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Order becomes chaos, and chaos becomes order.
It was the dance of entropy.
Nolan sat in his lab, eyes fixed on a sliver of divine tissue pulsing faintly on his arm. His mind was tangled in the paradox of dimensions.
Psionics, in essence, were structured thought. A solidified form of mental energy. Similar to telekinesis or "willpower constructs" but more versatile, capable of building frameworks and systems in space.
But the question wasn't how to use it.
It was: How can two entirely different dimensions be branded as one's own? How do you unify two realms of existence without one devouring the other?
Originally, Nolan intended to let his psionic dimension absorb the Particle Dimension, thinking that would make it a sub-layer granting him control and access to both.
That clearly wouldn't work now.
These two dimensions had to stand side by side equally, fused, and stable. Not conquered. Not overwritten.
But therein lay the paradox.
Everything he had read, everything he knew, said a being could only brand one-dimensional domain as their own. That was the limit of cosmic anchoring. You couldn't bind your soul to two domains at once without one unraveling.
Yet Nolan needed both.
"You're stuck because the knowledge you rely on was written by those who never tried this path," said the Ancient One, seated across from him.
She sipped her tea calmly, her presence grounding the room in serenity.
"If you want to walk a road no one has walked before, there won't be books or mentors to guide you," she continued. "Don't let the library define your limits."
Nolan nodded slowly.
She was right. If someone had already succeeded at dual-dimension branding, they'd be multiversal by now. But that didn't mean the path was impossible only untraveled.
"Take your time," she said. "Becoming a Skyfather isn't a race. Use what you've learned. Explore your options. If you master time magic, you could even experiment across divergent timelines."
She set her cup down.
"But know this splitting your mind across realities is painful. Torturous even."
"I understand," Nolan said quietly. "Thank you, Master."
Even a few words of insight from her were worth entire volumes.
"As for the Vishanti or the Spider Totem," she added, "don't worry. They won't interfere. They're interested in more than just another Skyfather-tier powerhouse. They're investing… watching."
Nolan let out a breath. That was one less concern on his mind.
"I'll proceed carefully."
"Oh, and one more thing," she said. "Strange's hands. They've healed."
That caught him off guard.
"What?"
"Your company's regenerative spray," she said dryly. "It worked. Restored full nerve and muscle function."
"…Ah."
Nolan blinked. He'd completely forgotten he was a walking butterfly effect. Osborne's medical breakthroughs had rewritten too many fates, and Stephen Strange's was one of them.
"That… was not intentional."
"Well," she said, raising a brow. "He's back to being a surgeon now. That arrogant mind of his already believed science held all the answers. Magic requires humility. You want him as a successor? You'll have to fix this."
"I'll break his hands again."
The Ancient One stared at him blankly. "…When he finds out, you explain it."
"He'll understand. Everyone wants power. Sometimes they just need the right motivation."
He stood, opening a portal. "I'll take care of it. Goodbye, Master."
As the shimmering ring closed behind him, the Ancient One looked thoughtfully at the empty space he left.
"If he succeeds," she whispered, "he may truly become… multiversal."
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New York – Metro General Hospital
Dr. Stephen Strange stood in the OR, performing a basic surgery. To someone like him, once hailed as one of the finest neurosurgeons on Earth, it was almost insulting. A hemorrhoidectomy compared to a triple bypass.
Still, his hands moved with practiced precision.
Freshly healed hands.
After the car crash, he'd thought his career was over. The fine motor control required for surgery had been obliterated—until a colleague whispered a name: Osborn Medical.
He went.
They reopened the scars, applied the spray, and within hours… perfection.
The healing was so exact that he couldn't tell the difference from before the accident.
He was stunned. Then suspicious.
It wasn't a breakthrough born of careful surgical technique or organic rehabilitation. It was a tool. A product. Something any underqualified physician could wield.
It terrified him.
Because it meant surgeons like him, true craftsmen, were being replaced.
That regenerative spray had revolutionized trauma care, especially in emergency settings. Internal bleeding, open wounds fixed in seconds. Recovery periods? Erased.
He had fought it.
He had mocked it.
But now?
"Done," he said flatly, placing his tools down. "Use the spray to accelerate the closure. Fewer complications post-op."
The attending nurse Christine Palmer glanced at him, surprised. Strange had always refused the spray.
Maybe the crash had changed him.
Outside the OR, she nudged him playfully. "So… what changed your mind?"
Strange sighed. "Osborn's tech works. I was being arrogant. Stubborn. But it's undeniably effective."
He looked at his hands. "Sometimes, clinging to tradition means you're just in the way."
Christine smiled faintly. "Never thought I'd hear that from you."
"Neither did I."
He paused, then added, "I still don't understand how they made it. That spray violates so many rules of biology, it's practically magic."
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