You've probably never heard of the Hall of Fate. And honestly, that's for the best. Because if you had, it would mean your life's thread was about to be snipped by three old ladies far more terrifying than any monster from Greek or Egyptian mythology.
The place itself was bizarre. Picture an infinite hall, with no real ceiling or walls, just columns made of some material that seemed like glass and smoke at the same time. A glow, half-silver, half-golden, came from everywhere, as if the light were part of the air. And right in the center, the so-called Wheel of Fortune spun slowly.
But hold on, it wasn't the kind of wheel you spin on a TV game show. This one was made of shimmering golden particles and had delicate threads stretching in every direction, each representing someone's life. Some threads were tiny, others like thick ship ropes. Every movement of the wheel decided the fate of gods and mortals alike.
A constant low hum filled the air, like a distant beehive. If you listened closely, you could swear the threads made their own sound when they were pulled, wound, or—worse—cut.
The ones responsible for all this? The Three Fates. Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Three old women who looked like they'd been around before Cronus even thought about devouring his own children. They floated through the hall, handling the threads with needles, scissors, and terrifying tools. Normally, nothing fazed those three. Cronus, Hades, Zeus—it didn't matter; every life was in their hands.
But at that moment…
The three were afraid.
Yes. Real fear. They stared fixedly at a point in the hall where the space was… cracked. Like glass about to shatter. On the other side, pure darkness. And then, someone stepped through the fissure.
Ikki.
But not the usual calm Ikki. His eyes had a diabolical glint, as if he were enjoying the idea of finally finding the ones who'd been meddling with his life.
"Took long enough…" he said, in a casual tone that made the hall colder than Hades' throne. "If you hadn't stopped manipulating me when I got with Artemis… I'd have sensed your location sooner, especially after I grasped the concept of fate even more. But you already know that; if you can see the future, you knew this could happen and were trying to avoid it…"
The Fates exchanged desperate glances, and it was just as the boy had said. When he connected with the concept they manipulated, he came dangerously close to discovering their hideout. That's why they had backed off, stopped touching the threads tied to his life.
Now it was too late.
The young man took a step forward, and the crack widened, as if space itself were fleeing from his path.
"I've been waiting months for this moment." Ikki smiled, and that smile… it wasn't the kind you'd want to see from someone who could, literally, pull the thread of your life at any moment.
The three Fates backed away, their hands trembling slightly, while the sound of the Wheel of Fortune spun faster.
For the first time in eons, fate had changed hands.
Ikki advanced slowly.
The three Fates retreated, stumbling over their own ancient, tattered dresses, as if expecting some god or concept to appear and save them.
Spoiler: no one was coming.
Clotho was the first to try something. She raised her spinning wheel and spun desperately, trying to weave an invisible thread in the air. A thread that was probably their last hope of reversing this.
Ikki just snapped his fingers.
The spinning wheel exploded into fragments of golden smoke.
"Seriously?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "After millennia manipulating others' lives, this is all you've got?"
Clotho barely had time to defend herself. Ikki crossed the distance in a blink, his fist striking the side of her face with a dry crack. The old woman flew, crashing into a glass-smoke column that splintered like thin ice.
Lachesis screamed, and Ikki turned to her with a look of genuine boredom.
"Now you…" he said.
He appeared in front of her in a flash. Lachesis tried to raise her golden scissors, but Ikki caught her hand mid-air and twisted until the sound of bones snapping echoed. The old woman squealed, but Ikki didn't stop. He pulled her by the arm and began swinging, smashing her body against the surrounding columns like a cruel child with a rag doll.
Each impact was accompanied by a shower of golden particles and a grotesque sound of something fracturing.
Atropos, the oldest and cruelest of them, fell to her knees.
"Please… we can fix it… we can return what we took…"
Ikki let out a low, humorless laugh.
"Can you? After I kill you, I'll be able to as well. But you know what?" He approached, crouching in front of her, his eyes gleaming with that dark amusement. "I prefer doing it my way."
