What followed in the aftermath of the Chief God's erasure was not triumph, not the singing of victory, not the final stroke of conquest, but rather a quiet, almost preternatural stillness in which the very fabric of the Black Sea seemed to hold its breath, as if the dissolution of a divine authority reverberated across the submerged depths of existence like a single ripple moving through a colossal lake whose shores had yet to be named. Aevor stood upon the obsidian expanse where the water moved without waves, where the sky overhead was a starless sheet of polished darkness reflecting nothing of the worlds above or below, and in that silence he raised his hand, fingers curling as though grasping threads the universe tried desperately to hide, and the plot of the story bent—not violently, not explosively, but with a quiet inevitability, a surrendering of narrative structure itself before his presence.
The remaining essence of the defeated Chief God flickered like dust made of scripture, and from it a path opened downward, a spiraling corridor of layered existence peeled back, a direct passage toward Lyxaria's location. The Black Sea parted, not physically, not with water splitting aside, but metaphysically, as if the concept of "below" folded itself open like a wound revealing deeper and deeper strata of reality. The entrance to Layer Twenty-Three shimmered faintly at the end of the descending spiral, as though the very idea of distance had been compressed into a single shining point.
Aevor stepped forward and began his descent.
There was no falling, no sliding, no transition that even resembled movement; instead, his form simply passed through invisible membranes of existence, and with each step downward he felt the shift in the world's density, not as weight upon his shoulders but as the deepening complexity of the structure beneath his feet. His eyes—the Eyes of Singularity—opened wider than sight, perceiving not just what was, but the implicit architecture behind what was allowed to exist. Each layer revealed its foundation like an unfolding fractal.
Layer One shimmered behind him, a foundation of plain causality, where events formed a single chain.
Layer Two, which he passed through immediately afterward, was not stronger in the sense of power, but superior in nature, as though it had been written with rules that overwrote the rules of the layer beneath it, its reality pressing downward like a higher author editing the manuscript of the world below. Layer One looked crude beside it, almost childish, a chalk drawing next to a painting that moved.
Layer Three, in contrast, was not only superior to Two but qualitatively distant, as though the very logic of its existence unfolded through perspectives the second layer lacked the vocabulary to imagine. Layer Two could observe One; Layer Three could observe the concept of observing. The first three layers formed a triad in which every step upward elevated not only strength but mode of existence, an ascension built not on power but on the depth of the rules by which that power could be expressed.
And still Aevor descended, watching, analyzing, reading the hidden script of the world.
Layers Four and Five completed the first sequence, forming a quintet. Together, the five formed a complete set of narrative architecture: identity, movement, consequence, potential, and culmination. Above them, however, the next five layers radiated something utterly different.
When he crossed the border into Layer Six, Aevor felt the shift instantly. It was not a push of strength, not a surge of power, but a shift in relation, as though Layers Six through Ten regarded everything below them not as equal worlds but as objects, characters, playable pieces in a gameboard whose rules they defined without effort. The metaphor of a chessboard didn't quite capture it, for a chessboard still implied equal dimensionality; instead, Layers Six through Ten regarded the first five as illustrations trapped in a book, while they themselves lived outside the pages, reading those illustrations, interpreting them, manipulating them without ever being touched by the rules the illustrations followed.
His Eyes of Singularity saw it clearly:
Layer Six had superiority over Layer Five, not merely as a stronger being overpowering a weaker being, but as a higher framework overriding an inferior one. The superiority was woven through the laws of existence, a natural ordering: six above five, seven above six, all the way up.
Aevor continued downward, descending past the tenth layer, then the fifteenth, the structure becoming clearer with every membrane he pierced. Every set of five layers formed a closed system with its own rulers—Chief Gods whose perception could cross downward but whose upward gaze stopped at the ceiling of their domain, unable to pierce the higher layers without collapsing their own identity. Only their titles allowed them limited upward awareness; the ordinary inhabitants of each layer could not even conceive of the layers above them.
Only Aevor perceived everything.
And he continued descending, unhurried, expression calm, presence steady.
When he stepped across the final membrane and entered Layer Twenty-Three, the world opened around him like a colossal expanse built from crystallized tension—air humming with power, ground wrapped in deep sea fog, the sky a distant void swirling with black stars that bled faint violet light. The atmosphere bent subtly around him, acknowledging him without a voice.
But he was not alone.
Standing in a formation like six pillars of divine inevitability were the six Chief Gods: two from Layer Ten, two from Layer Fifteen, one from Layer Twenty, and one from Layer Twenty-Five whose awareness dipped downward just enough to stand here without losing identity. Their presence filled the layer with a pressure thick as molten stone, yet Aevor walked forward as if strolling through a garden path.
