In the highest chamber of the Multiverse King's Citadel, light poured like golden wine through crystalline arches, washing over the polished obsidian floor in languid waves. The air shimmered faintly, not from heat, but from the residue of divine intent. This was a place shaped by Will, carved from the bones of reality, and now it responded to Lucius—not with fear, nor resistance, but reverent silence. The throne at the heart of the chamber no longer rejected him. It pulsed faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat, as though waiting.
Lucius stood before it, cloaked in the mantle of authority, but weighed by the stillness of victory. He had earned the seat, yes—through trials that tested more than flesh. Each pillar claimed had not merely granted him power, but unravelled pieces of what he had been. Mortality had been shed like old skin. Now, every step he took echoed through worlds he hadn't yet walked.