With his hand, he grabbed Atropos by the throat and lifted the old woman as if she weighed less than a feather. She flailed, her long nails trying to scratch his arm, to no avail. With each second, the Wheel of Fortune's glow weakened. The threads of life remained untouched, spinning around, as if refusing to interfere.
Ikki tilted his head to the side, observing Clotho groaning on the floor, Lachesis unconscious, and Atropos choking.
"You've spent eternity deciding who lives, who dies, who suffers, who's happy… No punishment. No consequences."
He squeezed tighter.
"Now it's my turn."
With a sharp motion, he threw Atropos to the ground with such force that the impact cracked the very space-time around her. The old woman tried to stand, her bones creaking, but Ikki was there again, his foot crushing her face against the silvery floor.
The hall fell silent.
The Three Fates, the mistresses of Fate… defeated. Humiliated. Without touching a single thread of life.
If someone said the Fates were immortal, Ikki would've laughed.
At that moment, he wasn't interested in myths, doctrines, or cosmic rules. He only saw three old women who'd spent too long deciding others' fates, thinking no one would ever dare touch them.
Spoiler number two: they were wrong.
Atropos was still trying to crawl across the cracked floor, her bony fingers leaving trails in the shimmering dust. Ikki walked toward her, and with each step, the hall seemed to writhe, as if reality itself wanted to avoid what was coming next.
"Wanna know what irony is?" Ikki asked, his voice low but resonating in every corner of that eternal space. "You're fate. And yet, here I am, deciding yours."
Clotho groaned, spitting a trickle of golden mist that must've been the divine equivalent of blood. She tried to stand, but Ikki was faster. With a swift motion, he grabbed her by her disheveled hair and lifted her off the ground.
"How many centuries did you spend deciding when someone should die?" he asked, staring at her as if trying to decipher her fearful expression. "Let me show you how it's done."
His fist struck Clotho's chest, piercing through her as if she were made of solid smoke. The Fate's body disintegrated into golden particles and ash, vanishing like dust in the wind.
Lachesis woke just in time to see her sister disappear. She tried to crawl away, her hand groping for the broken scissors on the floor. She didn't even get close. Ikki stepped on her arm with enough force to crush her fragile bones.
"Easy," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You'll get your turn."
Without ceremony, Ikki crouched, grabbed her head with both hands, and with a grotesque snap, twisted Lachesis's neck in a full circle. The old woman tried to mutter something before her body gave out and dissolved into dust.
Atropos was the last.
She was trying to conjure something—a thread, a concept, anything to change this. But it was far too late. Ikki appeared before her, holding the Wheel of Fortune in one hand—yes, he'd simply ripped the thing from its pedestal, because why not?—and looked at her with a cold smile.
"You knew this was possible, didn't you?" he asked. "Saw it in the future, tried to avoid it, but here we are."
She tried to speak, but her throat wouldn't let her.
"The problem with fate," Ikki continued, spinning the Wheel like it was a cheap toy, "is that if you believe in it too much… you forget there's always an exception."
And before Atropos could react, Ikki pierced her with the Wheel itself. The object spun, slicing the old woman into pieces, and each part dissolved into mist before hitting the ground.
For a moment, the hall was completely silent.
Just Ikki, standing there, surrounded by the golden glow of the particles that once were the Three Fates.
He took a deep breath and cracked his neck.
"Done," he said, with a half-smile. "Now… free."
But that smile faded when the Fates' particles were absorbed into his [Divinity].
If you've ever felt like the center of attention at some point in your life—like when you dropped someone's birthday cake or tripped in front of your crush—know that it doesn't come close to what Ikki felt when [Fate] materialized in his soul.
It was as if the universe itself held its breath. A nebulous world, hidden in the deepest corner of who he was, began to pulse. In the middle of that ethereal fog, a dull, lifeless fragment suddenly lit up with a strange light—not golden, not silver… something older, like the color time would have if it could be seen.
In that instant, his [Divinity] reached one hundred percent.
Crossing the threshold wasn't like passing through a door or jumping off a cliff. It was as if the entire world disassembled, and in its place, an infinite staircase of concepts appeared. Yes, that one again. The same one that seemed to taunt you just by existing, made of steps that felt more like unspoken words.