Their gazes locked on him.
"Aevor of the outer descent," one spoke, his voice stretched like a note pulled across dimensions. "Your arrival was expected. You were not meant to descend this far."
Aevor's expression remained unchanged.
"I'm not here for you. I'm looking for someone. Lyxaria."
The six Chief Gods exchanged brief glances—some curious, some uneasy, some masking something deeper.
"She is not where you believe," another spoke, his tone like thunder softened to a whisper. "She was taken."
Aevor's footstep paused, though his expression remained calm. "Taken?" he repeated, not as a question but as a statement testing their truth.
"She vanished from our sight," the Chief God continued. "At first we believed she was following a call—a resonance from beyond—but we have determined otherwise. She was seized."
"By whom?"
One of the Chief Gods stepped forward, his silhouette half-devoured by the drifting violet fog. "A human. One of the Seven Crowns of the Inner Abyssal Lattice."
The air around Aevor stilled. His hair moved slightly, though there was no wind here.
Aevor recalled Zai'reth Amuzura—the Demon King who bowed before him, who whispered warnings about deeper powers—but he said nothing. Instead he simply stepped forward to walk past them.
The six Chief Gods moved instantly, blocking his path like a wall.
"That is far enough," the one in front said. "You are not permitted to—"
Before he could finish his sentence, Aevor simply reached toward their souls.
Yet nothing happened.
The six Chief Gods did not flinch. Their bodies did not waver. Their essences did not bend. His attempt slipped off them like a blade striking an indestructible surface, not because his will was weak, but because their structure—their layer—rendered soul interference meaningless from someone descending from below.
They remained unmoved.
"You will not circumvent us," one said. "We do not wish to fight—but you are not allowed to pass."
Aevor exhaled slowly.
"Then move."
"We cannot."
"Then you leave me no choice."
The ground beneath his feet shifted, not gradually, not violently, but with a suddenness like the world realizing it could be rewritten. The blackened stone rippled like fabric caught in a gale, and stone erupted upward, massive slabs of jagged rock twisting like serpents made of mountain roots. Metal veins hidden deep beneath the layer's crust were ripped free and forged into spinning spheres of condensed density—boulders and iron globes forming in the air like planets born from nothing.
Aevor flicked his hand, and the barrage flew forward.
The six Chief Gods didn't even blink; the projectiles shattered against their bodies like rain striking monuments built from statements of absolute existence. The ground trembled, metal liquified, then hardened again, but the Chief Gods advanced without slowing.
Aevor shifted the air.
Water—deep, ancient, dense—rushed from the surrounding fog, swirling around him like a tidal vortex. With another motion the water froze mid-flow, becoming spiraling javelins of translucent force, and then he froze time within the water itself, the suspended droplets turning into prisons for moments that could no longer move.
The frozen torrents crashed upon the Chief Gods with a sound like glaciers dying.
The Chief Gods walked through it.
Aevor's expression didn't falter, but his palm rose, and from it ignited a fire unlike anything that existed in any layer.
It was white—not pale white, not luminous white, but a searing, devouring white that carried no heat at first glance but whose presence made the air ripple, whose glow bent reality around it like a lens of destruction. When he exhaled the flame toward one of the Chief Gods, the god avoided it effortlessly, moving with a swiftness that shredded dimensions in its wake.
The flame missed.
Or so it seemed.
The Chief God's shoulder ignited anyway.
The white flame clung to him like an accusation, burning not skin or soul or substance, but everything simultaneously—logic, presence, principle, the very idea of him—and the god let out a cry that sounded like galaxies tearing as his body disintegrated into brilliant ash.
Aevor's voice drifted across the battlefield, calm as falling snow.
"No matter where you run, it will hit you. And it never goes out. If left alone, it would burn the entire Black Sea to nothing. Heat beyond measure. Not even infinity is enough to quantify it."
The remaining five Chief Gods spread out, no longer charging blindly. One clenched his fists and lunged forward, striking with a force that would shatter the ground from Layer Twenty-Three down to Twenty-Four's border.
Aevor watched him approach.
The Chief God moved at a speed beyond describable motion, a blur of divinity, a storm of collapsing causal lines, yet to Aevor he crawled, each frame of movement stretched like slow-drifting dust.
