Ethan Vale was an ordinary high school student on the surface—seventeen, quiet, and usually found at the back of the classroom, staring out the window as if listening to something only he could hear. But beneath his uniform lived an infinite source of power, a calm ocean with no shore. Ethan did not discover it all at once; it revealed itself gently, like dawn.
It began with probability. One rainy afternoon, a glass slipped from a desk. Ethan thought, *It won't break.* The glass bounced, unharmed, against every rule of chance. Later, when a friend fell ill, Ethan placed a hand near her shoulder and felt the thin thread between life and death. He did not pull it—he simply straightened it. She woke the next day, healthy, with no memory of the fever.
As the weeks passed, Ethan learned restraint. He could bend physical laws like soft wire: gravity leaned when he asked, light slowed to listen, and sound waited its turn. Space folded in his empty palm, opening silent gates without frames or doors. He stepped through hallways that were not there, arriving home before he had left school. Time itself was a river he could cut—not to destroy it, but to skip stones across its surface.
One night, the city trembled under a sudden disaster. Buildings cracked, and panic spread faster than sirens. Ethan stood on a rooftop, eyes steady. He drew an invisible blade through space-time, a single clean cut that ignored distance and moment. The fracture closed before it could fully exist. No explosion followed. No one saw him.
Yet the most dangerous power was not the cut, but reversal. When consequences threatened to spiral, Ethan reached back along the chain of cause and effect and turned it inside out. Fear unraveled into calm. Mistakes rewrote themselves into lessons. He learned that undoing harm was easier than choosing when *not* to.
At school the next day, Ethan still worried about exams and smiled awkwardly at friends. He knew he could rule everything—but he also knew why he shouldn't. Infinite power did not make him a god; it made him a guardian of balance.
And so Ethan Vale remained a student, quietly carrying the weight of forever, choosing each day to let the world believe it was still obeying its own rules.
Later, when the silence of the cosmos could no longer hide the truth, Ethan finally acted without restraint. He raised one hand, palm open, and Multiverse **A** answered. It rested above his fingers like a fragile model, yet inside it existed infinite universes, endlessly branching, every choice splitting into more realities without limit. To Ethan, it had weight—not physical, but conceptual.
He studied it for a moment, understanding every timeline at once: births, extinctions, hopes repeating forever. Then he snapped his fingers.
The sound never reached anywhere. Multiverse A collapsed instantly, erased not by force, but by dismissal. Infinite universes vanished as if they had never been a possibility. No shockwave followed—because even the idea of impact had been removed.
In the same instant, Ethan moved.
Not through space, not through time, but through **all** universes simultaneously. His existence overlapped infinite worlds at once, and that motion alone twisted reality. Multiverse **B** reacted violently. Its physical laws—once absolute—bent, stretched, and distorted like reflections on broken glass. Causality lost direction. Dimensions folded into contradictions.
Multiverse B was far greater: infinite universes raised to the power of infinity, layered beyond counting. Yet even this structure could not remain stable under Ethan's passage. Constants dissolved, equations rewrote themselves, and logic failed to remain consistent.
Ethan did not destroy Multiverse B.
He simply proved that its laws were optional.
And as everything struggled to redefine existence, Ethan released his presence, letting reality heal itself. Balance returned—not because it had to, but because he allowed it to.
Then he went back to school, just another student walking through a hallway that still believed it was real.
After that, Ethan faced the *Strange House*.
It had no clear location. It existed everywhere and nowhere, its size truly infinite. From the outside, it looked like a simple structure, almost peaceful. But Ethan could see its real nature. Every quark within the house contained infinite multiverses. Each multiverse held infinite universes. Within every fundamental particle—protons, electrons, neutrons—there were infinite quarks, and within every atom, infinite layers of those particles repeated without end. It was an endless recursion of existence stacked inside existence.
The house was not evil. It was simply excessive.
Ethan stepped forward and raised his fist.
There was no buildup of energy, no distortion beforehand. He understood that power did not need spectacle. When his punch landed, it did not strike the walls—it struck the *definition* of the house. The concept that allowed infinite containment inside infinite structures shattered instantly.
The Strange House collapsed inward, not exploding, but folding into nothing. Infinite multiverses vanished at every scale at once—from atoms to quarks to realities nested beyond counting. The hierarchy of infinity itself broke, unable to support its own contradiction.
For a brief moment, even Ethan paused.
