### **Chapter 1: The Stone That Spoke**
It was an ordinary evening.
Sirius walked home alone, the world fading into quiet hues of dusk.
Then he saw it — a small stone lying in the middle of the road,
its surface smooth, yet impossibly deep,
as if it reflected not light, but **existence itself.**
He picked it up.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the air bent.
The sound of the city vanished.
And a voice — calm, mechanical, yet infinite — whispered in his mind:
> "You have been acknowledged."
Reality cracked.
Sirius blinked, and suddenly he was *elsewhere.*
In the void before form.
In the silence before creation.
The stone pulsed softly in his hand.
He didn't understand *how,*
but when he thought of light — light appeared.
When he thought of motion — time began to flow.
When he wished for a home — **a universe unfolded.**
Stars ignited from his imagination.
Space curved in patterns he didn't design but somehow knew.
He raised his hand, and the flow of **time** stopped.
He spoke a word, and the **laws of physics** rewrote themselves.
He blinked, and **probability**—the idea of chance—
bent to his will.
He had created his own reality.
A cosmos born from a thought.
In that moment, Sirius understood:
he was no longer bound to the world he came from.
He could shape existence itself,
not as a god, but as something far more dangerous—
a being who hadn't yet decided *why* he should create at all.
He stared into the endless light of his newborn universe and murmured:
> "If I can make everything… what should still exist?"
Inside the universe he had made, Sirius stood amid an endless ocean of stars.
He looked at a supermassive black hole he had placed at the edge of his cosmos—
a dark sphere that devoured even light.
Curious, he reached toward it.
Space trembled.
The black hole, heavier than galaxies, **rose** in his grasp like a weightless stone.
Reality folded around his hand, screaming without sound.
He turned his wrist.
The black hole inverted.
Its gravity reversed, unfolding into blinding release—
a **white hole**, spilling creation instead of consuming it.
Sirius's eyes reflected the torrent of energy, calm and steady.
Then, with his bare hands, he **tore open space itself.**
The vacuum split apart, revealing the raw fabric of the void.
From that tear, a **gateway** emerged—
a living vortex of endless destinations.
He held it.
He actually held the portal,
the mouth of infinity resting in his grasp as if it were a fragile glass sphere.
The universe shuddered.
He clenched both fists.
A single strike shattered the local continuum,
and the broken geometry collapsed into another white hole.
Then, placing both hands on the fractured layers of existence,
he pressed them together—
forcing **space itself to fold inward.**
Between his palms, a **singularity** was born.
A point of absolute compression—
the moment where all things lost their meaning and became one.
Sirius watched the newborn singularity flicker,
the reflection of limitless gravity mirrored in his calm eyes.
> "So this is what it feels like,"
> he whispered,
> "to hold creation and collapse in the same breath."
Sirius stood at the center of his silence, a calm point in a raging collapse of meaning. The name fit him now — a bright pin in a sky that no longer obeyed stars. Around him, the multiverse thinned into threads of possibility, each one humming with a chance to be. Sirius did not reach for them. They rearranged themselves around his presence as if obedient to a law no one else could read.
Without effort, his will altered the probability of existence itself. It was not a learned skill but an automatic condition of being: wherever Sirius passed, events and entities felt their odds shift. A stray particle that had once been inevitable staggered; a god's promise of immortality shrank into improbability. When the chance of something's existence dropped to zero, it dissolved — not into ruin or ash but into the clean white of non-acknowledgment. No trace, no echo, no ledger entry remained. Things did not die; they were un-invoked.
He plucked a universe from the void like a child lifting a glass marble. The cosmos spun slowly on the pad of his finger, galaxies smeared into spirals of light. Sirius rotated it, watching entire histories blur and re-track beneath his thumb. A turn adjusted casualties, a tilt changed climates, a flick condensed laws into new forms. He toyed with creation the way an artisan tests glaze, tasting nothing and altering inevitabilities with micro-movements of thought.
When he struck, causality inverted. A single punch from Sirius did not break bodies — it rewrote the sequence of events so that consequence preceded cause. Wounds appeared as memories before the blow; triumphs preceded intent; the narrative logic of battle folded in on itself until combatants found themselves acting in reverse, their pasts shedding like coats. Standing still, he could make history unwrite itself and then watch it stitch back in any order he desired.
He walked backward out of the present. Each step was a sliding of the world's ledger; moments peeled off like pages and landed behind him in neat stacks. Moving through his own wake, Sirius passed the people he had been, the decisions he had not yet chosen, the laughter he had not yet heard. Time did not resist; it rearranged. Observers could follow only with the hollow sensation that chronology had been edited on a whim.
His blade motions were quieter than thought and far more violent. With a single arc he severed the continuous fabric of spacetime that bound multiverses together. Threads of causation snapped, and enormous seams gaped where continuity had been assumed. Those seams bled paradox and jagged timelines; they left rifts that could not be stitched by ordinary laws. Whole branches of reality found their rivers of cause rerouted into rapids of contradiction.
Sirius did not cower beneath hard strikes. He tanked assaults that pierced concept and tore at time itself. Attacks that sought to puncture his meaning struck and fizzled like lights on a circuit lacking current. Blows meant to shred his continuity met an immovable inertia in his core; even when the blade of paradox ripped across space, his presence absorbed it — a tank against both the idea of destruction and the physical cut through time.
