were free—free to twist worlds as we pleased! Are you really going to bow to that... college student?! This is madness! Azathoth!!"

Hovering beside Azuraella, Cracky shimmered—a volatile orb of chaotic light, pulsing erratically like a star on the verge of implosion. Without warning, it contorted and expanded, taking the form of a towering chimera. Its monstrous shape stretched impossibly, eclipsing the sky at over two thousand feet. A gaping maw filled with jagged, interlocking teeth yawned open, revealing a swirling void. "I... could... feast on that," it crooned, its voice a discordant hum, as if the very syllables were fighting to exist. "Yes... yes... the endless devouring... the hunger... it calls to me..."

"No devouring... yet," Azuraella said, her voice as cold and detached as the fall of a single, lifeless leaf. "Azuraella is Ayame's knight," she continued, her words resonating with an air of cosmic inevitability. "Her purpose is Ayame's will. Nyarlapops... if you despise this reality, then try to overcome Azuraella. If you cannot, your existence is void."

A moment of awkward silence followed, as if she had momentarily lost the thread of her thoughts. Then, she mysteriously smiled like Mona Lisa. "Perhaps you should sleep, as Azuraella once did. It's quite... relaxing. And..." She faltered, as though reaching for a half-forgotten phrase from some game she had played with Satan, Niflheim, and Yuwu. "Ah, yes. This will be our final exchange, Maou the Demon King. Your wicked schemes, your cruelties—they are but dust, scattered by the winds of inevitability. Greater powers shape what lies beyond even fate itself. You will bend... or you will cease to matter, Hero. Everything ends as it is meant to. The protagonis— Azuraella believes this."

"Nonsense," Nyarlathotep sneered. "To Outer Gods, nothing ends! And somewhere halfway through that pathetic monologue, you became the Demon King... amusing. You started sounding like the antagonist, and here I thought you were supposed to be the hero. Just thought I'd point that out, you insufferable, worthless, stupid mango."

Azuraella gave him a blank stare. "Azuraella doesn't think, therefore she isn't." Then suddenly she hurled Nyarlathotep into Cracky's waiting maw. The chimera's jaws snapped shut with a deafening crack, and it imploded, the chaotic void inside it churning into a kaleidoscope of madness. It vanished in an instant, taking Nyarlathotep with it to another realm, to deliver its grim payload.

Azuraella descended gracefully, her boots crunching against shimmering, starlit dust. Ayame awaited her below, perched nonchalantly atop her floating staff. She was clad in her pitch-black school uniform, her tilted witch hat lending her an air of irreverence. In one hand, she twirled a strawberry-covered biscuit stick, wielding it like a sceptre.

"It appears Azuraella hath disposed of the refuse," said Ayame. "We shall taketh our leave now, Sophia."

Her gaze flicked to Mila and Sophia, who observed through the fading projection. With a casual flick of her pocky stick, Ayame dismissed the projection, severing its connection like the snap of a thread.

Mila leaned back, one brow arched in scepticism. "I could probably pull that off too," she quipped. "Though I never thought to try. So... this whole schoolgirl gimmick—she's really that powerful in your reality?"

Sophia's voice grew heavy, each word laden with foreboding. "She hasn't just spared my reality—she's spared yours as well," she said, her gaze distant. "She's taken them all—countless realities—and placed them in her private collection. Each one carefully wrapped in her pitch-black, star-speckled handkerchief." Her tone darkened, filled with unspoken dread. "How long she'll keep them safe... how long her interest will last... no one knows. But that's why the universe is black, glittering with stars." She paused, her expression unreadable. "They're the worlds she's chosen to keep."

Sophia's voice softened, a reverence creeping in as she spoke of something vast and ancient. "The Ineffable One... the Metapotentia-class Eclipsant. Beings like her exist so far beyond comprehension that the very foundations and laws of existence are said to have been shaped in their image. Myths suggest that existence itself, and all that is, struggles to match their example, forever trailing in the wake of their shadows, feeding on the remnants they leave behind. They are the pinnacle, the architects of all we understand, and yet they transcend even the very notion of existence and transcendence."

