Everything attacked Leo at once.
Not sequentially.Not causally.Not even narratively.
It was an assault without order—an eruption of force from every direction, every layer, every abandoned framework at the same time. Authorial pressure, collapsed cosmologies, erased infinities, fractured meta-laws, all converged into a single moment that had no "moment" to belong to.
From the perspective of observers—if observers still existed—it would have looked like the universe folding inward, imploding into a point smaller than meaning itself.
Leo did not calculate.He did not prepare.He did not invoke any rule.
He only did what his existence always did.
He punched.
One punch.
Not because it was optimal.Not because it was symbolic.But because that was his nature.
The fist moved—not through space, not through time, not even through narrative frames—but through refusal. The punch was not fast, nor slow. It was simply there, intersecting everything that attempted to define, surround, or overwrite him.
The collision did not explode.
It erased the idea of collision.
Light erupted—not Afterlight, not anti-light, not divine radiance. This was something else entirely. A luminance that did not illuminate, but replaced perception itself.
It had a name, though no language had ever been meant to hold it.
Nullflare.
Not brighter than Afterlight—beyond comparison.Not stronger—strength did not apply.Nullflare was what remained when all hierarchies of illumination collapsed into irrelevance.
The moment Nullflare expanded, everything vanished.
No omniverse.No multiverse.No cosmology.No infinity.No omega.No cardinality.
In the domain of The Almighty Goddes, even those concepts had never truly applied—and now, they were gone entirely.
Leo found himself standing.
Or floating.
Or existing.
Across an unbounded spread of cosmologies, layered endlessly like transparent scars, yet none of them possessed measurement, direction, or hierarchy. They were not "infinite." Infinity was a word that had already failed here.
There was no up.No down.No distance.
Only presence without structure.
Leo's breath caught.
For the first time in a very long while, his expression shifted—not into anger, not into calm, but into something rawer.
Confusion.
His emerald eyes darted around, scanning, searching for anchors that no longer existed. His fists tightened instinctively.
"...What?" he muttered.
Nothing answered.
Then—clarity struck him like a delayed echo.
This was wrong.
Not wrong in the sense of danger.Wrong in the sense of intent.
His jaw clenched.
"…Again," Leo whispered.
The realization settled heavily in his chest, heavier than any cosmic weight.
This wasn't escalation.This wasn't war.
This was a test.
A controlled detonation.A staged collapse.A sandbox designed to observe his response.
His emerald veins pulsed faintly as anger finally surfaced—not explosive, not violent, but cold.
"So that's it," he said, voice low and sharp. "You keep playing."
There was no Yahweh visible.No voice echoed.
And yet Leo knew.
This entire annihilation—Nullflare, the erased assault, the empty spread of non-cosmologies—had been deliberate.
A trial.
He exhaled sharply, teeth grinding.
"I'm not your experiment," Leo growled into the emptiness. "Stop treating me like a variable."
The void did not respond.
Leo turned away.
Not teleporting.Not phasing.
He simply left.
The non-place folded behind him like a rejected thought.
And then—
Something changed.
Not violently.Not suddenly.
Gently.
A presence entered the void—not tearing it open, not replacing it, but walking into it as if the emptiness had always been waiting.
Light appeared.
Not Nullflare.Not Afterlight.
A softer radiance—yet impossibly deep.
Leo felt it before he saw her.
He turned.
She stood there—hovering slightly above the fractured nothingness.
A girl.
Or something shaped like one.
Two wings extended behind her—not blazing, not burning, but pale and clean, as if carved from calm itself. Her hair fell dark, almost black, with subtle silver threads like starlight trapped in shadow. Her attire carried a gothic elegance—not provocative, not ornamental—solemn, quiet, dignified.
But it was her eyes that froze Leo in place.
Emerald.
Not merely green.
Emerald so bright it eclipsed his own, yet carried none of his darkness. Where Leo's gaze felt like depth without bottom, hers felt like clarity sharpened into focus.
She looked at him—not with fear, not with reverence.
With familiarity.
She drifted closer, her presence stabilizing the void around her like reality briefly remembering how to exist.
Then she spoke.
Her voice was calm. Gentle. Certain.
"Leonidas Guestamos."
Leo stiffened.
His pupils contracted.
"…What?" he said sharply.
No one had spoken that name here.No system recorded it.No author had written it.
"How do you know that name?" Leo demanded, emerald light flickering faintly across his skin.
The girl stopped in front of him, unshaken. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips—not playful, not mocking.
Because she knew him.
Not as a character.Not as a subject.But as Leonidas.
She inclined her head slightly, wings folding closer.
"You've been called many things," she said softly. "But that is the name you carried before the tests. Before the games."
Leo stared at her, tension coiled in every muscle.
"…Who are you?"
For the first time, the void seemed to listen.
The girl met his gaze, emerald to emerald, and spoke her name.
"My name is—"
To be continued.