Chapter 1: The Entrance Exam**
Eternum Academy — a school beyond dimensions, where beings from infinite realms gather to study the essence of Power.
Lazaro, a transfer student, arrives in silence. No aura, no energy, no presence. Others laugh quietly, calling him empty, powerless.
For the entrance exam, each student must destroy a contained universe created for testing. When Lazaro steps forward, he doesn't summon power or perform a stance. He simply raises his fist and punches once.
There is no explosion. No sound. No reaction.
The target universe does not shatter — it **ceases to exist.**
Matter, laws, and even the memory of its existence vanish completely. The space it once occupied becomes an absence so pure that reality itself fails to recognize it was ever there.
The instructor and students stare, unable to comprehend what they just witnessed. Their senses bend under a silence deeper than void.
Lazaro glances at his hand. His voice is low, almost detached.
> "So that's all a universe amounts to."
He turns away.
Behind him, the air folds into a hollow that no concept can fill.
Right after the test, silence still hung over the remains of the training field — or rather, the place where it used to be.
Lazaro stood still, eyes half-closed.
Without warning, he clenched his fist again.
This time, his punch didn't target a world.
It struck the **Law of Reality** itself.
The air screamed without sound.
The concept of "what can and cannot happen" cracked like glass under his knuckles.
Reality's structure—its boundaries, logic, and cause—shattered.
Fragments of the world's framework scattered like dying light.
Lazaro reached out casually, grabbed the collapsing gateway of space, and flicked it with one finger.
A single flick — and **thousands of black holes** vanished.
Not destroyed. Not imploded.
The *information* that they ever existed was gone.
Where chaos once expanded, a new layer unfolded.
From the void, Lazaro shaped a **dimension beyond causality** —
a silent field detached from existence and consequence.
Within it floated **countless bubbles**, each one glowing faintly.
Every bubble was a universe.
Each universe carried its own structure, its own distinct laws — none bound by the others.
From a distance, it looked like an ocean of possibilities.
Yet at the center, Lazaro stood alone — the still point between infinity and nothing.
He looked up.
> "Order, chaos, balance… all just reflections of what's already broken."
And as he spoke, another layer of dimensions began to form around him —
self-sustaining, recursive, untouchable.
Lazaro stood in the blank dimension he had created — where the framework of existence still trembled like fractured glass.
He looked once.
No gesture, no sound. Just a glance.
And with that single motion, **countless concepts and laws vanished.**
Principles, constants, definitions — all erased as if they had never been written into reality.
No explosion followed; only the quiet *absence of permission to exist.*
Across creation, higher beings felt the gap forming — holes in the very structure of what could be known.
Lazaro raised his hand.
From his palm, something formed — not metal, not light, but **the embodiment of his own power.**
A weapon that existed only because he decided it should.
The gun pulsed faintly, alive in a way that no object should be.
Its bullet wasn't matter or energy, but **a concentrated void — a denial given shape.**
He aimed at a massive construct — a simulated law of a high-tier universe.
No hesitation. He pulled the trigger.
The bullet didn't travel through space or time.
It simply *appeared* where it needed to be, bypassing causality itself.
Upon contact, it didn't explode; it **rejected**.
Matter lost its meaning.
Particles, data, and form — all stripped of the right to be called *something.*
There was no trace, no echo, not even a record left behind.
Lazaro fired again.
Each shot erased another layer — atoms, structures, the very memories of what once was.
Not only matter, but the **concept that allowed matter to exist** was gone.
When he lowered the gun, the world around him was silent and hollow.
No fragments remained — only an endless vacancy where reality had been denied.
He glanced once more at the weapon in his hand and spoke quietly:
> "Denial is just another form of creation."
The arena of Eternum Hollow shimmered with distorted light.
Lazaro stood still, his presence faint yet unbearable — not through power, but through absence.
An upper-tier student rushed forward, his attack bending reality with divine precision.
Before the strike could land, space itself **curved away**.
The blow missed — not because Lazaro dodged, but because the universe refused to let it reach him.
The distortion wasn't defense; it was **instinct.**
Space bent itself to avoid touching him.
A veteran observer activated sensory vision to read Lazaro's energy.
For a single instant, he felt it — a cold void, endless and absolute.
Then his body collapsed soundlessly.
No wounds. No screams.
Only the quiet deletion of everything that once defined him.
Not even memory remained.
Another challenger appeared, faster, stronger — trying to break the distortion with brute force.
Lazaro's eyes opened slightly.
He threw one calm punch.
No blast. No echo.
The moment his fist moved, **causality inverted.**
The result came before the act.
The attacker flew backward, broken and silent, before his own attack had even begun.
His memory rewound — time folded — logic bent until meaning dissolved.
Those who watched could not comprehend what they saw.
Their perception failed to find a cause.
Lazaro lowered his hand, his voice quiet, detached:
> "When cause becomes effect… stories lose their anchors."
Silence filled the arena again.
No one dared to sense his energy anymore — because to feel it was to die without trace,
to be unmade in both existence and memory.
Lazaro stood in the silence between worlds — a void untouched by definition.
Around him, countless **stories** began to burn.
Each story was its own existence, filled with infinite **concepts and laws** — all collapsing into nothing under his gaze.
With every flicker, a narrative vanished, its reality stripped to blank space.
He lifted his eyes, and the space around him trembled.
Dozens — then thousands — of **spatial ruptures** opened like black cracks in glass, spreading endlessly in all directions.
Every fracture bled distortion, rewriting distance and direction until the meaning of "place" lost coherence.
Then Lazaro raised his hand.
From the fragments of ruined tales, he forged something new —
a **multiverse beyond comprehension**, built upon a **fifth dimension** layered above the fourfold continuum of space and time.
This realm was not parallel to existence; it *hovered beyond it.*
Within it, **infinite universes** floated — each one larger, deeper, and governed by its own distinct structure.
None shared the same logic. None were bound by the same laws.
The fifth dimension pulsed — expanding endlessly, folding upon itself,
a storm of realities spiraling around a single point: Lazaro.
He stood unmoving, eyes reflecting the swirl of infinity,
the quiet architect of a creation that transcended reason itself.