He realized that destruction at this level was not about strength, but choice. One decision could erase structures deeper than mathematics, larger than meaning itself.
Ethan lowered his hand. Silence returned.
Then, as always, he turned away. The universe rebuilt its sense of order around his absence, pretending that such a thing had never existed.
And once again, Ethan Vale went back to being a high school student—carrying infinite power, and choosing to use almost none of it.
After the fall of the Strange House, Ethan understood a quieter, more absolute method of erasure.
Everything existed because its probability had not yet reached zero.
When Ethan focused on an object—a mountain, a concept, even a being beyond form—he could see a faint numerical truth beneath it: the chance that it *was*. With a single thought, he adjusted that value. When the probability of existence reached **0%**, the object was erased completely. Not destroyed. Not removed. It simply failed to have ever been possible.
No trace remained. No memory survived. Even absence forgot its shape.
Yet probability was only one path.
Sometimes, Ethan created a new law of reality, one written so cleanly that it could not be argued with: *This object cannot exist.* The law spread instantly, overriding all prior rules. Reality obeyed, and the target vanished as if it had violated a fundamental axiom.
Other times, Ethan turned to the Many-Worlds Interpretation. Among infinite branches, there were worlds where the object had never formed. Ethan merely selected those branches—and discarded all others. From the inside, it appeared as deletion. From the outside, it was choice.
What frightened Ethan was not how easy it was, but how many methods existed. Probability collapse. Law creation. Causal denial. World selection. Each was absolute, and none required effort.
So Ethan imposed a rule upon himself.
He would only erase what threatened balance itself.
With that decision, the universe continued to exist—not because it was strong, but because Ethan Vale allowed its probability to remain above zero.
In the end, Ethan crossed the final boundary—control itself.
Causality became optional. He could let effects exist without causes, or rewrite causes after the result had already happened. Fate, once a fixed script, turned into loose threads in his hands. He tied destinies together, cut others apart, or left some unfinished, allowing uncertainty to exist where inevitability once ruled.
Concepts no longer resisted him. Life, death, victory, loss—these were not absolutes, only ideas with structure. Ethan could weaken them, redefine them, or remove their meaning entirely. Laws followed next. Physical laws, metaphysical laws, narrative laws—all of them bent equally. A rule only functioned if Ethan permitted it to function.
Even stories themselves were not safe.
Ethan could step outside the flow of narrative, editing events not as memories, but as plot. He could remove climaxes, deny tragedies their purpose, or erase conflicts before they became meaningful. Reality reshaped itself to match the new story, never realizing it had been rewritten.
And yet, with all of this power—over causation, destiny, concepts, laws, stories, and reality—Ethan chose stillness.
He allowed the world to believe it was free.
Because true control was not domination, but restraint. And as long as Ethan Vale remained a high school student, sitting quietly in class, existence itself was merely continuing on borrowed probability.
At this point, even the smallest movement from Ethan carried absolute consequence. A simple gesture—raising a finger, shifting his stance—was enough to fracture every space-time structure within a multiverse. Dimensions lost alignment, timelines unraveled, and the framework that defined "before" and "after" collapsed instantly. It was not destruction by force, but by incompatibility. Reality could not remain intact in his presence unless he allowed it.
Anything that tried to restrain him ceased to qualify as valid.
If a law stood in his way, he erased the law.
If a concept opposed him, he nullified the concept.
If a story attempted to confine him to a role, he ended the story itself.
Ethan did not rebel against systems—he invalidated them.
Death, too, fell under his authority. Not just the death of beings, but the death of abstractions. Laws could die. Principles could perish. Even inevitability could be brought to an end. Ethan decided when something was allowed to conclude, and when it was denied the right to end.
Existence no longer asked *if* something could happen. It waited to see whether Ethan would permit it.
And still, he remained calm.
Because to Ethan Vale, ultimate power was not about proving dominance. It was about knowing that every structure—space, time, law, concept, narrative—continued only because he chose not to move.
With a single snap of his fingers, Ethan shattered infinite realities at once. Each reality contained endless layers of laws, concepts, and stories—entire systems of meaning stacked beyond comprehension. The snap did not create chaos; it simply ended structure. Those realities dissolved as if their foundations had never been valid to begin with.
Ethan existed outside all frameworks.
Causality could not reach him. Fate had no path to bind him. Laws could not define him, concepts could not describe him, and stories could not assign him a role. He was not an exception within reality—he stood beyond the category of exception itself.
