The cathedral of stars was no longer silent. The vacuum between constellations trembled, warped, and bent itself like a wounded canvas. The Almighty—no longer wearing the mask of serene omnipotence but something else entirely, something more primal, something raw—stood before Leo.
The world should not have been able to see this. There should not have been witnesses to a dialogue between something beyond gods and something that even gods could not touch. And yet, existence itself was forced to watch. The galaxies surrounding them flickered in convulsions, their light bending and stuttering like broken lanterns. It was as though creation itself was afraid of the confrontation unfolding at its center.
Leo stood still, as he always had. His posture was not one of defiance, nor arrogance, nor even calmness. It was simply—existence. His body was there, but to call it a "body" was already a miscalculation, an error of category. He was form without definition, a figure painted in the cracks between rules, a silhouette that was felt more than seen.
The Almighty's voice split across every possible frequency, both divine and human, both conceptual and physical.
"You cannot remain undefined. Nothing escapes the lattice of law. You must answer to something."
But Leo did not answer. His silence was not defiance, but annihilation of expectation itself. It was silence that consumed words, silence that left no gap for response.
The Almighty moved first. A hand, radiant like compressed eternity, reached forward and delivered what should have been the simplest strike—a fist, pure and direct, carrying no layered divinity, no scripture, no spell, no woven logic. It was meant to bypass arguments of faith, break past metaphysics. It was just a punch.
But when the Almighty's fist met Leo's chest, the world ruptured.
Not because Leo was struck, but because the law itself collapsed in that contact.
Newton's third law should have responded: Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.But when the Almighty struck Leo, there was no reciprocity. There was no transaction of force. Leo's body refused to acknowledge the grammar of cause and effect. Instead, the fist shattered under its own assertion. Bones splintered—not metaphorically, but literally. Fragments of divine marrow spilled like collapsing stars.
The Almighty hissed—not in pain, but in realization. The strike had not been "blocked" or "endured." It had been rejected by the concept of rejection itself.
Damage, pain, durability—these were all words belonging to systems, belonging to rulesets that applied across creation. But Leo had stepped outside that currency. He could not be bought, weighed, or measured. He existed without exchange. To strike him was to strike nothing, and yet, the Nothing was harder than any stone, sharper than any blade.
It was an impossible paradox: he was not there, and yet he was unbreakable.
The Almighty pulled back, watching as His own knuckles dripped with golden ichor. His arm shook—not because of weakness, but because the laws His body relied upon had betrayed Him. The concept of durability, of damage distribution, of "equal force" had shattered. And the shards had embedded themselves into Him.
Leo tilted his head—not mockery, not empathy, just movement. A gesture that neither confirmed nor denied meaning.
The Almighty's eyes narrowed. "Then you are truly lawless."
Silence again.
For the first time in uncountable eternities, the Almighty shifted into something else. His flesh unraveled, becoming neither flesh nor spirit. His crown of light fractured, melting into shifting geometries that refused to stabilize. His wings inverted, folding inward and then outward into shapes untranslatable by mortal languages. He was no longer the God known by scriptures, prayers, or cosmologies.
He became The Unknown Form.
A manifestation stripped of identity, unburdened by narrative. This was the Almighty's true test: to abandon even His own ruleset and meet Leo without anchors. To become undefined, or at least, to approximate undefined.
The void screamed as the transformation finished. The stars pulsed like panicked hearts, bursting and collapsing in fast cycles. Every world that believed in Him trembled as their deities dissolved into uncertainty. Priests clawed at their eyes. Prophets vomited black water. Children cried in their sleep. For what they prayed to was no longer consistent, no longer definable.
Leo's gaze did not shift. The Undefined could not impress the Rulebreaker.
Then the Almighty spoke again, though His words now carried no structure. It was raw output, something closer to static, something beyond tongues. Yet, the message reached:
"If law cannot bind you, then lawlessness will."
And He struck again.
But this strike was different. It was not a punch. It was not force. It was not energy. It was not magic. It was absence, the kind of impact that came from void touching void. A strike that should have obliterated everything that had definition, stripping away all anchors of self, all identity, all name.
The strike landed on Leo.
And then—it ended.
No explosion. No recoil. No wound. Nothing.
Because Leo did not recognize the concept of "having identity," nor the concept of "losing identity." He was outside both. The Almighty's undefined strike struck into nothingness, and in that failure, the Almighty staggered. His form destabilized, his geometries collapsing back into chaotic oscillations.
Leo raised a hand—not to strike, not to defend, but to gesture.
The gesture was simple. Fingers spread, palm outward, facing the Almighty.
But in that instant, the Unknown Form flinched.
Because the Almighty realized: Leo was not "countering" anything. Leo was not even aware of "counter" as a possibility. The Almighty was recoiling from the recognition that the gesture carried no intent, no meaning, no weight. It was beyond interpretation, and that was the most terrifying thing imaginable.
For gods, for laws, for mortals—for everything that lived under a ruleset—interpretation was survival. Meaning was existence. To be unable to define, to be unable to frame, was worse than death.
The Almighty faltered. For the first time, He faltered.
Leo's silence deepened. It was not just quiet—it was the hollow, endless rejection of narrative. Even the void sounded loud in comparison.
The Almighty staggered, clutching His own chest. He was not wounded. He was not hurt. But He was breaking—not physically, not spiritually, but structurally.
Because He was facing something that did not acknowledge Him.
And to be unacknowledged by that which broke rules meant only one thing:
He did not matter.
The Almighty roared. His voice became storms. His wings tore apart nebulae. His wrath was total, stripping away galaxies like scabs. His scream reached across the skeleton of reality, shaking foundations older than creation itself.
And Leo… simply stood.
There was no defiance in him. No victory. No ambition. No pride.
Only presence.
And that was worse than any weapon.
The Almighty's form began to warp further, unraveling into endless configurations. He could not stabilize. He could not define. He could not remain.
The fight had only begun.
But already—the Almighty was losing.
To be Contine