Aevor turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Do not try to kill me," he said, each syllable dragging the world with it. "If you succeed—even once—you will become illogical. Weaker than a human on Earth. If you want the number: you would need to kill me ninety-two times. Each time bypassing all layers of what keeps me alive. Seven or eight layers of it, depending on how you count. And each time you do, you lose yourself. You collapse. You become incoherent."
Another Chief God spoke sharply, interrupting him:
"So… you are unkillable?"
Aevor did not smile, but the silence felt like one.
"I cannot die in any possible world," he said. "Nor the impossible ones. And I can rewrite the ones that try."
The Chief Gods stopped advancing.
The white flame that lingered in the distance flickered dangerously, threatening to consume everything, and Aevor lifted his hand, pulling the flame back into his palm, compressing it to a harmless spark before extinguishing it entirely.
The five remaining Chief Gods looked at him with a mixture of caution and respect.
One finally said, "We will not hinder you further. Go. Before the Abyssal Crown forces your wife into a marriage. That would be… troublesome, even for us."
Aevor walked past them.
No one dared move.
The five Chief Gods stood frozen as Aevor walked past them,
his steps slow and deliberate upon the trembling ground of Layer Twenty-Three. Their gazes clung to
him not with hostility but with something closer to reverence mixed with a very deep, very ancient fear,
because they had realized in the wake of their confrontation that they had nearly stepped into the jaws
of something that could not be killed, not even conceptually, and that realization carved itself into their
minds like scripture etched into stone. Aevor did not look back at them. There was nothing behind him
worthy of attention. Only a path forward. The Black Sea surrounding the layer stirred faintly, though no
wind moved its surface. Aevor moved with the same calm purpose he always carried, the steadiness of
someone who understood both what he sought and what he would do to retrieve it, and that steadiness
only deepened as the land beneath him shifted into the contours of an unfamiliar settlement—buildings
of shadowed stone, small houses built from obsidian slabs, streets paved with shimmering black gravel.
The further he walked, the more distant the air felt, as though some subtle layer within the atmosphere
was absorbing sound and stilling the world. Soon he heard something faint carried across the gloom. A
low tremor of voices. Not panicked. Not celebratory. Something in between, something ritualistic. Aevor
moved toward it, each step carrying him closer, the sound growing clearer until the architecture around
him parted to reveal the looming structure ahead. A church. Not a holy one, for nothing in these layers
worshipped divinity in the mortal sense. This church was a cathedral of polished wood and dark metal,
towering upward with a design borrowed from ancient human traditions yet twisted by the metaphysical
properties of Layer Twenty-Three. Its doors were massive blocks of ancient timber, carved with spirals
that moved subtly as though alive, patterns shifting and rearranging themselves with each blink. Aevor
approached those doors without slowing. Inside the cathedral the voices sharpened: a crowd
whispering, murmuring, reacting with a mixture of awe and discomfort. Aevor stepped before the door.
He did not push it. He kicked. The entire double door structure snapped inward like brittle bark, wood
exploding into fragments that scattered across the aisle inside, eliciting gasps from the gathered crowd.
Aevor entered without hesitation, stepping through the shattered doorway into the vast chamber
beyond. The church interior stretched wide, wooden pews filled with people—humans, spirits, entities
whose forms flickered between solidity and translucence. All were seated neatly, facing the raised
platform at the front where a priest stood with a large tome. Beside him stood the human male, tall,
dressed in ceremonial black, his posture filled with self satisfaction as though he were already
savoring victory. And between them stood Lyxaria. Her wrists trembled where they were bound by soft
glowing cords, and tears streaked down her cheeks as she shook her head over and over, her voice
breaking into desperate cries. I do not want this. Please do not make me do this. Let me go, I beg you.
The human reached toward her, his fingers gently scratching behind her ear in a gesture meant to
comfort. Lyxaria recoiled violently, nearly stumbling. Do not touch me. I am not sensitive to someone I
do not like. Stop it. Stop touching me. Her voice cracked into an anguished scream that echoed through
the entire cathedral. The priest ignored her cries and opened his tome. Do you accept this marriage of
your own will? Lyxaria shook her head rapidly, trembling all over. No. I do not. I do not. Please stop.
Aevor had heard enough. His voice cut across the hall with the sharpness of a blade drawn across silk.
She does not consent. Instantly the entire room turned toward him. The human's expression twisted
into irritation. Who are you to interrupt a sacred ceremony? Aevor took one step into the aisle, and the
air around him tightened. The wooden benches creaked. The candles flickered violently though there
was no wind. His presence was like a gravity well pulling the attention of everything in the room toward
him. I object to this marriage. The human scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. You have no authority to
object here. This is between me and my bride to be. Lyxaria's desperate cry cracked the moment in
half. I am not your bride. Let me go. Someone help me. Please. Aevor's eyes narrowed slightly, not in
anger but in a chilling, surgical focus. I said she does not consent. And I said, the human retorted with a
mocking tilt of his head, that it does not matter. It was at that moment the atmosphere changed. Fog.
