The void trembled.Not in sound, not in light, but in the way silence itself recoiled.
The Almighty—whose presence had long been equated with the skeletal foundation of creation—rose from the crushing chains that had once been thought unbreakable. Those ethereal links, woven from laws older than suns, dissolved like ash caught in an invisible current. The sound of their breaking was not thunder, but something more primal: the unraveling of certainty itself.
His eyes, two suns forged from eternal decrees, turned upon Leo.And without hesitation, the strike came.
It was not merely a blow. It was the collision of three disparate forces fused into one singularity:
The cold precision of laser-like annihilation,
The explosive shudder of cosmic detonation,
The ungraspable tide of conceptual destruction—a vibration that stripped meaning from what it touched.
The combined attack struck Leo with such overwhelming ferocity that the boy was cast through the emptiness like a discarded sketch. The void bent. The dimensions groaned. Planets unborn wept in silence as his figure was flung, spinning, suspended between existence and collapse.
And then—just as swiftly—The Almighty was there.
Not through motion. Not through traversal. He did not cross space.He simply was, as though the parchment of reality had been flipped, and his image had been pressed onto the same page as Leo. Two drawings colliding, two ideas overlapping where there should have been separation.
The Almighty's gaze burned. His pupils fractured into concentric screens—layers upon layers of glasslike panels, each one alive with incomprehensible glyphs, living equations, and commands. It was not vision. It was a total system override.
The On-Screen Manipulation.
The technique that bent even the most obstinate wills, shackled the wildest pantheons, and crushed the defiance of beings once thought untouchable. One glance was enough to enslave hosts of gods, to chain demons who thrived only in rebellion, to silence monstrosities whose existence mocked order. Those stronger than Leo, older than the firmament itself, had fallen to it with the inevitability of glass shattering under a hammer.
And now the screens opened.A thousand eyes became a thousand cages.Every shard of thought was rewritten, refitted, rescripted.
The void around them filled with the chorus of submission—deities, devils, and forgotten kings caught in the manipulation's glow. The weight of their surrender pressed in like an ocean flooding a chamber.
But then—
Leo's expression did not twist.He did not contort, did not scream, did not resist with a titan's roar.He simply blinked. Confusion laced across his face, his brows tilting as though he had just walked into a play halfway through and found the actors babbling nonsense.
"…What the hell is that?"
The words were not defiance. They were not denial. They were simply honest bewilderment.
And that honesty became a dagger.
The Almighty's breath hitched. His celestial lips parted, the voice that once birthed constellations now reduced to a whisper that cracked."Impossible…"
He pushed harder.The screens multiplied, layers folding in on themselves, brightness swelling until the void was no longer black but an oppressive, sterile white. Symbols flickered, rewriting themselves in real time, chains of commands firing off with the precision of an algorithm correcting its own errors.
But Leo merely tilted his head, eyes wide—not resisting, but watching, like a child staring blankly at a kaleidoscope he couldn't comprehend nor care to. There was no friction. No battle of wills. The manipulation simply slid off him, like water on stone.
Why Leo Could Not Be Manipulated
The Almighty's screens worked by intercepting the currents of mind and identity, rewriting the "script" each consciousness carried. Every soul was a page. Every being a narrative. By editing the words, by cutting the lines, the victim became no more than a rewritten draft.
But Leo was not a page.
He was not a narrative.
Philosophically, Leo existed outside the economy of "script." His essence was not bound to a describable identity. He was not a story, but the blankness that preceded story. The screens searched for something to edit, some line to twist, some ink to erase—and found nothing.
What they encountered was a boy so profoundly unwritten that no algorithm could latch onto him. His being was not resistance, but absence of manipulable structure.
In simpler words:One cannot chain what has no defined shape.One cannot rewrite what has no text.
The Almighty, for the first time in the billions of years since Yahweh had engineered this power, felt his own dominion collapse against the quiet absurdity of Leo's existence.
And Leo just kept staring, blinking innocently, his mouth slightly open.
The void pulsed. The Almighty's expression twisted—shock curdled into anger, then into something rarer still: fear. He pushed his manipulation until the screens no longer resembled eyes, but blazing suns of fractured glass. Yet still—nothing.
And then Leo moved.
It was not a strike born of power, nor of technique, nor of martial brilliance.It was simply a hand—raised, unarmed, ungloved—coming across the divine face in a single slap.
The sound rang.Not loud, not violent.But the echo of that slap traveled deeper than sound. It slipped past layers of creation, rattled through dimensions, made timelines hiccup. Reality blinked.
The Almighty's head jerked to the side. His body, unanchored, was hurled across the void like a comet struck from its orbit. He spun, then righted himself, standing once more with eyes wide.
But something had changed.
Pain.
For the first time since the concept of divinity had been coded into his veins, The Almighty felt pain. A hot sting spread across his cheek, simple yet devastating. Pain was supposed to have been deleted from his design—an unnecessary defect, stripped away by Yahweh's meticulous engineering. Yet here it was, burning, alive, undeniable.
He lifted his hand to his cheek. The skin quivered beneath his touch. The heat spread. He realized, with horror, that the sensation was not fading.
"…No," he whispered, voice cracking like splintered glass. "No… this cannot be…"
But it was.
Leo had done what none in existence had ever achieved. He had broken the divine immunity. He had introduced suffering to the one who had long believed himself immune to it.
The Almighty staggered back, disoriented. The pain grew sharper the more he acknowledged it. It was as though Leo's slap had not merely left a mark, but had forced an entirely new law into being—the law that gods can bleed.
Leo, meanwhile, stood where he was, still blinking, still lost in the absurdity of what had just transpired. He tilted his head, scratching his cheek in the same place he had struck, as though imitating unconsciously.
The Almighty's eyes widened further. The sensation pulsed again, more vivid than the collapse of galaxies. His voice, once absolute, faltered:"…You've broken what should never have been broken."
The void darkened.The screens flickered out, retreating into his pupils. The Almighty's form trembled, shoulders rising and falling, his breath ragged. His rage, his certainty, his engineered perfection—fractured.
Before him stood a boy who should not matter. A boy who did not even comprehend what he had done. And yet that ignorance—that purity—was the very immunity that shattered godhood.
The Almighty's body trembled as his lips drew back into a snarl, yet the snarl shook, torn between anger and disbelief.
"This…" His voice thundered, cracking with tones not meant for mortal ears. "This is blasphemy beyond creation."
But beneath the fury was something far more dangerous than wrath.For the first time in uncountable aeons—The Almighty God knew fear.
To be continued…