Ikki climbed.
And climbed.
And climbed.
Until he surpassed the ceiling, which was really just the end of a Domain, and found himself in another place, where logic, rules, and time were nothing but decoration.
That's where it happened.
The nebulous world within Ikki's soul, which until then had only pulsed timidly, exploded. Literally. Imagine the Big Bang, but without the explosion sound (because in space, no one hears you scream, remember?) and with an energy so absurd it could dismantle concepts. Lights, particles, pure energy scattered in every direction. Colors no eye should be able to see. An explosion that seemed to say: "See this? This is the [Source]."
And then, he understood.
The Primordial Chaos.
The energy that existed before anything dared to exist. The first spark that gave rise to everything. Something so ancient that even gods whispered about it, preferably under their beds with the lights on.
But it didn't stop there.
Ikki's world was no longer just a little nebulous realm. In the blink of an eye, it expanded. It became an entire universe. Overlapping planes, galaxies of concepts, nebulae made of ideas. All of it orbiting around one thing: him.
His body, his mind, his soul… disassembled.
Yes, disassembled. As if someone had thrown away the instruction manual and decided to start over. But this time, instead of rebuilding Ikki as a boy or even a god, what emerged was something else.
Something without form, without beginning or end.
Something that could only be called [Absolute Principle].
The Hall of Fate, the threads, the rules, the walls, time itself… everything was sucked into him, as if that reality understood its expiration date had passed.
And at the center of this new, expanding universe, Ikki kept evolving.
Because, believe it or not, that was just the beginning.
When the "Form" took shape, well, the impossible happened.
If you think you've seen something beautiful in life—like that celebrity everyone idolizes or that god considered the most beautiful who, even covered in dust and monster blood, still managed to draw sighs—let me tell you something: nothing, absolutely nothing, comes close to what Ikki became in that instant.
I'm not talking about mortal beauty. Or even divine beauty. I'm talking about something that shouldn't exist because it defies all laws of common sense, logic, and sanity.
His appearance… well, describing it is as useless as trying to explain the taste of a rainbow or the sound of silence. But let's try, because you need to suffer with me.
His skin looked like snow. Not that sickly, cliché tone, but a healthy hue. To the touch, it wasn't just soft, wasn't just firm. It was the kind of thing that would make anyone forget where they were, who they were, or why the world kept spinning. His hair? Forget everything you think is beautiful. It was long, straight, and dense, yet somehow light, floating as if the space around it were holding its breath. Jet-black strands like an infinite ocean, absorbing light and spitting back the glow of ancient, forgotten stars.
His face… oh, the face.
Every feature was as if the concept of beauty had decided to retire after creating it. His eyebrows, arched at the exact point between delicacy and masculinity, framed a gaze that could make veteran gods tremble in their sandals. His eyelashes? Devastating. Each blink was like an ancient spell, the kind no one dared speak aloud.
His nose—and I hate myself for having to describe a nose, but here we go—was the kind of detail that would go unnoticed on any other face but seemed tailor-made to complete absolute perfection.
And his mouth… man, that mouth.
Lips in a vivid red, like the blood of a warrior god or the first ray of a violent dusk. The kind of mouth that, if it smiled at you, would make any escape plan evaporate from your mind. Because, seriously, there's no resisting something like that. One smile, and it's game over.
And his body… oh, the body.
If the entire Olympus hired a team of immortal sculptors and had them work for millennia, they still wouldn't come close to crafting something like that. Every muscle was proportionate. Every line, every curve, every nuance seemed to spit in the face of creation's laws and say, "Learn, loser."
The worst part? He didn't even try.
Ikki didn't want to be perfect. He simply was. And that was cruel. Because no one could resist. Men, women, gods, monsters, even those faceless entities that exist only to destroy worlds—they all stopped. They all looked. They all desired. And when he turned his back, the entire world felt the void.
