The cosmos bent beneath his steps.
Where lesser gods required wings, portals, or faith to travel between worlds, Igaris simply walked. One stride split nebulae, the next folded entire galaxies into nothing but stepping stones. To him, space was no more than parchment—thin, pliable, and fragile. He twisted it, tore it, rewrote it, his figure moving faster than the comprehension of stars themselves.
But even with all that infinite might, there was an ache in his chest.
For all the wives he had gathered, all the victories won, he had not found him. The one soul who had once stood among his strongest pillars in their past life, a warrior whose fire had matched his own.
His Friend: Gilgamesh.
Gilgamesh's counterpart had remained hidden, lost to the threads of fate despite his Architect's Eyes scouring reality's depths.
He clenched his hand once, a ripple of frustration echoing through the void. But then his expression softened.