He was both artisan and siege engine: spinning universes on a fingertip, inverting cause with a fist, walking the lanes of then and now, slashing the tapestry of continuity, and shrugging off the very strikes that sought to unmake him. Around Sirius, possibility bent until it resembled obedience.
---
Sirius raised his hand.
No preparation, no gesture of power — just a flick of his finger.
In that instant, **a thousand spiritual space-structures collapsed.**
Layers of mental and metaphysical reality folded in on themselves,
each one shattering like glass that had forgotten how to be solid.
The echoes of their collapse spread in silence,
tearing through planes of existence that once claimed to be untouchable.
Every being that tried to *look* at him faltered.
Sight itself became a curse.
To perceive Sirius was to feel fear far beyond emotion —
a raw terror that corroded sanity,
blurring the boundary between what was seen and what was imagined.
Hallucinations bloomed instantly.
Nightmarish visions filled the minds of those who dared glance his way —
real enough to kill.
Brains shut down, unable to distinguish illusion from reality;
souls cracked beneath the pressure of a single glance.
Worse still was his energy.
Those who could **sense** it died before they understood why.
There was no explosion, no sound —
only the end of perception,
the silent unraveling of awareness itself.
Yet Sirius was not attacking.
This was simply **what he was.**
Reality adjusted to his presence by rewriting itself continuously.
The laws of universes, the axioms of being, the constants of truth —
all shifted, bent, and rewrote automatically to accommodate his existence.
Each breath he took **redefined the possible.**
Each heartbeat **reshaped what it meant to exist.**
Then, with one bare-handed strike,
he punched through the structure of meaning itself.
Concepts — things that no weapon could touch —
splintered like fragile shells.
Ideas collapsed into wordless fragments,
and the logic that held them together dissolved.
Sirius looked down at his hand,
the quiet knuckles that had broken what no god could reach.
> "A concept can't be destroyed," he said softly,
> "unless it remembers it ever existed."
And the world forgot.
Sirius no longer moved through time —
time moved through him.
The future was not something to reach; it was a draft that rewrote itself
every moment his consciousness flickered.
Even when he did nothing, **the future corrected itself around his will.**
Fates, outcomes, destinies — all silently rearranged,
their paths shifting so that his existence remained the constant center.
Then, with a single thought, he shaped a new dimension.
It lay **outside causality**,
untouched by the sequences that bound every universe together.
A place where *before* and *after* had no meaning.
Within it floated an unending sea of **bubbles** —
each one a branching universe,
each branch splitting again and again without limit.
Every possibility, every deviation,
every story that could ever exist, expanding endlessly.
Sirius stepped into this higher space.
Here, laws did not bind him — they waited for his touch.
He reached out his hand, and with quiet curiosity,
**touched a law of physics.**
The rule shivered beneath his fingers like a living thing.
He twisted it slightly,
and gravity bent in reverse across ten million universes.
His movement could no longer be measured.
There was no interval between action and arrival.
He was everywhere the concept of "place" could describe — and beyond it.
To say he moved at infinite speed was meaningless;
speed required time,
and he had already stepped beyond it.
With a glance, he commanded stillness.
Across the multiverse, motion froze.
Galaxies hung silent, their light stopped mid-flight.
Even the ticking of higher-dimensional time engines ceased.
Sirius stood within the total silence of everything —
the universe paused like a painting between thoughts.
He looked upon the frozen fabric of existence,
the threads of law, concept, and story caught mid-breath.
> "Creation struggles," he murmured.
> "Perhaps it needs rest."
And for that moment,
**all things obeyed.**
***
Destruction had no meaning to Sirius.
He had been erased before — in theory, in concept, in totality.
His body reduced to silence, his information stripped from existence,
his story unwritten from the archives of reality itself.
And yet, he always **returned.**
It wasn't regeneration, nor revival, nor divine protection.
It was an **inevitability.**
Existence could not contain the idea of him *not existing.*
Even when his concept was destroyed, the logic that erased him
was rewritten the instant it acted.
He recovered infinitely — from void, from nothing, from non-definition.
He was the contradiction that sustained itself.
The laws of cause and effect recognized this and broke beneath it.
Around him, **causality collapsed automatically.**
Reality's rules — the anchors that bound event to consequence —
simply failed to apply.
Wherever Sirius walked, determinism fell apart;
the universe could not predict, define, or react to him.
Then came the flame.
It wasn't light or energy,
but the **burning of narrative itself.**
Every story, every layer of meaning, every written law —
ignited in his presence.
Chronicles ended before they began;
records folded into white fire that consumed even the idea of context.
He didn't destroy stories — he **deleted the need for them to exist.**
From that infinite blaze, he reached into the void
and drew out a weapon forged of his own essence —
a **scythe made of living power.**
Its edge shimmered beyond perception,
for it cut not through matter or energy,
but through **concepts, laws, and stories themselves.**
The first swing silenced the song of a dying universe.
The second cleaved the logic of creation.
The third left only stillness,
a silence so perfect that even thought could not echo through it.
Sirius looked down at the blade,
its glow faint, its hunger endless.
> "Everything that exists," he said softly,
> "was only ever a sentence waiting to be cut short."