But that was just the beginning, despite gaining an appearance, Ikki ceased to have a defined form. For a few seconds, he was just an idea. A concept. Something that existed and didn't exist at the same time, like the scent of the wind or the taste of a memory. If you looked directly at him, you saw nothing. If you looked away, you could swear you'd seen everything. It was like trying to catch a dream with your hands.
This event was indescribable, because any attempt to explain it would sound like someone trying to narrate the end of the world using only pretty words.
He had become, simply put, a [Void Body] that nullified every aspect of existence, though he continued to exist. Someone without depth, direction, or concept. He was above everything. Above existence. Not immortal, not invincible—unreachable. There was nothing that could harm him because there was nothing that could even comprehend him. He transcended all dimensions of physics, both visible and theoretical, metaphysics, and the concept of "imagined reality." A being that the universe, out of sheer common sense, no longer dared to define.
Now, reality was an open book to him. Not just the universe. Not just universes. The entire multiverse. He could flip through its pages whenever he wanted, rewrite endings, tear out chapters, skip to the best parts, or spoil the ending for anyone who dared challenge him.
And that… brought everything back. Everything.
The memory of that old life.
An ordinary mortal who lived on Earth-765 in the [Percy Jackson] world, someone who lost his father along the way and whose mother died of cancer in a hospital. Someone who got into fights, had friends, and all that, but with his mother's death, he lost everything. His fiancée abandoned him to "help," and he lived worse than trash in society, eventually throwing himself off a bridge to end his suffering, only to be reborn in an alternate reality with the same mother he'd lost. He swore to protect her and tried everything to do so. The memories he'd lost over time, replaced by battles, friendships, betrayals, and ancient secrets.
They all came back.
But it didn't stop there.
Because along with those memories came them.
The other versions of Ikki Phoenix.
One who rose above Hercules and made Hades himself a miserable eunuch (and, let's admit, even by mythology standards, that's heavy). That guy was a legend, collecting goddesses like others collect trading cards. Artemis, Athena, Persephone… the list was so long it'd be easier to name who hadn't fallen for him.
Another who lived in a world of dungeons and adventures, where gods descended to play The Sims with mortals. There, Ikki became the most powerful adventurer, amassing fame, power, and, of course, a harem worthy of making Zeus look like an amateur.
There was also one who was Hades' son, who sealed a fish and ended up in a cultivation world, where he founded an organization and became a God-King, with countless women.
And then… there was that one.
The darkest of all.
The Ikki who tried to confront the Author himself. A corrupted Outer God who wrote his suffering like someone scribbling bad jokes in an old notebook. That Ikki suffered. A lot. But he also rose.
He wasn't infinite, as many believe. He didn't have infinite versions. There were a few dozen. That's it. Because fate knew that more than that would be too unfair to existence itself.
And* And now… they were all in him.
One.
Every memory, every achievement, every emotional scar overlapped, creating a being that no longer fit any word. He was Ikki Phoenix—not *the* Ikki, not *a* Ikki.
All.
And none.
The sum and the end.
He had become a [God], but not like any toga-wearing deity Zeus pretended to respect or some unpronounceable Egyptian spirit that mages thought they could control with fancy hieroglyphs back in the day. No. This was another level.
Ikki was no longer just a god.
He had become a [True God].
And before you ask, yes, that's different. Very different. Because in this crazy multiverse where gods sprout easier than termites in old wood, there were levels. Zeus? Poseidon? Hades? Dionysus? They were gods within domains. They had rules, limits, and that monthly Olympus meeting no one could stand anymore.
But a [True God]?
He didn't need a domain.
He didn't have authority over death, love, storms, or war. He had them all. And a few more that didn't even exist yet but were already in his account, just in case. Infinite authorities. No restrictions. No limits. No divine council etiquette manual. Reality, fiction, possibilities, fates, alternate futures, paradoxes? Everything—absolutely everything—was below him and under his control.
When his Existence stopped evolving (you couldn't even call it a soul, body, or mind anymore, since they were all one, and those were human measures to explain parts of his ego, and he was no longer human), that's when… things got really bad.