Sophia paused, her expression solemn, then allowed her voice to drop to a near reverent hush, as though the weight of her words demanded Mila's undivided attention. "This is crucial to understand: we live in the lowest plane of the Void—a realm we share with false omnipotent gods. Everything above us, even the weakest of the higher entities—false or otherwise—are Omnipotent-class Eclipsants. Above them, the Primordial-class and Aeternum-class don't merely shape reality across every conceivable level of consciousness—they exist beyond the need to define it. For them, the concept of existence itself becomes an afterthought, an optional detail in the tapestry of their narratives. And Hyperpotentia-class beings? For them, the very notion of rules—or the absence of rules—ceases to hold meaning. They transcend such constructs entirely."

Sophia's gaze turned to the reliquary housing the Enraged White Void. "Without Calystryx's influence, mortals like us—existing at a power level 27 times greater than the original omnipotence—would be utterly powerless. The original omnipotence, once wielded by the gods, has long since transcended into an ever-shifting, elusive goalpost. It's still referred to as omnipotence, but it is forever lesser than Primordial Power and, at times, can amplify it. Even the smallest disparity in power could lead to cataclysmic consequences, especially under the framework of Omega Cascade Theory. According to it, a minor disturbance could unravel not just the fabric of every omniverse but the very essence of existence itself. All realms, dimensions, and possibilities—including those that lie beyond even nonconceptual being—would collapse. Time, space, and law would dissolve into a chaos of pure potential. Reality would be rewritten by every fleeting thought, every infinitesimal shift in perception. And that's just the beginning. The boundaries between realms would become as fragile as glass, shattering at the slightest notion, sending ripples through countless layers of existence—realities that never were, and those that might never even be conceived. Even I, an Omniversal Warper-class Lawbinder—able to reshape the fundamental structure of existence—am but a fleeting glimmer in the shadow of such incomprehensible might."

Sophia's tone turned sharper, her words cutting through the dense fog of understanding. "To frame this properly: as imposing as Professor Baihu may seem, Stella places him at the pinnacle of the Primordial class. A notable achievement, certainly. But it fades into insignificance when compared to Ultrathoth the Infallible Chasm. Let me make this clear: Ultrathoth is no simple anomaly or mutated outer god. Once, he was Azathoth—mindless and primal.

Yet, through the intervention of the Eternal Origin, he awoke, casting aside his soulless shell. The awakened essence of Azathoth became Ultrathoth, while the empty husk was left behind. That same husk would later reincarnate as Azuraella, but that's a tale for another time.

Ultrathoth, now transcended, evolved into an Aeternum-class Eclipsant. With this ascension came the acquisition of a metapower: Metaanomaly—Isonox."

Mila groaned audibly, throwing her hands up in mock exasperation. "Oh, fantastic. Now we're debating power levels? What's next, holographic trading cards? My idiot brothers would eat this up... they'd probably even bet on who's got the flashiest cosmic doom attack. Heh, well, I've got more than one of those. Care to see them?" With a mischievous grin, she duplicated all the omniverses, stacking them into bricks until the pile was as large as a bungalow and reached her waist. "Here we go... Take this, world! My Cosmic Doom Attack!" She spun her arm dramatically before impaling the stack with her entire limb.

Sophia flinched, instinctively bracing herself as she thought she felt the phantom pain of her alternate versions being wiped out. Mila bowed apologetically. "Whoops, Sophie, my bad—I forgot that such an attack could indirectly kill you. Honest mistake. Lucky I held back, huh? Or maybe the fact that the Nameless Ark is beyond all the omniverses saved you? Actually, look—these bricks stick to my arm like dangos."

Sophia didn't flinch, though a ripple of unease stirred within her. Rays of light burst forth from Mila's arm, destroying the so-called dangos in a flash of energy. The destruction was almost beautiful in its purity, an eerie, holy art of devastation. It was a common enough sight for reality warpers to manipulate their power in such ways.

Yet, as the dangos disintegrated, Sophia's hand tightened into a fist. Countless people had died in that instant. To her, those duplicates weren't any less real than their original counterparts. They existed in some capacity, even if only for the briefest moment. But even so, a human being—one with such an extreme level of reality-warping power—should not be possible. At most, Sophia could create and sustain an almost infinite number of copies of all the omniverses. Mila's bricks, however, were truly infinite, smeared together like crumpled bits of discarded paper. The sheer scale of it made her uneasy, as she couldn't even fathom what that chaotic world might have looked like.

