The morning light on Nax was never the same twice. Sometimes it rose crimson, bleeding across the horizon like spilled thought. Other days it shimmered in silver waves—threads of the metaphysical plane overlapping the sky like painted glass.
Today, it was golden.
The air shimmered gently, the atmosphere carrying a reverberation of celebration, pride, and quiet exhaustion.
The Academy of Infinite Script, newly formed by the Author Candidates, stood alive once again. Its layered spires hummed with quiet anticipation. Floating rings of metaphysical ink circled the towers like luminous halos, while scholars, candidates, and initiates moved about the platforms with purpose.
This was the Day of Choosing—the moment when those who survived the Trial of Selection would claim their place beneath the tutelage of the masters who now governed the Academy.
Banners of each Class fluttered above the courtyard:
C (Outer Class), B (Inner Class), A (Upper Class), and S (Master Class).
The air buzzed with voices, the occasional pulse of mana as students flaunted their achievements in excitement or pride.
Hoshigama Shion stood at the heart of the courtyard, her hair drifting in faint waves as if the air itself respected her presence. Around her, the metaphysical currents shimmered—tiny distortions like fractured light. Though her control over the metaphysical plane was young and still imperfect, it was pure.
She exhaled quietly. "So this is what it feels like to see reality breathe."
Her gaze wandered upward to the floating platforms where the masters watched from above. Each represented a being of terrifying narrative strength.
Kaelith stood among them, long silver hair flowing, eyes glimmering faintly with mischief as he leaned on the railing. His aura was calm yet oppressive—a living paradox of serenity and dread.
Beside him, Kaelitharion, the higher counterpart—the metaphysical sovereign of narrative balance—watched with an almost parental composure. His presence seemed to still the air itself.
And with them were the other Author Candidates, each carrying their own peculiar gravitas:
Eryza Valeth, the Weaver of Dreams, whose words could rewrite a person's past without touching their memory.
Rynvor Noct, the Echo-Smith, capable of crafting worlds out of residual thoughts and forgotten possibilities.
Solmere Asthral, the Keeper of Fates, whose golden quill could anchor realities to one another.
Miralune Kaen, the Shaper of Silence, her existence partially erased even as she stood there—a being both present and not.
Caldren Voar, the Archivist of Ends, a stoic man who spoke in sequences of numbers that represented fates, not words.
Together they formed the Council of Scripted Thought, the inner circle of those chosen to guard and maintain the metaphysical balance.
And above them, unseen by most, floated a single golden sigil—the seal of the Narrative Forger, the mysterious being responsible for binding their existence into structured form. None had seen him since the Academy's founding, but all knew his title: Veradion, the Architect of Tales.
The candidates stood before the masters.
They would each choose their teacher, but the final decision always rested on the teacher's acceptance.
Shion bowed her head respectfully before Kaelith's platform.
"I request to be your disciple," she said, voice unwavering.
Kaelith's smirk widened slightly. "And why me?"
"Because you don't just teach control," she answered, her voice quiet yet carrying an edge of confidence. "You teach freedom. You teach how to wield power without being chained by it."
Kaelith studied her for a moment, then nodded once. "Fine. I'll take you—on one condition."
She looked up. "Condition?"
"Don't die trying to surpass me. It's bad for my reputation."
A ripple of laughter spread through the upper ranks. Even Kaelitharion smiled faintly.
One by one, students stepped forward, pledging themselves to mentors:
Rein Arashi, a calm prodigy with a circuit of mirrored lightning, chose Rynvor Noct. Kairen Solis, whose gravity field distorted even her own heartbeat, was taken by Eryza Valeth. Tatsuya Ren, the youngest yet fiercest in combat, joined Caldren Voar's analytical tutelage. Lirae, a silent prodigy with half of her soul trapped in another world, bowed to Miralune Kaen.
The selections continued through the day, laughter and rivalry mingling freely under the shimmering sky.
But Lucien Dreamveil was nowhere to be found.
Far above the Academy, upon a cliff overlooking the twin suns of Nax, Lucien sat cross-legged.
His coat rested beside him. The wind brushed through his hair, pale strands glinting like frozen silk.