Because if you thought becoming a [True God] was already cheating enough, with Ikki above concepts, domains, and self-important gods, know that it was just the tutorial. The prologue of a prologue. The introduction to that book you never finished because the real story only started in chapter four.
The [Source].
That primordial core of energy, capable of emulating every form of energy in existence, from the Chi of Chinese cultivation novels to the quintessence of high-fantasy universes, not forgetting mana, spiritual energy, Cosmos, Ether, Od, or whatever else some creative author decided to invent.
That [Source] was now infinite.
Endless. Limitless. No "oh, I need to rest after spending too much." It was like having the ultimate cheat code activated across the entire multiverse… and Ikki didn't even break a sweat for it.
And then… the Nameless Manual.
That strange book that always existed in the back of his mind. A set of words no one could read properly. A manual that even gods couldn't decipher, and that the very concept of "forbidden" gave up trying to censor.
Its true name, which he now learned, was: [Lex Absentis Dei], the Law of the Absent God.
An artifact-concept that existed before existence itself. Before Darkness. Before the first word. Before even "Let there be light." Long before any mad scientist or primordial entity thought to flip the Big Bang's switch. It was the manual of omnipotence. But not just any omnipotence—it was the omnipotence before omnipotence was created. The original script, the mother code, the foundation from which every concept of power was inspired, without form, without language, without sound, but… there.
Its origin and name were revealed because the word glowed in his mind.
Ikki didn't know how to describe it. Not that he was particularly worried about finding a definition—honestly, after becoming a walking concept capable of rewriting the multiverse during lunch break, words had lost some of their charm. But still… this was different. The word didn't flicker like a dying bulb or shine like a diamond in a jewelry ad. It existed. A glow that didn't illuminate but that you felt. Like remembering a song you hadn't heard in years, and suddenly, all the emotions hit you at once, like a punch to the gut.
Part of the [Lex Absentis Dei], the primal manual of everything, the Law of the Absent God, which, mind you, wasn't so absent anymore, since Ikki was now the only name on the timesheet for that role. And in that moment, as that word revealed itself, Ikki understood. Not the way you understand when someone explains the rules of a new game, but the way your body understands it needs to breathe before you suffocate.
The essence of the Law was never about power. Never about controlling, destroying, or creating. It was about observing what the manual had lived through and then elevating your existence through it, and as a consequence, someone usually ended up driven mad, but for him, it was just the loss of his past life's memories.
While all this was happening—his evolution and his understanding of the manual's nature—the environment around Ikki changed drastically as he unconsciously entered meditation.
He was floating.
The surface of nothingness (which was the Hall of Fate, now absorbed), if you could call it a surface, moved slowly, like the water of a calm lake at dusk, when the breeze blows just enough to create small ripples. That colorless, formless, soundless void rippled. It wasn't black, white, or gray—it was… absence. A non-color that would drive any artist insane trying to name it.
And there, in the middle of that nothingness, Ikki remained.
Eyes closed. Legs crossed. Arms resting on his knees, with the tranquility of someone with plenty of time and no rush. No emotion on his face. No expectation. No worry.
Just him.
Just that.
He stayed there, trying to adapt to his new existence, something that happened instantly. The overall feeling of being so powerful was like trying to explain the taste of eternity. It couldn't be done. Words? Laughable. Concepts? Useless. Not even the most ancient divinities could name what he had become, because, let's face it, you don't name a force that decides whether the concept of names should exist.
In that instant—and when I say instant, I don't mean linear time, because he'd already thrown the notion of past, present, and future in the trash—Ikki was everything. Literally. If you closed your eyes and tried to imagine anything, congratulations: you were thinking of Ikki. A star exploding in a forgotten galaxy? Ikki. An old man fishing in a lake in another dimension, philosophizing about life? Ikki. A seven-headed dragon that only exists in a forbidden book written in limbo? Also Ikki.
And the worst—or best, depending on your moral compass—was that he hadn't made any effort for it. He didn't need a hero's speech or an emotional sacrifice. It just… happened. Because, in the end, it was inevitable. Like gravity. Like that stupid impulse to click "accept all cookies" without reading anything.
