Year eleven. Day 4,015.
I remade the universe according to my design.
It took subjective centuries, but I had infinite time now. I edited physics to be more elegant. Rewrote causality to eliminate
paradoxes. Redesigned consciousness itself to be more efficient, more rational.
And I implemented one final change:
I made it so that no other entity could ever achieve what I'd achieved. The Contract was unique—I ensured that no similar
system could ever emerge. Ascension pathways were capped at levels far below my own. Reality-warping capabilities
were limited to scales that could never threaten me.
I'd become the ceiling. The absolute limit. The final answer to the question of "how powerful can one being become?"
The answer was: me.
And I would remain here, at the peak, forever.
Alone.
Victorious.
Bored.
Sometimes I think about the person I used to be. A, the eighteen-year-old loser with nothing to his name. The invisible,
powerless, desperate kid lying on a stained mattress in a moldy apartment.
He'd have been proud of what I'd become. Would have seen this as the ultimate validation—proof that he'd mattered, that
he could win, that the universe's cruelty could be overcome through sheer will and power.
He'd have been wrong.
Because in winning absolutely, I'd lost the only thing that made victory meaningful: the possibility of defeat.
I'm the villain who won. The one who conquered gods and reality itself.
And my prize is eternity with nothing left to conquer.
Sometimes I wonder if I should have stopped earlier. Should have been satisfied with enough power to be safe, to be
comfortable, to be respected.
But I'm not capable of that kind of restraint. Never was. Even when I was human.
So I sit on my throne at the peak of existence, ruler of everything, master of reality itself.
And I wait.
For something. Anything. Some challenge, some threat, some disruption to the perfect order I've created.
But nothing comes.
Because I made sure of it.
I won.
And winning was the worst thing that ever happened to me.
THE END