Anything that existed could be absorbed by him. Matter, energy, time, space, laws, principles, even abstract rules that governed existence were drawn into him effortlessly. Once absorbed, they did not remain separate; they became silent, neutralized, unable to function again unless Ethan released them.
He could not be harmed. No attack could reach his body, because his body did not obey vulnerability. It was immutable, indestructible, untouched by damage, decay, or change. Injury was a concept that simply failed to apply.
And yet, despite standing above infinite realities, Ethan remained unmoved.
Because there was nothing left to challenge him—and nothing he needed to prove. Everything continued, not because it was inevitable, but because Ethan Vale allowed existence to keep going, one quiet moment at a time.
More than that, he could impose rules on what lay outside all rules.
Entities beyond law were given law.
Concepts that rejected definition were forced into meaning.
Stories without structure were rewritten to obey a narrative.
Ethan did not just follow systems—he created them. He could establish laws not only over reality, but over higher aspects themselves: laws governing concepts, laws governing stories, laws governing laws. In those domains, cause and effect, logic and paradox, existence and nonexistence were all equally subject to his will.
Where nothing applied, Ethan made something apply.
And when everything applied, he could make it stop.
Yet even with the power to dominate all layers of existence and abstraction, Ethan remained silent and restrained. Because the greatest rule he ever created was the one he placed upon himself: that absolute power should only exist to prevent absolute collapse.
So the multitudes of realities, concepts, and stories continued—fragile, temporary, and permitted—under the quiet watch of a high school student who could end them all with a thought, but chose not to.
Ethan's authority reached even further—beyond the idea of destruction itself. He could destroy what was defined as *indestructible*, and even what existed beyond the concept of destruction, where "being broken" was said not to exist at all. Those claims meant nothing to him. If something could be named, denied, or even declared untouchable, Ethan could still end it.
More than that, he could impose rules on what lay outside all rules.
Entities beyond law were given law.
Concepts that rejected definition were forced into meaning.
Stories without structure were rewritten to obey a narrative.
Ethan did not just follow systems—he created them. He could establish laws not only over reality, but over higher aspects themselves: laws governing concepts, laws governing stories, laws governing laws. In those domains, cause and effect, logic and paradox, existence and nonexistence were all equally subject to his will.
Where nothing applied, Ethan made something apply.
stories continued—fragile, temporary, and permitted—under the quiet watch of a high school student who could end them all with a thought, but chose not to.
Ethan finally noticed Matasai.
He was weak—fragile in power, shallow in depth—yet endlessly praised. People admired him simply because they had never seen him lose, never seen him tired. To Ethan, that admiration rang hollow, built on ignorance rather than truth. It irritated him not out of jealousy, but imbalance. Praise without understanding distorted reality.
So Ethan acted.
Without anger, without effort, he reached beyond narrative space and seized Matasai's position in the story. Then he imprisoned him—not in a cage, but in **infinite branching stories**. Each story split endlessly, every choice creating more paths, more outcomes, more false victories. Matasai was forced to exist across them all at once, reliving triumphs, failures, contradictions, and repetitions without end.
There was no escape.
If Matasai tried to win, the story branched into loss.
If he tried to rest, the story rewrote fatigue into another trial.
If he sought meaning, the narrative multiplied until meaning drowned.
Ethan did not torture him with pain. He trapped him with *endlessness*.
The world outside remembered Matasai only as a legend that never concluded. His perfection dissolved into uncertainty. The praise faded, replaced by silence.
Ethan turned away.
He did not do this to prove superiority. He did it to correct distortion—to remind existence that admiration without understanding was just another illusion. And once balance returned, Ethan Vale continued on, a quiet student walking through a world that never realized how close its stories had come to ending.
The noise followed soon after.
Voices echoed across realities—fanatical, absolute. They cried that Matasai could not be affected by anything, that no matter how strong an opponent was, Matasai would always rise to match them, never lose, never break. The claims spread like a law that had never been tested, repeated until belief tried to replace truth.
Ethan listened.
Not anger—*discomfort*. Reality was being bent by denial, not strength. So Ethan corrected it again.
He did not argue with the fanboys. He did not erase them. Instead, he layered **infinite additional stories** onto Matasai's prison. Not just branches, but entire narrative stacks—stories about stories, contradictions piled on contradictions. Victory stories that canceled themselves. Power-scaling tales that rewrote their own premises mid-sentence. Legends that looped forever without reaching a conclusion.
