The void stretched endlessly, yet for Lucien it was not emptiness—it was canvas, forge, and reflection. He hovered between dimensions, yet for the first time, he felt complete understanding of his own essence. He did not simply exist—he was the exception, the anomaly outside all rules, the singular point around which existence itself trembled.
Lucien extended his awareness, probing the strands of reality with the patience of eternity. He did not need to test himself against mirrored versions or Outer God fragments. Those challenges were mere echoes; he had already surpassed their scale. Now, he sought clarity, the total comprehension of his self, his limits—or rather, the absence of limits.
The process was not violent. It did not hurt. It was precise, deliberate, infinite. He unraveled every facet of his being: power, will, thought, emotion, even the subtle threads of existence that anchored him to worlds. As he did, the void around him responded, reshaping itself to his presence. No longer a place to traverse, it became a reflection of his essence, a dimension of his own making.
And then, with the casual authority of someone already beyond all challenge, he created his sanctuary.
It was a realm of infinite potential, a pocket dimension anchored to his being, where the rules of reality bent entirely to his will. Stars orbited around a throne of thought, void-crystal spires rose like fingers through impossible skies, and the ground shimmered as if alive, responding to the subtle pulse of his consciousness. This was not a home. This was a crucible, a fortress, and a forge for the future.
Lucien surveyed his creation, his pale eyes reflecting the impossible geometry of his domain. "Here," he said softly, a statement more than words, "I am beyond all. Here, I will prepare for the storm to come."
He turned his attention outward, to the threads connecting him to the greater cosmos. Outer Gods stirred in distant planes. Entities older than stars whispered in dark corners of reality. They were aware, inevitably, that he had transcended. But they did not yet understand. They could not comprehend. And they would not be allowed to touch what he was about to build.
From the void, Lucien began to shape his army. Not mere soldiers, not mere warriors—but extensions of his will, reflections of his singularity. Fragments of the Outer God power he had absorbed were refined, perfected, and bound into entities loyal only to him. Each one was an echo of his essence, a spark of his anomaly, capable of traversing dimensions, bending space, and challenging cosmic beings.
He did not rush. Time in the pocket dimension was pliable, responsive to his thought. Decades, centuries, perhaps millennia could pass, and yet to the rest of the universe, he remained a whisper on the wind, a presence too faint to harm the planet he left behind. That was intentional. He would not destroy his home world; it was irrelevant, fragile, and beneath his concern. Yet it remained—a reference point, a memory of the limits he had once surpassed.
Every moment of creation, every extension of his army, every fold of reality into his domain, reinforced one truth: Lucien Dreamveil was not merely powerful. He was absolute. He was outside all measures, the sole exception. And soon, he would step beyond preparation. He would strike. He would challenge the Outer Gods, the mirrored anomalies, and the entities that thought themselves eternal.
And when he did, the universe would understand.
But for now, he smiled. Not arrogance. Not satisfaction. Simply awareness. He had made a place beyond worlds, a place where only he dictated reality, a place where his Path of One could unfold unchallenged. Here, he would grow. Here, he would plan. Here, he would prepare the army that no god could stop.
And the cosmos waited, unknowingly, for its reckoning.