The world around him was still. The metaphysical plane beneath Nax pulsed faintly—a quiet rhythm that resonated with his being.
For days, Lucien had done nothing but sit. Think. Listen.
Now, he was ready.
If I am to control the metaphysical plane fully… then I must transcend its boundaries through understanding, not domination.
He closed his eyes.
At first, all he heard was silence. Then—
a low hum.
It was not sound, not vibration, but a pulse of truth.
It whispered questions into his mind—philosophical paradoxes that once chained him.
The Philosophical Limit—the belief that some truths cannot be comprehended without collapsing the self that seeks to understand them.
Lucien's thoughts swirled: If understanding changes the self, then the limit is not the truth—it is me.
He released his ego, dissolving the need to "know" and instead becoming the knowing itself.
His body blurred, fading into threads of luminous thought, until his presence was indistinguishable from the air.
The philosophical limit broke.
Then came the Mystical Limit—the ceiling imposed by the divine, the idea that some laws were written by higher powers and thus absolute.
Lucien's mind expanded outward into the metaphysical horizon, past the stars of Nax, into the script-lines of existence. There he saw divine glyphs—rules etched by creation's author, shimmering with ancient command.
He extended his hand, and the glyphs burned.
"If creation speaks in rules," he whispered, "then I will speak in revision."
He erased one line—not in defiance, but in understanding. The glyph shifted willingly, like a gate opening for its master.
The mystical limit dissolved.
Then came the Ontological Limit—the boundary between being and not-being, between what is and what can be imagined.
This was the final barrier of enlightenment.
Lucien descended into himself, into the primordial void that once devoured him and from which he was reborn.
He saw his reflection—pale, still, untouched by time.
He reached forward and merged with it, collapsing duality.
Light exploded.
The metaphysical plane roared, its energy coiling like serpents of logic and chaos entwined.
For a brief moment, Nax trembled. The winds bent. Time hiccuped.
Lucien opened his eyes.
His pupils were no longer human—they reflected entire dimensions folding within themselves.
The air around him rippled in geometric patterns, fractal constructs of pure metaphysical energy rotating in harmonious silence.
"Three limits gone," he murmured. "Two remain—cosmological and absolute. But not today."
He smiled faintly, breathing out.
A single movement of his finger caused the sky to ripple—
and from the ripple, symbols emerged, tracing the newly unlocked abilities of the enlightened void:
Omni-Axis Thoughtform — allows him to manifest multiple conscious avatars, each existing independently across the metaphysical layers.
Meta-Impulse — a passive resonance letting him perceive the flow of possibility before it manifests, essentially letting him "see" the narrative seconds before it happens.
Paradox Veil — renders him untouchable by conceptual attacks; logic cannot define what is not logically bound.
Abyssal Resonance — allows him to rewrite the metaphysical laws of a chosen area temporarily, turning illusions into realities and realities into illusions.
Each power unfolded like a blooming constellation in the air before him.
Kaelith's voice broke the silence. "You know, most people meditate to relax, not to shake an entire dimension."
Lucien turned slightly, smirking. "I got bored of stillness."
Kaelitharion appeared beside his counterpart, watching quietly. "You've surpassed the philosophical, mystical, and ontological. Few even reach one. Yet the last two—cosmological and absolute—require not enlightenment, but confrontation."
Lucien nodded. "I know."
Kaelitharion's eyes narrowed. "You're walking dangerously close to the Creator's realm now, Dreamveil."
Lucien's gaze returned to the horizon, calm and distant. "Then I'll walk carefully."
Below them, the Academy of Infinite Script pulsed with renewed life. Students trained, laughter echoed, and new stories began.
Above them, in the invisible layers of Paraxis, Elyndor Veyl watched once more—his expression unreadable.
The book before him continued to write on its own.
Lucien Dreamveil has broken three of five limits.
The Sole Exception evolves.
Elyndor leaned forward, whispering almost reverently:
"Soon, he'll find out what the Absolute truly means."
The candlelight flickered—
and somewhere deep in the void,
Lucien's eyes opened again.
A whisper of the abyss answered back.