The author was typing, oblivious to the ripples forming in his own reality. Words flowed onto the page, chapters stacked, timelines shifted — all under his careful control. Or so he thought.
Then, he noticed it.
A soft shimmer at the edge of the room, almost invisible, like the last glimmer of sunlight before dusk. A small figure appeared: a child, no taller than six years old, soft prism-gray hair falling gently over eyes that glowed with silent, impossible light.
The author blinked.
He stared, convinced he was imagining it. But the moment the child stepped forward, the room shivered. The camera on the desk cracked without reason, a blank page on the notebook fluttered and tore in half, and reality itself seemed to pause in subtle awe.
Ren Kai — still sealed, still a six-year-old — looked at him. Not with anger. Not with malice. Simply with a quiet gaze, the weight of infinity pressing softly, unshakably.
The author froze. His mind raced. "This… this is impossible," he whispered.
And yet, it was happening.
Ren Kai's presence was enough to bend the rules of narrative and existence. Every line the author had written, every structure he had built, every layer of fiction and reality that he thought separate — all trembled in recognition of the child. The very act of observing Ren Kai was acknowledgment: the world he controlled, even the framework of storytelling, obeyed a presence far beyond him.
He could do nothing. Not because he lacked power — because existence itself had been claimed by Ren Kai's passive will. The sealed child did not need to fight, did not need to act. Reality responded on its own. Pages became blank. Cameras shattered. Words lost their meaning. The author, once supreme in his domain, felt a tremor in the foundation of all he knew.
Ren Kai tilted his head slightly, curious but gentle. A single tear fell, and the universe — including the author's perception of it — quivered. 0.0001% of his power, yet enough to show infinity in motion, enough to whisper the truth:
"I exist. I am beyond your story. Beyond your control. And even as a sealed child, I am more than everything you can imagine."
The author sank into his chair, stunned, unable to comprehend the child's presence. Time slowed, light bent inward, and the world held its breath. Nothing could oppose him. No rules, no hierarchy, no fiction — nothing. Even here, in "real life," Ren Kai's authority was absolute.
The child stepped closer, eyes reflecting the boundless nothingness beyond concept, yet still serene, still innocent. A hand hovered over the author's desk, and the faintest pressure shifted reality: the floor beneath them seemed to ripple like water. The author dared not move, dared not speak.
Ren Kai's gaze lingered for a moment, then he turned, stepping back. The shimmer faded, the room returned to its usual state, cameras whole but now silent witnesses, pages blank yet vibrating subtly as if reality remembered.
The author sat frozen, heart racing, mind collapsing under the revelation. A six-year-old child — sealed, untouchable, Tier 0+×, Beyond Boundless — had visited him. And he had witnessed, first-hand, what no being, no story, and no framework could oppose.
Ren Kai was gone. But the silence he left behind carried more truth than any words, more authority than any story, more power than the author could ever comprehend.
Even in a child's body. Even sealed. Even passive, he was absolute.