Lucien stood alone in the Library of Realities, surrounded by shelves that held endings that should never occur and beginnings that had been erased before conception. Each book was a possibility. Each page a sin against causality.
He smiled.
"How ironic," he murmured, fingers brushing the spine of a book bound in paradox.
"I can know everything if I wanted to—without reading a single page."
He pulled the book free anyway.
"But what fun would that be?" Lucien continued lightly. "An impending war without a surprise is boring. Too boring."
He sat.
Not on a chair—those did not exist here—but on nothing, and nothing bent itself into a seat beneath him. The library reacted, shelves subtly shifting, forbidden tomes leaning closer as if eager.
Lucien opened the book.
The page did not show words.
It showed consequences.
Lucien read futures that should not be readable.
Worlds where Heaven never fell.
Worlds where it fell too early.
Timelines where his children ruled.
Timelines where they were erased.
Endings where creation screamed.
Endings where creation went silent.
He flipped a page.
Paused.
Then chuckled softly.
"…There."
A ripple of void passed through his eyes.
"The Creator moved."
The Watchers would not notice—because the Creator's actions could not be noticed. Only inferred. Only felt through deviation.
Lucien closed the book.
The true Creator was not flesh.
Not form.
Not even concept in the mortal sense.
The Watchers knew its name.
Boreh.
The Source.
The Author behind causality.
The One who could speak to anything it created.
And Boreh had just whispered.
Lucien felt it instantly.
Half the Library trembled.
Not physically—narratively.
Lucien turned his head slowly.
Thousands of Watchers stood frozen mid-motion.
Then—one by one—
They shifted.
Eyes dulling.
Postures aligning.
Intent harmonizing.
Influence.
Boreh was turning them.
Lucien exhaled.
"So," he said calmly, standing. "You finally decided to stop pretending I don't exist."
Elyndor appeared beside him immediately, expression sharp.
"They're being influenced," Elyndor said quietly. "But… not me."
Lucien glanced at him and smiled faintly.
"Proximity," he replied. "Perks of standing next to the Sole Exception."
Elyndor did not laugh.
The Library shook harder now. Shelves cracked. Tomes bled light.
Lucien stepped forward—out of the Library and onto the floating flatlands of Paraxis itself.
The Watchers turned toward him as one.
Thousands.
Tens of thousands.
Their eyes burned with borrowed resolve.
Lucien raised his hand.
And snapped.
Reality broke.
Not shattered—folded inward.
A black hole tore open in front of Lucien, not consuming light but rewriting gravity itself. From its depths came footsteps that made Paraxis shudder.
First—
Malthior.
Grand Marshal of the Sole Exception Army.
Commander of the First Legion.
The being who once tested Hoshigami with less than a whisper of power.
He stepped out, armor etched with void-script, eyes calm and absolute.
Behind him—
Veloria - The current Second in Command of the entire army and commander of the second legion.
Vorynn- The Arbiter of Echoes - capable of replicating enemy abilities and integrating them into his own being.
Kaelthar.
Warden of Shadows.
Keeper of the Secret Gates.
A being who knew how to lock realities.
Then—
Alyth.
Silent. Pale-eyed.
A blade given form.
The one who executed truths.
Then—
The air curdled.
A pressure older than belief descended.
Thariel.
The Outer God Lucien had defeated long ago.
Now kneeling—until Lucien waved him up.
Behind them, ranks upon ranks of Ecliptic Soldiers poured through the black hole, armor glowing with eclipsed starlight, banners of the Sole Exception snapping in void-wind.
The army assembled.
Lucien turned slightly toward Elyndor.
"You," he said casually, "stay out of this."
Elyndor inclined his head.
"I'd rather witness it anyway."
Lucien smiled.
"Good. Someone should remember how the Twilight of the Gods truly began."
The Watchers screamed.
And charged.
Thousands of them—unobserved eyes burning with Creator-fed resolve—rushed Lucien and his army.
Lucien didn't move.
He simply waved his hand.
"Go," he said mildly. "Have fun. It's been a while since you all got loose."
Malthior smiled.
The army surged forward.
Far away.
Beyond Paraxis.
Beyond Heaven.
Beyond even the merged primordial and metaphysical planes.
There existed a vast realm.
Its ceiling was white—not light, not void, but finality. A place where outcomes were decided before questions could be asked.
At its center stood a throne.
Upon it sat a figure draped in radiance and absence alike—neither male nor female, neither god nor concept.
Royal.
Ancient.
Aware.
The figure leaned forward slightly.
"So," it said, voice echoing through causality itself,
"it's really a Dreamveil."
A smile curved across its face.
"Take this spot if you can, Lucien."
The throne waited.
The war had begun.