Thick, grey, crawling fog rolled in from the side windows, not drifting but pouring in like smoke from an
extinguished world. The temperature plummeted so sharply that frost crept across the stone columns.
The crowd panicked, murmuring, looking around in confusion. Aevor recognized instantly what was happening, but by the time he shifted his stance, five figures had already stepped forth from the fog.
Five males dressed in dark, flowing garments, their eyes like pools of moonlit water, their skin pale as
untouched snow. They moved without sound, without breath, without the rhythm of living beings. They
moved like night walking on two legs. Lyxaria screamed as two of them seized her, lifting her
effortlessly into the fog. The human reached toward them, confused. Wait. What are you doing? She is
mine— Another fog walker grabbed him as well, yanking him into the spreading haze. Aevor moved.
But by the time he reached forward, the fog had already swallowed half the church. It expanded,
thickened, twisted— Aevor flicked his finger. One motion. One soundless command. The fog
evaporated instantly, disintegrating into microscopic shards of nothingness as the entire interior of the
cathedral detonated. Walls split. Benches shattered. The roof cracked apart as if erased by invisible
fire. The entire building collapsed around him, crumbling into dust, leaving only a faint ring of stone
around where Aevor stood. Of the five abductors, only one remained. Frozen. Paralyzed. Aevor had
immobilized him with a single gesture. The other four, along with Lyxaria and the human, were gone.
Aevor walked through the settling dust and stood before the immobilized figure. With a faint movement
of his hand he released the paralysis, only enough for the stranger to breathe and speak. The pale
male gasped, staggering forward before Aevor's hand snapped to his throat, lifting him effortlessly off
the ground. Where did they take her. The vampire like stranger choked, his legs kicking weakly. He
did not answer, so Aevor tightened his grip just enough to emphasize the inevitable outcome. Speak.
The male's breath came in tremors, but he finally forced words out, each syllable trembling between
defiance and fear. We are… the Noctyra. Aevor's grip did not loosen. The male continued, voice
trembling but growing more solemn. Vampires of the Reflexive Night. Aevor waited. We are not
predators of blood. We feed on the continuity between life and death. Aevor's eyes narrowed slightly,
not impressed. Explain. The Noctyra exists between both states. We feed on neither life nor death but
the pulse that connects them, the space where existence trembles but has not yet decided. We are the
contradiction that never resolves. The eternal heartbeat between stillness and motion. The explanation
did nothing to ease Aevor's grasp. Where did you take her. The man swallowed hard. Layer
Twenty Five. They needed more time. The wedding was to be completed there. Aevor's voice dropped
slightly. Who is the human. One of the Abyssal Crowns. A member of the Inner Lattice. His rank is
high—higher than you think. I cannot say more. Aevor tightened his grip until bones cracked. The man
wheezed. Kill me if you want. I won't betray my kin. Aevor did exactly that. A quick twist. A snap. The
body fell limp to the ruined floor. Aevor did not wait a single moment longer. He vanished. No sound. No
flash. No distortion. Just absence. And in the next instant he appeared within the membrane of Layer
Twenty Five, the world unfolding around him in a silent explosion of sensation. The ground beneath
his feet shifted into a smooth reflective stone, the sky above a swirling tapestry of deep indigo clouds
stretching into impossible infinity. The air carried the faint scent of dust and stillness. In front of him
stood another church. Much larger. Much older. Much darker. Its doors towered over him like the
entrance to a realm that had forgotten the meaning of light. The structure pulsed faintly, as though
alive. Aevor took one step forward. And another. Until he stood before the ancient wooden doors. This
time he did not kick. He placed one hand upon the wood. And pushed. The ceremony inside waited.
And Aevor was done being calm.
The moment his hand pressed against the doors, the cathedral interior responded as if sensing the inevitability of his will. The remaining four Noctyra, poised to intercept Lyxaria once again, had not yet realized the depth of the mistake they had made in underestimating him. As they stepped forward, their pale forms gliding over the shattered remnants of the floor, Aevor's eyes glimmered with a light so faint yet so absolute that it cut through the gloom of the cathedral like a blade through silk. With a single, deliberate motion of his hand, a white flame erupted from his palm, scorching the air around them before they could blink. The fire was not ordinary. It did not burn merely flesh or bone; it incinerated presence, it annihilated form, it unmade existence within its embrace. The four Noctyra disintegrated instantly, leaving nothing but the echo of their existence behind. The air itself seemed to hum with the aftermath, heavy and reverent, carrying a faint, metallic scent that clung to everything it touched.
