Earth does not contain a singular world. It is composed of many, an immeasurable expanse of realities without count or ceiling.
Each world can be defined by four attributes. Possible and impossible. Logical and illogical.
From our world, all others sprang forth like echoes rippling across an infinite sea.
Each holds an unending number of timelines, their variations endless, their divergences subtle yet profound.
At least, that is how it was meant to be.
Earth's structure resembles a tower with no roof and no foundation, a boundless pillar rising and sinking through existence.
Its levels are made not of stone or soil, but of choices, histories, fates, and the empty spaces between them.
These timelines are not dreams. They are solid, tangible realities, layered upon one another like sedimentary ages of possibility.
They evolve in parallel, drifting forward through the slow erosion of time.
To glimpse beyond the thread you currently walk, you must command the present, not merely through will, but through understanding.
You must grasp the dimension that contains you, and comprehend the lattice of time that wraps around all things.
You must not only see the pattern but master its depth.
And I did.
When I broke through the seventh wall, something inside me changed forever. The world no longer felt uncertain.
I realized that I was not merely witnessing one story among countless others. I was seeing the blueprint beneath them all. The frame. The logic. The limit.
Earth, by its nature, is an existence where every possibility is true. Within each world contained in its vast body lies a distinct shadow, a counterpart that mirrors and distorts.
But when I awakened to the truth of Dark Alter, I understood that even such divine symmetry could be broken. Truth could be chosen.
Dark Alter does not manipulate reality through brute force. It does not bend or warp the flow. It corrects it. It dissolves all competing threads and asserts one definitive outcome.
Its authority is not over matter or energy, but over the totality of Earth itself.
When I used Dark Alter at its fullest, I did not merely return from the future. I rewrote the legitimacy of every other future.
My path ascended above the rest, not because it was righteous or strong, but because I remembered it.
And that memory became law.
The world could not sustain the vastness of what I attempted. It could not contain the alteration I imposed upon it.
So, like a body rejecting a foreign organ, it cast me out. My soul was flung from the apex to the root, displaced from the summit of existence to its lowest rung.
But the damage was already done.
The structure of this reality, once governed by the perfect equilibrium of infinite timelines, had cracked.
Every version of existence still persisted, still technically "true," but none could rival the clarity, density, or authenticity of the one I returned to.
Because I stood within it. Because I chose it.
That is why Kivana could see every path except mine. My future is no longer a future. It is truth.
All others have become pale imitations, shadows of might-have-beens orbiting a reality that no longer accepts their claim.
[The world is a grand tapestry of illusions. He simply made those illusions fade.]
That voice again. I never thought it belonged to some omniscient deity, but even so… it was not wrong.
Heaven may be perfect, a realm beyond flaw or decay, yet I am the embodiment of its opposites.
While studying and battling the Silent Court, I uncovered truths that shattered what I believed Earth to be, and even what I thought Heaven represented.
But even now, I cannot fully comprehend its true nature.
Mirabel lingered in thought, her brow furrowing before she turned toward me. "So you are saying… it is all predetermined?"
I leaned back against the couch and exhaled. "No. I am saying the future I lived through, that future, will happen. That path is not a possibility. It is certainty."
I have seen too much to believe otherwise. The re-emergence of the western continent. The collapse of the angels. The clandestine rise of the Golden Authority.
But this time, they have changed tactics.
They no longer whisper from the shadows. They march in daylight, confident and deliberate, as if the world already belongs to them.
Their purpose is not conquest. It is preparation. For what they call the descent of their god.
But why?
It is not because God is dead. He is not. Nor is He absent. He simply does not interfere. Or perhaps He does, but only for those He favors. His silence is not abandonment.
And if I know He exists, then so too must the false idols. Which leaves one truth.
The Golden Authority does not worship Him.
They serve something else entirely. Something older. Something real.
Their aim is not sanctification. It is annihilation. To strip the world of meaning and rebuild it in their image.
And if they succeed, if they reach what they are preparing for, then the true God could erase it all with a single thought.
Which only proves that they are not His faithful. They are imposters. Heretics who defy the divine on purpose.
Even Gabriel, standing among them, silent and complicit, proves my theory more than he disproves it.
[Nicholas could chase a hundred conclusions before finding the right one. He is simply not clever enough.]
I scoffed aloud at the mocking voice, then turned to Mirabel.
"They will not wait for us to act. We must be ready at all times."
Mirabel stood from the couch and sighed. "I suppose there is no reason to hide anything from you anymore, is there?"
I chuckled. "I told you my secret. And I already knew yours. What is left?"
She looked at me with a softness I had not seen before. Then, without a word, she removed her shirt.
I turned away, startled, until the air changed.
A dense, suffocating pressure swept through the room, raw and ancient. My instincts screamed. My soul recoiled. Everything in me told me to flee.
But I looked.
There, on the upper right of her chest, burned a sigil. A lion split in two, one head crimson, the other black.
Both burned with a fury so old it predated not just kingdoms but the pantheon of the false gods themselves.
My eyes stung. My soul trembled. I had to look away.
"You see," Mirabel said, her voice calm and unwavering. "Unlike Nicole or Malachi, I carry something deeper. A sin greater than anything else. I was born… with Wrath."
Beings who surrender wholly to a single emotion, to an obsession that consumes all reason, can have it carved into their very soul.
I swallowed hard, the pressure finally easing. Then I whispered, hollow with awe, "To bear a mark like that, you must have embraced a wrath so vast it surpassed the limits of this world."
She smiled softly and pulled her shirt back down. "I was under the impression you had a mark as well."
It was true. We all did.
Coincidentally, or perhaps by design, each of us bore a mark tied to one of the seven sins.
But I have encountered others too, people branded by longing, sorrow, greed, even joy.
Malachi? He is said to embody lust, though whispers suggest his sin is far crueler.
But Mirabel? There is no ambiguity. Hers is Wrath, pure and absolute. The kind that could reshape nations in a single heartbeat.
"My mark," I said, rising slowly, "its grip on me is far more vicious."
I exhaled. "We should prepare for battle. It is time I show you the name of my sword."
She tilted her head, curiosity in her eyes. "You mean you are actually going to unwrap it?"
I grinned. "Do you not want to see how much I have improved?"
Her lips curved in amusement. "Hmm… perhaps I will show you a few things too."
[Nicholas had come to a realization. He still did not fully grasp the depth of Mirabel's power. But he intended to find out.]
I held out my hand. My sword shimmered into being, flickering into my grasp like a recalled memory.
"Cool trick, right?" I said with a smirk.
She scoffed. "Is that all you have learned?"
Looking down at Sotergramma, I smiled.
"No. I now command a far vaster sea, one that, I promise, will drown every last one of those gold-toothed bastards."
I could endure them killing me. I could even endure them killing others. I could stomach their hypocrisy, their cruelty, their lies.
But to harm my family?
Nicole and I may have our differences. My mind even twists itself just to forget her.
Even so, I have limits.
If I were to let something like that happen without making them bleed for it, then what would I be?
[Nicholas knew the answer deep down. He had already become what he feared. And yet, he still chose to continue.]
"Really?" I muttered, half-laughing, half-broken. "No, I suppose it is right. I really have deluded myself, have I not?"