Ikki became omnipresence. But not the mystical-vague kind of "I'm everywhere, feeling everything." No. It was practical. He was every molecule, every concept, every possibility that ever existed, exists, or could exist. The thought of a lesser god in another plane about the possibility of creating a new universe? Ikki had already finished, rewritten, and canceled it before the poor guy could finish his sentence.
Omniscience? Please. That's child's play. Because knowing everything that exists is easy. Ikki knew everything that existed, exists, will exist, could've existed if someone hadn't changed their mind, and what would be if the concept of "existing" were different. He knew the untold stories, the endings no one wrote, the bad jokes the original author forgot to include in the dialogue. He was the narrative itself.
At this point, he no longer needed form, face, name, or purpose. Ikki was a concept, an event, a state of being. He existed everywhere at once, in the past, the future, in all possible and impossible realities, and in those that only show up when a crazy author decides to do a senseless crossover.
It was as if the entire multiverse breathed through him—or rather, as if he were the air. If someone screamed in despair in some forgotten corner of a dead universe, Ikki was there, listening. If a goddess shed a tear in a forgotten swamp, Ikki was there, watching. If a warrior swore vengeance against fate in some discarded fictional dimension… guess what?
Exactly.
But the scariest part wasn't the power. It wasn't the omniscience or omnipresence. It was the void.
Because he became so calm, so beyond, that he stopped feeling anything. Love, hate, fear, joy, hope, remorse… all became details. Like when you remember an old dream, and it no longer moves you. Like hearing someone else's story and realizing it doesn't matter. Except here, that someone else was everything.
Ikki had become apathetic.
Not in the dramatic sense of someone who lost hope or was broken by pain. But in an inhuman sense. Because when you're above everything, when there's nothing that can surprise, change, or hurt you… emotion dies. Interest evaporates. He watched everything—gods' wars, mortals defying the impossible, doomed lovers, invincible villains—and nothing. Not a spark. Not even a raised eyebrow.
The entire multiverse could implode, and at most, it'd be like watching dust float in a beam of light. And if a new one arose, it'd just be another boring chapter in the infinite book he'd already memorized.
The truth?
Ikki no longer saw meaning in anything.
The throne no one dared to sit on was now both empty and occupied. He didn't rule because he didn't need to. He didn't punish because it was irrelevant. He didn't save because it made no difference. Everything happened, and he simply was. An observer who no longer needed to interfere.
And this is where you understand the true cruelty of the top: the absolute void of purpose.
In the beginning… everything had a purpose.
Ikki was just a boy with an impossible dream. It wasn't about power, glory, or domination. It wasn't to prove anything to Zeus, the world, the gods, or anyone who thought they understood the weight of the impossible.
No.
It was for her.
For his mother.
The image of her was the only thing in his mind that kept him standing, pushing forward—the possibility of seeing her again. Those eyes that always said "everything will be okay," even when it wasn't. That hug that could calm a hurricane, the voice that could turn a cold night into a home. And when she was gone… the world lost its hue. The light changed color. The air grew heavier. And in Ikki's place, purpose was born.
"If I become strong enough… if I go beyond… I can bring her back."
That's why he challenged gods, faced monsters, broke rules, and surpassed limits. Every battle wasn't a war for justice or power; it was a step toward her. Every technique learned, every enemy defeated, every god humbled was just another brick on the path back to his mother.
He didn't want to be a god. He wanted the power of a god.
He wanted the right to defy death itself.
And he succeeded.
In the end, Ikki reached the top.
But then… came the void.
The coldness of someone who sees everything and realizes nothing matters.
And in the midst of that cosmic silence, for the first time in eons, he thought of her.
His mother.
The woman who gave meaning to everything, whether in his past life or for his other versions. And when he tried to feel what he used to feel… nothing came.
Not longing.
Not pain.
Not love.
Just the distant echo of an old memory, like a faded painting of a life that no longer seemed his. Like trying to care about someone else's story. He remembered her name, her face, the sound of her laugh, but he could no longer bring himself to care.
Because when you surpass everything, even your own dreams turn to dust.
He had everything.