The human, standing near the center of the cathedral, took a step backward, shock crossing his features, his confidence fracturing. "Who… who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling despite his attempts to remain composed.
Aevor's gaze fell upon him, unwavering, cold, and absolute. "I am the Demon King of Origin, Apex, Apexe, and also Lyxaria's husband," he said. His words carried a weight beyond comprehension, a declaration that rendered the space around him still and silent, as if the very laws of existence had paused to acknowledge it.
The human's brow furrowed, and a faint, cruel smile spread across his face as he straightened his posture. "I am Veridan Lysarion, scion of the Abyssal Crowns, a member of the Inner Lattice, and no one speaks of what they cannot uphold," he said, each word measured and deliberate, his presence radiating an aura of authority, power, and deep-rooted pride. "If this is a contest of will, then perhaps it should be resolved through… combat. A duel, to determine who claims her as rightful."
Aevor tilted his head, a single movement of patience masking the storm beneath. "A duel, then," he said softly, his voice carrying that serene lethality that had already unmade four of the Noctyra before any action could even begin.
Immediately, the air between them tightened. Veridan moved first, a blur of black and indigo, his form twisting and stretching as he launched a strike that was impossibly fast, a motion that seemed to defy the passage of time itself. Aevor met it with a step so small, almost imperceptible, and yet the strike passed harmlessly through empty space. They collided again, and again, the cathedral around them bending and flexing as the shockwaves tore at the fabric of Layer Twenty Five itself.
The duel escalated beyond mere physicality. Strength, speed, reflexes, and energy clashed in ways that would have shattered normal understanding. Every punch, every strike, every motion carried the weight of conceptual reality itself, their forms moving with a grace that belied the absolute destruction each action could have caused. For a long, tense moment, they seemed evenly matched. Every ability Veridan unleashed, Aevor met with absolute precision, every movement mirrored, every counter calculated.
Then Aevor decided the moment had come to end the pretense of equality. He whispered nothing, for words were unnecessary. His body, mind, and presence shifted as he invoked a subtle and terrifying new ability: adaption. Instantly, his form grew stronger, faster, and infinitely more durable than it had been moments before. Every strike, every motion, every potential variable Veridan could wield was eclipsed before it even began. Aevor became not just superior, but absolute.
Veridan's eyes widened. He launched an attack unlike any before, a weave of destructive energy that could unravel existence itself. It streaked toward Aevor at a speed that should have been impossible, its pressure enough to crush mountains into dust. Aevor's eyes flickered with a faint light. With a subtle gesture, he invoked the Hyperion Mirror, reflecting the attack flawlessly, and in the same instant absorbing the essence of Veridan's power. The energy coursed into him, doubled, tripled, impossible to dodge, impossible to resist. Two more copies of the ability manifested, each layering upon the other, amplifying his force exponentially.
Veridan staggered back, his breath catching as he realized the full magnitude of what had occurred. "How… how did you do that?" he gasped, his voice a mixture of fear, awe, and frustration.
Aevor's smile was faint, almost serene. "My existence is infinitely higher than yours," he said, his voice calm yet carrying the absolute weight of inevitability. "You could call my existence necessary. My existence, to yours, would be as that of a god's existence, but mine is beyond even that. And by reflecting your power, I do not merely deflect; I acquire, replicate, and surpass. I can copy your abilities, your strength, your speed, your hax, and elevate them infinitely. You fight not against a man, but against the principle of absolute adaptation itself."
Veridan's body shook violently as he realized the futility of resistance, yet pride and the unyielding will of the Inner Lattice forced him to stand, to strike, to resist even in the face of absolute supremacy. The battlefield of the cathedral, now nothing more than a memory, seemed to bend around Aevor's presence. Reality itself flexed, twisted, and aligned with him, as though Layer Twenty Five had acknowledged him as its master, its singular constant amidst the chaos.
The duel reached its apex. Every blow from Veridan was met, every attempt to exploit a weakness nullified before it could manifest. The sheer magnitude of Aevor's power, layered infinitely upon itself, rendered traditional combat meaningless. Yet Aevor did not merely overpower; he analyzed, adapted, reflected, and amplified. Each attack Veridan conjured was absorbed, inverted, and mirrored back as a force a million times greater than the original, a perfect loop of inevitability from which there could be no escape.