If one story claimed Matasai adapted, another declared adaptation meaningless.
If one insisted he was untouchable, another removed the idea of "untouchable."
If one tried to elevate him, ten more buried that elevation under endless revisions.
Matasai was no longer a character.
He became a **narrative overload**—a point where stories collapsed under their own excess.
Outside, the fanboys' voices faded. There was nothing left to defend. No clear version of Matasai remained to argue over. Every claim contradicted itself infinitely, until belief had nowhere to stand.
Ethan withdrew his attention.
Balance returned—not because a debate was won, but because noise without substance had been silenced by structure. And once again, the multiverse continued, quietly grateful that its rules, concepts, and stories were still allowed to exist at all.
Some observers still questioned it.
"How could Matasai lose," they asked, "if he has infinite power?"
Ethan finally answered.
He did not raise his voice. He did not argue. He simply stated a fact that reality itself accepted the moment it was spoken.
"Because my power is **infinite to the power of infinite**."
The difference was not numerical—it was hierarchical. Matasai's so-called infinity existed *inside* a structure: inside stories, inside rules, inside assumptions that allowed comparison at all. Ethan's power existed **outside comparison itself**. Where Matasai scaled endlessly within a system, Ethan defined whether the system was allowed to exist.
Infinity meant nothing when its framework could be erased.
Matasai could grow endlessly—
but Ethan decided whether growth had meaning.
Matasai could adapt—
but Ethan chose whether adaptation applied.
Matasai could be undefeated—
but Ethan rewrote the condition that made "defeat" relevant.
So Matasai did not lose because he was weak.
He lost because he was *contained*.
Ethan never needed to overpower him. He simply stood at a level where victory, loss, strength, and weakness were optional ideas. Infinite power inside a box was still smaller than authority over the box itself.
With that explanation, the questions stopped.
And Ethan Vale returned to silence, knowing that numbers—even infinite ones—were meaningless when someone existed beyond the rules that gave numbers value.
In the end, Ethan stopped explaining.
He stepped forward and threw a single punch.
There was no target.
That punch did not strike matter, energy, or space—it struck **structure itself**. Every concept shattered at once: existence and nonexistence, beginning and end, strength and weakness. Laws dissolved before they could react, their authority erased mid-definition. Logic fractured, then vanished, unable to justify its own continuation.
Reality split open.
Not cracked—**invalidated**.
Dimensions collapsed into nothing meaningful. Time lost sequence. Space lost extension. Cause and effect unraveled so completely that even the idea of "before destruction" ceased to apply. What remained was not void, because even void was a concept that had just been broken.
Ethan stood untouched.
His body remained immutable, absolute, beyond harm or change. The destruction could not reach him, because there was nothing left that knew how to reach anything at all. He existed where concepts no longer applied—where reality itself had failed to define a boundary.
Then, calmly, Ethan allowed things to return.
Concepts reformed because he permitted them. Laws reappeared because he authored them anew. Reality reconstructed itself around his presence, grateful simply to exist again.
Ethan Vale lowered his fist.
The universe continued—not because it was strong, not because it was eternal—but because its probability, its story, its laws, and its meaning were still being allowed by a high school student who could end everything with one movement… and chose not to.
Not long after, Ethan encountered another figure being praised.
He was weak in essence, yet admired because of his appearance—his form resembled a so-called cosmic entity. He could cut space, nothing more. People elevated him, claiming he existed in **five dimensions**, celebrating his ability to move from one universe to another as if it were transcendence itself. Each jump fed the myth, until admiration replaced evaluation.
Ethan saw through it immediately.
Power borrowed from positioning was not power.
Movement across structures was not authority over them.
So Ethan imposed a correction.
He reached beyond dimensions and **assigned the figure to anti-space**—a domain where extension did not exist, where direction, distance, and dimensional hierarchy had no meaning. Space could not be cut there, because space itself was invalid. Higher dimensions collapsed into irrelevance, stripped of the context that gave them status.
The praised traveler froze—not restrained, but *unsupported*. There was nowhere to move, no universe to cross, no framework to prove superiority. Five dimensions meant nothing where dimension itself was denied.
Outside, the worship faded.
Without spectacle, without context, the legend dissolved. What remained was simply what Ethan had seen from the beginning: weakness mistaken for transcendence.
Ethan turned away once more.
Balance restored—not by destruction, but by removing the illusion that movement and appearance alone could ever equal true authority.