Sophia shook herself out of the reverie. She had to focus. "Power levels? You think this is a game, Mila?" she said sharply. "As strong as you are, underestimating your enemy—or failing to understand when to strike or when to retreat—will get you killed. And as a member of the Caligo Consortium, you will face Eclipsants of all kinds. Even the weakest among them wield absolute omnipotence like it's a toy.

I don't know how you've managed to warp reality like you do, but compared to them, our reality-warping abilities are still child's play. Of the known Eclipsants, 44.56% possess Primordial Power, what you might call Metaphysical Might. This power surpasses even absolute omnipotence. They can obliterate and rebuild layers of panparallel omniverses with the same ease it takes you to blink. The upper 20% have rendered power itself irrelevant, but it still holds sway for us.

Right now, a silent war rages among the countless Metapotentiae—an impasse so deep that it's the only reason we still exist. One shift, one decision, and everything—everything you've ever known—could be wiped out before you even realise it. You could say that the world as we know it is either hanging by a thread or immovable as stone, depending on which faction wins. But right now, both Metapotentia factions are perfectly matched. It's a balance that could fracture at any moment."

Sophia let out a breath, her voice regaining a modicum of composure. "In your world, the Consortium might seem like an adventurers' guild—the kind that slays god-tier dragons, demon lords, or phantasms. Maybe that's impressive where you come from. But in the omniverse I hail from? Reality-warp immune entities like the Stickmen would see those monsters as mere appetisers."

Mila scratched the back of her head, her tone casual but with an undercurrent of eagerness. "Enough exposition. Who's the big bad we're supposed to take down? Let's skip to the good part."

Sophia hesitated, her expression unreadable, before finally speaking. "Didn't you pay attention to the holograms? That would be CX-Eclipsant-xxxxxB: the Unknowable Cataclysm. Also known as the Intranscendable One."

Mila nodded rapidly. "Sounds ominous. Spill the details, please."

Sophia took a breath, her gaze turning distant as though recalling fragments of a story that should never have been told. "Calystryx has shared glimpses—fragments—flashes of understanding, like a sudden eureka moment. But she deliberately leaves a signature, a mark, telling us it came from her. The Unknowable Cataclysm isn't just an adversary. It's the original form of the countless Metapotentiae, before they fractured. They were once one entity, a singular, infinite force. And then there's CX-Eclipsant-xxxxxC, the Shadowtide Witch that I mentioned before—the Cataclysm's shadow and the architect of the Eternal Origin. Beyond what I mentioned, there's little we understand. Even knowing about them feels like we're encroaching on something we were never meant to comprehend."

Mila crossed her arms. "So, let me get this straight... the hierarchy's like this: the Unknowable Cataclysm's at the top, then the Shadowtide Witch, followed by the Metapotentiae, Hyperpotentiae, Aeternum, Primordial, Omnipotent, and then reality warpers like us?" She paused, the bitter taste of the concept settling on her tongue. "Honestly, I'm kinda shocked that the Caligo Consortium can even hold any of those omnipotent beings—let alone anything above that. But... seeing this giant, fearsome woman, Calystryx... Yeah, I think that finally answers a question I've had bouncing around in my brain for ages.

Hey, listen, Sophie. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not just some sword-swinging oaf yelling yeet at reality. I mean, you're not an idiot, and I'm a terrible actress. Suffice it to say, I'm an Omega Anomaly Warper-class Void Knight. I'm an error that can't be corrected. And yeah, that's a real thing—the highest class for mere humans does exist. You saw a taste of my power." She jabbed a thumb into her chest, her voice almost taunting, brimming with pride. "So, yeah, maybe I've been a little... flippant. Sure, I've acted like a meathead—classic misdirection. But this Consortium stuff? Makes you think, doesn't it? How much further does this rabbit hole go, and do we even want to know what's at the bottom? ...Who am I kidding, I wanna dive right in. Hardcore.