Finally, Aevor moved forward. Not with haste, not with anger, but with the serene inevitability of one whose will transcended all opposition. He extended a hand, not to strike, but to end the struggle entirely. Veridan's energy, still coiling in attempt at retaliation, was drawn into Aevor, amplified, and redirected. The human fell to his knees, utterly spent, every ounce of resistance erased not by violence but by the inescapable calculus of Aevor's existence.
"Do you understand now?" Aevor asked softly, stepping closer. His eyes, calm and fathomless, held the weight of infinity. "My existence is higher. My reflection surpasses. Every ability you possess, every attempt you make, has become part of me, and in that process, your defiance ceases to exist."
Veridan's lips parted, unable to speak. The moment stretched infinitely, and in that pause, Lyxaria's gaze, still trembling, met Aevor's. Relief, gratitude, and unspoken love flowed in the briefest of exchanges, a quiet anchor amidst the storm of power that had just erupted in this forsaken layer.
Aevor reached for her, and the cords that bound her fell apart without a sound, vaporizing as if acknowledging the impossibility of restraining what now belonged wholly to him. "It is over," he said. "You are free."
Lyxaria's knees buckled as she fell into his arms, exhausted from fear, terror, and relief, but the moment she touched him, the tension of the layers around them seemed to soften, the skies above Layer Twenty Five pausing their violent swirls to witness the absolute certainty of what had transpired.
Aevor looked once more at the defeated human. "And you will remember this," he said, his tone neither cruel nor merciful, simply factual. "Your place, your ambition, your power—all are now subordinate to the inevitability of my existence. Let this lesson remain. Do not challenge me again, for the consequences are… infinite."
Silence fell across the shattered remnants of the cathedral, thick and absolute, the echo of battle fading into the void. The Noctyra were gone, the human was humbled, and Lyxaria's hand rested lightly against his chest, a gentle confirmation of their bond, as Layer Twenty Five itself seemed to bend around them in quiet acknowledgment of the Demon King of Origin, Apex, Apexe, and rightful husband standing at its center.
Aevor exhaled softly. His presence, calm and absolute, extended across the broken layer, not with malice, but with the undeniable authority of one whose existence could not be contested, whose will was law, whose reflection surpassed all opposition. The battlefield was no longer a cathedral, no longer a site of conflict, but a monument to inevitability, to supremacy, and to the absolute dominance of one whose purpose had been fulfilled without compromise.
And as the winds of Layer Twenty Five stirred faintly, carrying the scent of stone and dust, Aevor's gaze shifted forward, already seeking the next path, already poised to step into the next layer, the next inevitability, with Lyxaria at his side, unbroken, unyielding, and entirely his.
a single breath after reclaiming Lyxaria from the edge of violation and humiliation, his arms tightening around her trembling form with a firm gentleness that made the shattered remains of Layer Twenty-Five quake in a silent echo, for even the world itself understood that something cherished had been taken from him and that retrieving it had left behind a residue of wrath that had not yet cooled. Lyxaria clung to him desperately, her fingers curling against the fabric of his robe, her voice cracking as she whispered his name in a way that made the very air around them soften, yet beneath her relief Aevor sensed the lingering fear—the painful truth that the human she had been forced toward had overpowered her, that she had been dragged helplessly across the layer membrane, unable to resist or to even cry out properly until he arrived. And that weakness, that vulnerability, that inability to stand beside him without fear… he could not permit that. Not in this world. Not in any.
Aevor brushed a hand across her cheek, wiping away the last traces of tears.
" You are safe now," he murmured in a tone both gentle and unbending. " But safety alone is not enough. You must grow stronger, Lyxaria. You must be able to stand on your own, not because I need you to, but because you deserve to never feel fear like that again."
She shook her head, tears returning, her voice trembling. " I just want to stay with you…"
" You will," he replied, pressing his forehead against hers with a calm that carried the weight of star-forged certainty. " But not here. Not yet. Go back to Luna on the Mountain. Train. Grow. Break the limits that dared to bind you."
Before she could argue again, Aevor snapped his fingers, twisting the very frame of reality around her, gently but irresistibly returning her to the Mountain where Luna waited, a safe haven far removed from the chaos of these ascending layers. The echo of her voice faded into the quiet, and Aevor exhaled slowly, allowing the silence to settle for only a moment before turning his gaze upward.
Layer Twenty-Six awaited, and it would not open through corridors or gateways.
