Lucien Dreamveil stood where no era could reach him.
The Merged Primordial Void and Metaphysical Plane no longer reacted to his presence. It had learned. It had adapted. It understood, in the only way something that vast could, that resisting him was meaningless.
Lucien's throne of nothingness did not glow, did not radiate pressure. It simply was. Like him.
He rested one elbow on the armrest, fingers lightly against his cheek, and smiled—not cruelly, not warmly, but with a calm certainty that bordered on inevitability.
"Götterdämmerung," he said aloud, tasting the word.
"Twilight of the Gods."
He shook his head once, amused.
"That era isn't mine to rule."
The void listened.
"It's mine to make."
Lucien's gaze drifted—not forward, not backward, but sideways, toward possibilities that had not yet learned how to exist.
"My son, Arios Dreamveil," he continued, voice steady, "and my daughter, Lysera Dreamveil… they will be the ones who rule that era."
Images surfaced unbidden.
Arios—standing amid broken gods, void wrapped around his fists, eyes sharp with will that had been tempered by loss and struggle.
Lysera—quiet, terrifying, radiant with power older than concepts, her presence enough to make divinities kneel without knowing why.
"They will overthrow the gods of their time," Lucien said plainly. "Not because I command it. Not because fate demands it."
"But because they earn it."
His smile widened just a fraction.
"I'll be there to see it, of course."
A pause.
"I'm all-knowing," he added casually, "but more importantly—I'm beyond omnipotence, omnipresence, and omniscience."
The void stirred faintly at that.
"I don't need to interfere. I don't need to guide every step. I don't need to hold their hands."
Lucien leaned back.
"Growth only means something when it's yours."
Then he chuckled, low and genuine.
"Still," he said, "before their journey really starts… I've gotta prep them."
A rare warmth entered his voice.
"I'm a dad, after all."
He laughed, shaking his head.
"I can't let down my kids. Or my wife."
A beat.
"Especially my author."
The words carried no irony. No mockery.
Only fact.
Lucien rose from the throne, hands clasped behind his back as he walked through nothing.
"The children of this coming era—my children, and the mortals who ascend when the new laws are born—they'll be the ones to climb the cosmology."
His footsteps echoed without sound.
"They'll tear down gods who make the current pantheons look like children playing at divinity."
His eyes gleamed.
"And those gods?"
"They'll be infinitely stronger than anything that exists now."
Lucien stopped.
A smile—sharp, anticipatory.
"I can't wait to see something interesting."
Then—
Something tugged at him.
Not causality.
Not fate.
Not narrative.
Something… foreign.
Lucien frowned slightly.
"That's odd," he muttered.
This wasn't from the novel.
This wasn't from any system he'd dismantled.
Curiosity sparked—rare, dangerous.
"…Huh."
Lucien exhaled, amused.
"Guess I'll ask."
BEYOND THE STORY -
The world shifted.
No void.
No throne.
No cosmology.
Lucien found himself standing in a quiet space—a room with warm lighting, walls lined with shelves upon shelves of books. Some thick. Some thin. Some unfinished. Some sealed.
A table sat at the center.
And seated there—
The Author.
Tea steamed gently in a cup.
The Author looked up, calm, unbothered, and smiled.
"Lucien," the Author said, tone casual. "Good to know you're ready."
Lucien didn't feel fear.
He felt something else.
A gap.
An immeasurable, indescribable distance between them—not power, not authority, but origin.
For the first time in a very long time, Lucien bowed slightly. Not deeply. Not submissively.
Respectfully.
The Author raised an eyebrow.
"…You really left your story," the Author said, incredulous amusement creeping in, "to ask me if I've written other novels?"
A sip of tea.
"Bruh. You can't be for real."
Lucien laughed—openly, genuinely—and took a seat across the table.
"Come on," he said. "Can't I know?"
The Author smirked.
"How ironic," the Author said. "You're beyond omnipotence."
Lucien tilted his head.
"Come on," he replied. "That's not fair. You know I'd already know but it's you were talking about."
A pause.
The Author sighed, setting the cup down.
"…Fine. Yeah. I've written other novels."
Lucien's eyes softened.
"You were my first, though."
Lucien smiled—wide, satisfied.
"I see."
His gaze drifted to the table.
There, resting quietly, was a book.
Götterdämmerung — Twilight of the Gods.
Lucien picked it up, reverent without being awed.
"…Thank you," he said, standing.
He bowed slightly again.
The Author smiled back.
"You good, twin," the Author said casually. "Slime that guy at the top."
Lucien chuckled.
"Sure thing."
He turned—
And vanished.