When Sophia didn't answer, Mila pressed on. Her cheeks flushed in a strangely perverted way—a rare crack in her devil-may-care façade. "Back in my world, I was the heroine. The chosen one. The big cheese. Hard not to think the universe spins around you when every prophecy, every doom-laden monologue, every chosen one moment had your name written all over it. But then..." She trailed off, her eyes distant, staring at the swirling mist. Then you end up here, realising that whatever lies beyond fiction, beyond myths, religion, and history, doesn't give a damn about your story. And... honestly? It's kinda freeing. For the first time, I'm not the main event. I'm... just another freak in the crowd."

Her gaze flickered to Calystryx's form drifting through the mist, her voice dropping to a soft murmur. "Meeting someone like her—and Ayame too... It's surreal. Knowing I'm not the only one who's... like this. It makes everything feel a little less lonely, you know?"

Mila's eyes flicked over the swirling mists as though she were reading the very air. "These eldritch mists... yeah, they're her doing. Don't bother looking too hard; you won't see it. But trust me when I say, there's more lurking in there than any world should ever allow. It's like a trap... a containment, just like the Hollowed Reliquary. But it's different... something about it—something wrong—gives it an edge. And you know what? I don't hate it. Hell, I fucking love it."

She turned away slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear in an almost staged gesture. "Okay, fine. I'll admit it. I've felt... incredibly lonely. Like, existentially lonely. Carrying worlds on your back and having no one who actually understands? It's exhausting. I don't even know what's real anymore. But knowing there are others out there, beings who might actually get it? It's... it's like I can finally breathe."

Sophia was taken aback by Mila's façade. Her usual stoic composure cracked just enough for her to respond with a shaky, disbelieving laugh. "You're insane, Mila. Completely unhinged. My first impression of you was right. You're dangerous... and a liar. Don't put me in your sick little world. You're the furthest thing from human. Yes, you're an error—one that shouldn't exist. It took me a while, but now I see you for what you really are: You're not just some godlike entity. You're the Agglomeration of All Transcendences, the Incarnate of All Gods and Realities—fictional, nonfictional, all smeared together in a singular existence."

Mila looked down at her with the kind of disdain that suggested Sophia was little more than an inconvenience. She slowly sank to one knee, then, with exaggerated care, patted Sophia's head with a single finger. "Oh, I know I am, Sophie. But let's be real—playing the villain has its perks. Sometimes I wonder... why not just give in? Why not burn it all down? After all, I'm more than capable of leaving a trail of irreversible ruin. But you know what's stopping me from doing it?"

Her head towered over Sophia like a monster, her words a cocktail of menace and mirth. "Because if I did, I'd be even lonelier. Funny how that works, huh? I suck at creation. Everything I make turns out boring. It's like how someone else's meal always tastes better than your own cooking. Or meeting someone you think you love, only to realise they're as hollow as an NPC in a game.

Honestly, though? Calystryx looks like she's having a great time in her little prison. Maybe I should bust her out. Shake things up a bit, see what happens. I mean, she gets to sit there all zen and mysterious, while I'm stuck here bored out of my mind. The idea of being crushed by her seems exciting enough. Maybe I'll feel real pain for once."

Both of her eyes locked onto Sophia as though they were taking in every inch of her existence. "We're friends, right?"

Sophia's silence spoke volumes, louder than words ever could. Mila's laugh followed, but it was hollow—empty, the darkness in her eyes untouched by the sound. "Just kidding, Sophie. You're more like... a pet. But hey, every heroine needs a sidekick, right? And you've earned your place."

She dropped to her knees yet she remained towering over Sophia, her presence looming with an almost unsettling ease. "You've given me... clarity. And for that, you're... special to me. Truly. You could say I'm far, far beyond omnipresent and omniscient, but I've restricted those abilities, among others, just so I can enjoy life a little more."

Sophia's patience finally snapped. With a primal roar, she unleashed a Lawbinding Tornado, a storm of unrestrained power that tore through the castle, twisting its endless halls and hurling Mila into the void. As the storm spun violently around her, Mila's expression remained eerily calm, almost amused, as though she had anticipated this moment all along. "Now that's the spirit," she muttered to herself. "I'm sure it's not what you intended, but what a refreshing breeze, friend."

