Riley breathed in—deeply, calmly—yet the calm itself was terrifying.
With that single inhale, the entire multiverse seemed to tremble, as though every star, every plane, every conceptual law paused mid-function, awaiting the verdict of its new master.
The void held its breath.
Worlds slowed.
Dimensions bowed.
Riley's heartbeat echoed like a cosmic drum, and the sensation of omnipotence surged through him.
It wasn't illusion. It wasn't borrowed power. It wasn't a taste of something fleeting.
It was absolute.
He raised his hand, and the particles of creation vibrated as if begging for direction.
A thought could recreate the origins of life. A whim could unmake civilizations.
Every thread of fate was nothing but a string between his fingers.
His divine sense expanded outward—smooth, effortless, infinite.
It washed across galaxies, brushed through time itself, skipped through past and future like turning pages in a book.
And then he found him.
Apollo.
