The void was not void anymore.The battlefield where Leo and The Almighty clashed was no longer describable as a place, or even as a framework of coordinates. What lay before them was authorial substrate—the unseen scaffolding where narrative itself was drawn, rewritten, erased, and revised. The Almighty had finally abandoned the pretense of being only a god within cosmology. No longer bound to the scaffolding of metaphysics or theology, He embraced His highest form: Form Authorial Edits / Metafiction Extreme+.
It was madness in its purest incarnation.
The Almighty's body dissolved into overlapping glyphs, half-sentences, deleted drafts, annotations of universes that had never been written, yet always existed in conceptual drafts. His laughter tore through the margins like black ink spilling across an unguarded manuscript.
"Do you understand, Leo?" the booming voice echoed as paragraphs themselves bent into serpentine shapes around Him. "You fight against a character… and now you fight against the writer of characters. Every line, every fate, every rule that defined your body, your power, your so-called immunity—it belongs to me. I am the hand above the script."
Leo's form remained battered, his skin split where veins of luminous green light pulsed like fractal roots trying to tear free. His Hollow Heart Engine—a metaphysical mechanism that allowed him to metabolize causality itself—had been shattered. Without it, most entities would have collapsed into silence, unmoored from meaning.
But Leo stood.He always stood.
His height—only 218cm compared to the incomprehensible omniversal immensity of The Almighty—looked like nothing but dust before mountains. Yet dust does not bend to mountains when the dust refuses categorization itself.
The Almighty's laughter intensified. Around Him, the battlefield transformed: the floor became torn manuscript paper, the sky a writhing storm of rejected plotlines, and time itself a dangling cursor blinking over every motion. With a flick of intent, He invoked a new ability:
Contrived Lock.
It was not an attack in the physical sense. No beam, no blade, no eruption of energy. Instead, rules of narrative clawed themselves around Leo, manifesting as chains of glowing text. Paragraphs of stipulation coiled around his limbs: "Leo cannot move here.""Leo's resistance is nullified.""Leo is redefined as a bound entity."
It was brutal in its elegance. Fictional rituals like these were rare—where the target was forcibly rewritten into a state of powerlessness. In ordinary fictions, such contrivances defined destiny: the protagonist would be chained, sealed, or weakened until some arbitrary condition released them. Yet here, the lock was no mere trope; it was a metaphysical imperative inscribed by the one who claimed authorship itself.
Leo felt it: the crushing inevitability.His body grew heavy, unmovable. Every attempt at resistance was met with taut sentences binding tighter around his frame. Even his pulse was annotated in margins, his breaths footnoted with editorial commentary: "exhale, but uselessly."
The Almighty's eyes blazed with words, a storm of editorial red ink.
"You see? Even your vaunted immunity collapses when I write the page itself. You are not beyond narrative—you are in narrative. And I am the quill that sculpts it. Without your Hollow Heart Engine, you are stripped bare."
For the first time, Leo staggered. His light dimmed. His veins pulsed, but no law-breaking resonance erupted.
The Almighty leaned closer, His voice a mixture of mirth and command:
"Suffer, Leo. Collapse into what you always were: a draft that I permitted."
Then came the most devastating strike: the obliteration of Leo's definitional lattice.
Concepts themselves were erased in a cascade of Authorial Edits:
Mathematics alpha, beta, aleph sets—gone.
Narrative linearity—scrubbed.
His timeline of resistance—crossed out with editorial marks.
Even the very idea of Leo the fighter was being overwritten into Leo the bound.
Blood, green and luminous, spilled from Leo's mouth. His eyes dimmed under the force. For the first time, he appeared mortal.
The Almighty exhaled in victory, a sound like pages turning and closing together. His voice thundered, each word italicized by divine decree:
"It is over. You were a paragraph, and I—I am the author."
And then.
A flicker.Something impossible.
Leo smiled.
It was not defiance, not arrogance—just an almost innocent grin, as though something trivial had occurred. His lips moved, voice cracked but steady:
"Author, huh…? You're not the first to try and bind me with rules."
The Almighty's form flickered. His Authorial Edits locked harder, tightening the text-chains, but Leo's body began to unwrite itself—not through deletion, but through refusal.
The chains of text dissolved when they touched his skin. Sentences blurred into illegible scribbles, punctuation marks bled into static. Every rule—no matter how absolute—collapsed when pressed against him.
Leo's philosophy crystallized into words, reverberating in that authorial void:
"You think I need the Hollow Heart Engine to resist. Wrong. I am not powered by a mechanism, not defined by a system. You cannot author me because I was never written to begin with. I exist outside—where definitions fail, where even death refuses to claim me. I am the thing that rules cannot contextualize."
The Almighty's laughter faltered. For the first time in this form, doubt streaked across His infinite eyes.
"Impossible… You are bound in my domain—!"
Leo took a step forward, though the chains screamed their impossibility. His body cracked, bleeding more green light. But every step tore through imposed narration. Each chain broke not because of brute force but because the concept of a chain could not hold him.
And then he said the words that bent the void:
"You don't bind me with story. You bind me with nothing. And I break nothing as easily as I breathe."
In that instant, the battlefield convulsed. The Almighty's Contrived Lock—the ritual meant to seal even the highest of entities—fractured. Leo's veins glowed like rivers of emerald lightning, his frame reasserting itself not through authorial permission, but through anti-narrative defiance.
The Almighty staggered. He who had always been untouchable, uneditable by pain, suddenly clutched His chest. A sharp ripple coursed through His form: pain. The first time in eons. The first flaw in His perfect dominion.
Leo raised his hand, blood dripping from his knuckles, yet his grin remained childishly simple.
"You wanted to make me a character. I'll show you what happens when a character erases the author."
He stepped closer. The Almighty's meta-form shrieked, fonts unraveling, paragraphs disintegrating. He had torn countless opponents across aeons with this exact ritual. None had ever resisted—let alone broken free.
And now… Leo had done it without even an engine, without scaffolding. Just his absurd refusal to be written.
The Almighty whispered, voice breaking into stuttering lines of corrupted narrative:
"Unthinkable… Impossible…"
But Leo did not stop. He clenched his fist, readying a strike that could bend not merely physics, not merely metaphysics, but authorship itself.
The screen, if there was a screen, began to fracture. The narration itself trembled, teetering on collapse. The Almighty reeled backward, still unable to reconcile how His ultimate lock had failed.
And then—Leo's emerald eyes burned brighter than any written word, brighter than any divine edit. He leveled his gaze directly into The Almighty's fragmented form.
"If you can write me into chains… I can write you into fear."
The Almighty gasped—an entity that had no lungs, yet gasped.
The silence stretched. The page shuddered.
And then, as Leo lunged forward to strike, the narration itself clipped into darkness—
To be continued.