Even sealed, even as a six-year-old child, Ren Kai's existence radiated. Not a roar, not a shout—merely a step forward.
Across countless realities—canon, hypothetical, crossover, neutral, unbound by narrative—entire universes froze. Battles halted mid-strike, empires paused in breathless anticipation, and the endless flow of time itself stilled for a heartbeat that spanned infinity.
It wasn't that Ren Kai acted. He did nothing. Yet the moment his foot touched the ground, the air vibrated with authority beyond comprehension. His eyes—soft, luminous, round—held not curiosity or malice, but the awareness of every thought, every possibility, every universe and timeline.
"He sees all…" whispered a being from a distant reality.
"Impossible… how can a child—" another stammered, only to vanish as if erased from observation itself.
Ren Kai's gaze alone stretched across dimensions. Beyond omnipotence? Yes. Beyond omniscience? Already there. Beyond omnipresence? He had always been.
He did not intervene, he did not judge. His presence was law, uncreated, uncaused, and absolute. Entire multiverses bent subtly—not forced, not coerced—but simply acknowledging that Ren Kai allowed them to exist, even as he remained sealed.
From the outside, it seemed like nothing happened. Yet, in truth, everything had shifted: destinies rewritten, cosmic structures paused and rearranged, unseen hands guiding every thread of reality back to balance.
All those who tried to challenge him, from all possible worlds, all conceivable "power levels," all stories—were paused, unable to act. For even their existence depended on the permission of the sealed child.
Ren Kai blinked once. Universes exhaled.
And then, the infinite silence returned, as if nothing had occurred at all.