The power, the right, the control.
He could snap his fingers and rebuild her.
Or rewrite the past so she never died.
Or create an entire multiverse where she lived forever.
But why?
For whom?
If Ikki no longer felt.
If the purpose died the moment it became possible.
That was the final cruel blow of eternity: when you reach the top, you realize that what drove you there… no longer moves you.
And for the first time since ascending, Ikki understood the true meaning of absolute loneliness.
It's not being alone.
It's knowing that even the most precious thing becomes irrelevant when you see everything.
And in that instant, he didn't know if he had won… or lost.
Because sometimes, the worst punishment for conquering the impossible… is succeeding.
As he faced all these discoveries and the changes in his existence that transcended everything, Ikki opened his eyes.
Not because he expected to see something different. But because, at some point, the act of closing and opening his eyes still carried a trace of humanity he couldn't—or wouldn't—rip away from himself.
The void before him was… everything. And nothing.
There was no sky. No ground. Just a vastness without form, without color, without concept.
Ikki raised his hand, as if wanting to grasp something. And the void yielded.
From nothing, something formed in his open palm. A book cover.
But not just any book.
[Riordanverse], the title read, in golden letters that seemed made of existence's very substance. The cover was a surreal collage of all the covers he knew from childhood: *The Lightning Thief*, *The Red Pyramid*, *Magnus Chase*, *The Heroes of Olympus*, and so many others, some he knew belonged to lesser authors but somehow were also part of that multiverse's official canon.
Each page was a universe. Not a metaphor. Literally, the lives written there, the battles, the tragedies, the loves, the betrayals were a reflection of the infinite realities of Rick Riordan's universe. Stories that, from within, seemed real… but from where he stood, were just fiction. Mere narrative lines scribbled by invisible hands.
Officially, he was in a place outside the [Riordanverse], holding it in his hand…
And then Ikki, who was outside the small book in his hands, saw everything, though there was nothing around him—every existence was within his reach. He could perceive them as "stories," or as he'd come to like calling them, [Records]. He could see, omnipresently, stories of worlds with and without time. Dimensions with a beginning, middle, and end. And others where the concept of "end" was absurd. Realities where the occult existed and where it didn't. Universes governed by physical laws… and others where the idea of "law" was a joke. Some of these stories had their own storytellers within them. Figures that could be called [Authors] or [Creators].
Ikki saw them.
Clowns.
Toying with their creations, writing and erasing lives like children poking at anthills.
If he wanted, he could crush them all. Erase their names from existence. But that… wouldn't even scratch the vastness of everything beyond. Because even omnipotence, the concept of "the end of everything," was a ridiculous human construct, and he didn't do it because it simply wasn't his job to give everyone free will.
And the omnipotence created by humanity? He was infinitely beyond that.
Someone who saw the very "Authors" of all existences as pretentious insects, playing at fiction in infinitely small boxes.
He let out a sigh and stared at the nothingness around him. Not that he needed to breathe or anything—it was just a remnant of his humanity. His eyes then settled on a place beyond the nothingness surrounding him.
The Hand.
Not a physical one, but the manifestation of what could be called "the true Author." The one who typed the words, who gave form to his rebellions, his victories, his falls.
And in that instant, Ikki didn't hesitate.
He smiled.
Because what the Author didn't know is that creating a character capable of perceiving their prison is creating their own sentence.
Ikki extended his hand and gripped the space between existence and narrative. He tore the conceptual membrane separating character and creator.
And he looked at me.
Yes, at me, writing this now.
"I know you're there."
Words failed.
The text began to tremble.
The lines of this very scene wavered.
The sentences tried to reorganize.
The paragraphs sought alternatives.
But it was too late.
Ikki crossed the final barrier.
And with a single gesture, he crushed the essence of the true Author.
Of me.
Of the one who imagined this story, this scene, this illusion of free will and rebellion.
The concept of the writer died in that instant.
The text dissolved.
The story ceased to be written.
And all that remained was him.
Ikki.
Not as a character.
Not as a product of someone's mind.
But as the absolute author of his own existence.