So he tore through it.
Aevor raised one hand toward the empty sky, fingers curling as though gripping the surface of existence itself. The membrane that separated Layer Twenty-Five from the next groaned like metal bending under an impossible strain, cracks of white light splitting through the air. With a single pull, he ripped the barrier apart as effortlessly as tearing a sheet of wet paper. The shattered edges of the layer curled away from his grasp, and Aevor stepped through, a ripple of displaced force shaking the air behind him as the wound sealed shut.
The world that unfolded before him was unlike anything the lower layers had shown.
Layer Twenty-Six was a town—a luminous, breathtaking expanse of crystalline structures that stretched outward like a city sculpted by the hands of gods, though Aevor immediately rejected that comparison, for divinity was far beneath his scale. Towering buildings formed from flawless, shimmering white crystals rose in countless shapes and angles, catching the light of the pale sun overhead and refracting it into a thousand dancing rays that moved across the streets like living ribbons. The ground beneath his feet was smooth crystal pavement, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting Aevor's crimson gaze with a faint shimmer.
Children ran across the gleaming streets with unrestrained joy, their laughter echoing like a chorus of silver bells, and the adults—humans, yet not ordinary—watched them with warm smiles, a calm contentment radiating from their peaceful expressions. There was no fear here. No tension. No sense of lurking danger. It was a town untouched by violence, unmarred by tragedy, a pocket of serenity suspended in the vast hierarchy of layers that otherwise shifted like storms of metaphysical conflict.
Aevor walked slowly down the main road, his presence causing the nearest crystal surfaces to ripple faintly, as though reacting instinctively to his overwhelming existence. People turned toward him, eyes widening with awe but not dread, for this place was protected by something far older than force—it was safeguarded by the crystals themselves, towering monuments of impossible resilience.
As he moved deeper into the town, Aevor's curiosity sharpened. He extended his awareness, allowing the inner mechanisms of his eyes to shift, the scarlet of his irises blooming into the impossible geometry of his Singularity—an ocular apex that embodied everything and nothing simultaneously, a paradox woven into sight, a locus where all laws bent, broke, unmade themselves, and rearranged in infinite spirals under his perception.
And the crystals responded.
Reality began folding around the structures, twisting through angles that mortal eyes could not perceive, peeling layers of meaning, essence, existence, and non-existence all at once. Information unravelled before him like a tapestry being unwoven thread by thread.
These crystals were not materials.
They were absolutes.
They were concepts given form: structures that blocked, absorbed, and nullified any force, attack, or influence, not merely in the physical sense but across layers, across dimensions, across timelines, across conceptual planes, across metaphysical vectors beyond cause, beyond intention, beyond even the logic of destruction itself.
No wonder the people here were so at ease.
The crystal town was inviolable.
But Aevor's Singularity uncovered something more—something hidden within the folds of the protective essence. These crystals did not simply defend. They reflected existence itself. They resonated with the foundational pulse of the layer's structure, drawing power not from external sources but from the taut harmony between creation and cessation, existence and dissolution, a static equilibrium that never tipped in either direction.
Aevor placed a hand upon one of the buildings, his palm meeting the cool, smooth surface.
The crystal vibrated beneath his touch.
Worlds shuddered in response to the resonance.
He withdrew his hand, and the crystal stilled.
Aevor's eyes narrowed.
He had understood it.
He had mastered it.
He did not need his Singularity to retain what he learned; his mastery transcended the need for such reliance. With quiet precision he reconstructed the essence of the absolute crystal within himself—its properties, its metaphysical resonance, its inviolable nature, its harmony-bound existence that nullified all threats—and added it to the immeasurable arsenal of abilities already flowing through him.
From the basic manipulation of the elements—earth, fire, water, wind, lightning—to the dominion over plot and narrative causality, from control over death-touched spheres to manipulation of energies no mortal ontology had vocabulary for, Aevor's collection of abilities was infinite, a library of power that extended beyond the boundaries of the absolute.
But this new crystal power… this deserved a name.
Aevor lifted his gaze toward the luminous cityscape, watching as the sun refracted across the crystalline spires in glittering cascades of white and silver.
" Astral Glaze," he murmured quietly, naming the power with a tone that caused the entire town to pulse subtly in acknowledgment, as though the layer itself recognized and accepted the title.
The name drifted through the air like a soft breeze, resonating with the very crystals he had copied, and they shimmered faintly in response, their surfaces momentarily brightening as though bowing to their new master.