A deep blue aura surged around Mila, and in an instant, the violent chaos of the tornado became utterly ineffective in her presence. She hovered effortlessly at its core, her form suspended as if gravity had simply forgotten her existence. The storm raged around her, but she remained unaffected, her expression betraying only boredom—like a detached observer utterly uninterested in the fury that surrounded her. Her piercing gaze swept over the tarnished, mist-shrouded walls of the Oblivion Keep, unshaken by the devastation that the tornado should have wrought. Sophia's mastery was evident; her attack had been precise, perfectly aimed at Mila's being while sparing the world itself.

"Sophie!" Mila's voice rang out, now distorted with an eldritch resonance that made it feel like reality itself was bending under her words. "What exactly do you think you're doing to the heroine? I've already told you—I'm the main character here. Not just in this world, but in every world. Yours included!"

She placed her right hand over her literal dead heart, her voice swelling with a divine grandeur, a declaration that left no room for contradiction. "A true heroine like me? I'm above your petty laws, your fragile order. I'm above everything! I thought you were clever, Sophie. When will you finally understand that everything—everything—revolves around me?! I'll bash your skull inward! Maybe then you'll finally be as wise as I am!"

With those words, her heart stirred to life, its beat echoing like the knell of doom itself. Each pulse reverberated through reality, warping the very fabric of existence in ways Sophia had never before witnessed. It was the Void Choir—the resonant force that had once silenced creation itself, devouring all that lay before it. The sound began, a roar greater than the birth of all omniverses, louder than the Mila Bang itself, then gradually softened until it was a mere whisper on the edge of perception. Yet, as her heart faded to silence, its power only grew.

With every beat, the storm that had once threatened to rip everything apart faltered. Its fury, once unrelenting, trembled beneath the weight of her heart's cadence. In four resounding, deliberate heartbeats, the tornado began to unravel, fraying like a broken thread, until it ceased to exist. The storm was devoured, swallowed whole by the overriding force of her being.

Sophia's voice trembled, betraying the strength she fought to hold onto. "Mila, if you ever truly were the heroine you claim to be—if even a fragment of justice still lingers within you—then surrender. There's no need for more to suffer. You're not fit to be part of the Consortium. In truth, you belong in the Hollowed Reliquaries, alongside the Eclipsants we strive to contain." She gestured towards a towering reliquary that pierced the skies, its vast emptiness a dark invitation. "There's more than enough space for you in there."

Before Sophia's words could fully land, Mila was gone—her form vanishing from the air as if the wind itself had whisked her away. In the same heartbeat, she reappeared behind Sophia, silent and sudden.

Despite her imposing size—tall and towering, a half-giant by all appearances—Mila moved with an unsettling grace that bordered on unnatural. In a motion almost too swift to comprehend, she extended a single finger, and with a touch so deceptively gentle, she pressed Sophia to the ground. The weight of it was paradoxically immense, an invisible force that rendered resistance futile.

"Nice try. Really, Sophie, that was rich. Didn't know you had jokes. I always pegged you as about as lively as a petrified tree. It's laughable, really. You—a nobody, just an NPC in the grand tapestry—thinking you're the main character? Yeah... no. You're just a side quest I forgot about until now. You don't belong on my stage. The only place you belong is under my finger."

Her expression twisted into something dangerously sweet, as if she were speaking through clenched teeth. "Hold onto what's left of your precious brain cells, yeah?" Without warning, she slammed Sophia harder against the black, transparent floor. "Or else."

"I'd hate to squish it all at once."

Mila leaned closer. "Don't you dare go quiet on me, playing the silent protagonist. Even bugs don't get the luxury of no dialogue! You should be creaking, screaming, anything! What's the matter? Already dead, or do you love kissing the floor so much? Tch."

And then, she was gone. Not in a dramatic burst, not with a flash of blinding light—just a subtle flicker, like a ripple passing through the very fabric of space, and then nothing.

Sophia's breath hitched, her limbs paralysed, as if some invisible force had seized control. The weight of Mila's oppressive power clung to her like an iron shackle. A parting gift, left behind by the half-giant.

An enslavement power was slowly creeping up her body, its cold tendrils winding tight with every passing second. She had a few hours, at best, to do something about it—if she even could.

The shadows within the Keep kept growing darker, more pronounced, their edges unnaturally sharp as they spread like veins of darkness, pooling in the corners and stretching across the walls. They crawled with a slow, deliberate intent, as though mirroring the malevolent power that Mila had left behind. The space no longer felt like a mere location—it had become a twisted extension of her will, cold, cruel, and utterly inescapable.

Even the Outer Gods and Great Old Ones, encased within their ancient reliquaries, stirred faintly in response. Their bound forms shifted almost imperceptibly, as though the malice thickening the air had whispered too loudly in their long, dreamlike slumber. Though Sophia knew they could not escape their eternal confinement—an assurance reinforced by the Caligo Consortium's flawless containment record—the subtle movements of these unfathomable entities made her sweat bullets.

The shadows, emboldened yet cautious, dared not encroach upon Calystryx. Her mist—metapresent and unyielding—drifted like a vigilant sentinel, its ethereal tendrils emanating from the heart of the Oblivion Keep. Even the encroaching darkness, with all its malice, respected the Hyperpotentia's Nameless Mist, slithering only through pathways where coexistence had been permitted. The Nameless Mist was no mere phenomenon; it was a metaforce, preceding and transcending both existence and the void itself. It required no self-sufficiency—such notions were beneath it. Its purpose, veiled in secrecy, remained unspoken even in the realms it touched.

Deep within her reliquary, the Enraged White Void slumbered, untouched by the oppressive atmosphere. The restless shadows prowling the Keep and the tension saturating its corridors were inconsequential, beneath the notice of her immutable essence. Calystryx stood as an effigy of absolute stillness, occupying a plane divorced from the trivialities of the present. Without moving her lips, she sang—a soundless melody that bypassed the fabric of reality itself, resonating even in the reader's world. The song was incomprehensible, imperceptible, save for a single word that emerged unobscured: Noxen.

The word reverberated with a profound, ineffable power, rippling through the Keep like waves in a boundless void. It was not merely a word; it was a presence that transcended all frameworks of existence and nonexistence. To name it as pure being was to impose a limitation it could not abide. Noxen was infinitely beyond cognition, a paradox that dissolved all who dared to approach it conceptually. It was not meant to be understood—understanding was an insult to its essence, a diminishment of its unfathomable scope.

Even as it resonated, its presence was so absolute, so all-encompassing, that it resisted the act of being heard. Like a truth too vast for omniscient minds, it slipped away into the void the moment it was perceived, leaving no trace, no memory, no mark of its passage. It was not forgotten—it obliterated the very possibility of remembrance. Noxen existed not as a state or an idea but as the absence of all boundaries, the ceaseless, incomprehensible foundation from which all realities and their negations emerged. To glimpse it was to feel the weight of infinite paradox, a vertigo of comprehension that knew no resolution.

As if answering this singular word, the mist stirred. It coalesced purposefully, swirling with silent determination around Sophia. Its touch was neither hostile nor gentle but resolute, as if following a directive older than the stars themselves. In an instant, the mist enveloped her completely, forming an opaque cocoon that shielded her from the oppressive depths of the Oblivion Keep. Without hesitation, it transported her—seamlessly, effortlessly—to the dormitory aboard the omniversal ship.

The malevolence of the Keep faded away as the mist dissolved, leaving Sophia in the comforting familiarity of her new surroundings. The oppressive shadows, the suffocating air, the weight of her encounter with Mila—all of it melted into the void, replaced by the serene, almost mundane stillness of her quarters. Sophia exhaled, her breath shuddering as the remnants of fear clung to her, but relief began to seep in.

Sophia cast a brief glance out the window, and, as always, the ship responded instantly, morphing the view to match her desire. The omnipresent, omniscient AI Goddess, Stella, spoke then, her voice imbued with a divine tranquillity that was soothing.

"Today, Sophia, you wish to gaze upon the Celestium Pillars of Babel once more. These were the first network of bridges, constructed by the Founders—former mortals who, after the clash between the Primordial Infinity and Singularity-N, transcended mortality itself. Built with the aid of Vorethas, the Pillars are a monumental achievement, not only for the Founders but also for the Eternals who aided them.