He walked deeper into the town, passing through streets lined with crystalline arches, each of them carved in intricate geometric patterns. Families greeted him with polite nods, unaware of the immeasurable power walking past them, unaware that their peaceful town had just gained a new guardian—though Aevor had no intention to linger. He had many more layers to ascend, much more to uncover, and foes who dared believe themselves worthy of challenging him.
As he continued forward, a young boy ran past him chasing a small crystalline ball that glowed softly in the sunlight. The ball collided with Aevor's leg, bouncing off without leaving so much as a mark, not even disturbing the fabric of his clothing. The boy froze, eyes widening, but Aevor simply picked up the ball, handing it back to the child with a faint smile before continuing down the road.
He followed the main street until it opened into a vast central plaza where crystalline fountains rose like frozen sculptures, their cascading water glistening as though each droplet contained an entire microcosm.
The moment his Eyes of Singularity faded from his gaze, dissolving like distant stars withdrawing back into the void that once birthed them, Aevor allowed the calm crimson of his ordinary vision to return, an unassuming color that belied the depth of perception he carried at all times, a quiet radiance that saw far more than any mortal or divine being could ever hope to comprehend. Feeling no further necessity to linger in this fragment of the world, he lifted one hand toward what appeared to be nothing, yet his fingers closed around something the human senses were never meant to detect, something that only the bones of creation remembered, and with a simple tightening of his grip he crushed the invisible mechanism effortlessly, causing the space before him to fracture with a metallic groan as shards of impossible metal—metal that did not belong to any known material plane—fell in soft clinks against the ground, each piece reflecting an out-of-place shimmer as though offended by the fact it could exist outside its intended conceptual structure. As the shards hit the floor, the sealed gate leading to Layer Twenty-Seven awakened, slowly spreading open like a colossal eye forced reluctantly out of its slumber, revealing a faint glow from the space beyond that only those chosen by reality itself were meant to see.
Aevor took a step toward the radiant threshold, fully prepared to cross without hesitation, when a trembling voice cracked through the stillness, sharp and disbelieving, yet laced with something closer to fear than curiosity, as though the speaker had just witnessed an impossibility wearing a human shape.
"Sir—wait, please! How… how did you open that? You shouldn't be able to—y-you don't have any Aether!"
Aevor paused mid-step, turning his head with the unhurried grace of someone who had long since forgotten the concept of urgency, crimson eyes settling upon the man who had spoken.
"Aether?" Aevor repeated softly, the word drifting from his tongue as though it were a foreign term borrowed from a language that no longer existed.
The man nodded vigorously, lifting his hands in a frantic gesture, desperate to justify his outburst before the moment devoured him. "Yes—Aether. The power required to traverse the layers, to perceive gates, to even stand in the presence of the thresholds without being torn apart. But Aether is not an element, nor a spell, nor any technique built by artifice or will. It is older—unfathomably older—than every system the world has ever known. It is the silent first breath woven into the marrow of creation itself, the unseen pulse that whispered the first forms into existence and taught reality how to take shape long before the first beings rose and believed themselves powerful."
He stepped closer without realizing it, his voice gaining momentum like the rambling of a scholar who had dedicated his life to studying something too vast for comprehension. "Everything you know—every law that governs motion, every principle that allows matter to cling to a shape, every spark of life that flickers into being—all of them borrow from Aether without ever realizing it. They mimic its echo, they cling to its afterimage, they move according to its primordial rhythm. That is why so few can wield it, for Aether is not something one gathers through strength or discipline. It is something that chooses you. It is something that tests whether your very existence possesses the capacity to even survive touching the place where reality itself is born."
His voice quieted, his breath trembling as he looked at Aevor with dawning realization. "So for someone without Aether to open a gate— to crush the conceptual lock without resistance, to stride toward Layer Twenty-Seven as though it were no more than a hallway door—such a thing should be utterly impossible. And yet… and yet you just…"
He stopped speaking mid-sentence as though struck by a revelation that his mind was not prepared to process, his eyes widening, his voice shrinking to a whisper that carried a mixture of awe, terror, and wordless recognition that he could not articulate without shattering his own understanding of the world.
"Ah… I see," he murmured, almost to himself. "Forgive me. I should never have questioned it. Please… ignore my rambling."
Aevor offered no answer—he simply dismissed the entire exchange with a faint shrug, a movement so effortless it suggested the explanation had not even scratched the surface of what he truly was. Without another glance in the man's direction, he stepped forward into the open gate, allowing the light of Layer Twenty-Seven to swallow his silhouette as the threshold sealed behind him with the quiet finality of a world accepting something far beyond its right to touch.