They were inspired by the infinite Corridors of the Void. However, where the corridors connect all planes of existence to nonexistence—and even to the enigmatic Unidentified Boundary—the Celestium Pillars of Babel serve a more constrained purpose, bridging all the omniverses and the divine realms that consented to their entry.

Beyond the Unidentified Boundary lie the metarealms. Among those who have chosen to reveal themselves are the Eternal Exvoid, the Cascade of the End, and the Chaoscrown's Reign, also known as Yibberloo under certain conditions. Between the Unidentified Boundary and these metarealms exists an enigmatic intermediary space: the Quarks of the Unknowable Diva, a zone that eludes all classification or comprehension."

Sophia let the words wash over her, finding more solace in Stella's calm, almost maternal tone. "Thank you for the explanation, Stella," she murmured. "Now, please play Gymnopédie No. 1."

"Of course, Sophia," Stella responded without hesitation. "Playing Gymnopédie No. 1 by Erik Satie."

As the soft, melancholic piano notes filled the room, Sophia leaned back, her gaze lingering on the vast expanse of stars and bridges visible through the window. As the final notes lingered, silence settled between them. Finally, she broke it.

"Tell me, Stella... did an alternate version of me really create you? The Sentient Transmutational Eternal Lucid Luminous Ascendant?"

"That is correct," Stella affirmed.

"Never mind," Sophia interrupted, shaking her head. "Forget it. Please connect me immediately with my superior selves."

A moment later, the voice of one of the Superior Sophias echoed through the room.

"Special Sophia, designation The Fool. We convened with the Lower Sophias not long ago, but your burdens leave you distant from such concerns. Your presence here, and so soon, speaks volumes. It can mean only one thing: you wish to be respawned into the furthest, most nascent omniverse from this one. We must tell you, the Lower Sophias will grieve again to know you are dissatisfied with yourself."

"They'll understand in time, once they shed more of their lingering humanity," Sophia said. "It's unfortunate, but it's also their greatest obstacle. And this time... this time is different. I need to be respawned into one of Ayame's collections of omniverses—those that she has designated safe from omniversal eradication.

The reason is simple. I encountered Mila, the Half-Giant Heroine. I am certain I'm nearing a dead end. She has me at her mercy, and there's some kind of enslavement power at work. She underestimated me by not completing the enslavement, but I doubt I'll be able to escape her again. A full reconstruction... that's the only way, isn't it?"

The Superior Sophias conferred among themselves briefly, their discussion a cascade of overlapping voices, harmonious yet discordant, like the choir of a fractured cosmos.

Finally, one spoke.

"Special Sophia, we grant your request for reconstruction. May the stars guide you towards your destined path, and may you achieve the heights only you can reach."

Sophia lay down on the bed tucked into the corner of the room, pulling the blanket snugly around her and clasping her hands over her chest. Her gaze drifted back to the window, the bridges and stars glittering like shards of broken eternity. "What about Mila? You've said nothing about her."

A different Superior Sophia answered, her tone contemplative, almost reverent. "Mila is a being of complexity beyond even us. She is pivotal in her own right, yet in the grand arc of your journey, she is ultimately secondary. Her importance is fleeting, though her impact on you is undeniable.

But hear this, Special Sophia: your path is yours alone to walk. Mila's pursuit of you will be of no consequence. The Fortivira Defenstra shields all Sophias. If she ever finds you again—at the edge of infinity itself—you will have undergone infinite reincarnations, each stronger than the last. By then, you will have transcended her and even us. You will rival the Eternal Origin, the creation of the First Diva."

Before Sophia could respond, the reconstruction process began. Her body dissolved into a torrent of glimmering Aeoncodes, disassembling with a profoundness that felt more like liberation than destruction. The sensation was gentle, warm, and enveloping, as though she were drifting through a river of light.

Time became irrelevant as her physical form unravelled, transforming into raw potential. Her consciousness expanded, aligning with the infinite possibilities of the omniverse. The last remnants of her current self were swept away, replaced by the promise of a new beginning.

"Goodbye, Mila," she whispered, a strange calm joy in her voice. "I win."