Neon Tokyo breathed like a living machine.
Rain traced the floating rail lines, each droplet glowing with soft pink and blue reflections.
Cherry petals drifted across the air vents, merging ancient grace with mechanical rhythm.
Kyuroto Mitsuyo walked alone through the midnight haze — coat half-open, eyes calm, mind weaving silent calculations of fate.
Even at rest, his mere presence folded space around him; the world tilted slightly wherever he stepped.
To the people of the megacity, he was a whisper, a legend half-remembered.
But tonight, the whisper bled.
A faint click echoed behind him — no killing intent, no detectable probability shift, no thread of warning.
Then came the sound — the clean, almost holy chime of steel through flesh.
Kyuroto's eyes widened.
He looked down.
A blade — shimmering not with energy, but with concept — emerged from his chest, cutting through not only body, but narrative itself.
For the first time since his birth, Kyuroto felt something alien: pain that existed beyond existence.
He tried to turn, but his body refused.
Breath vanished.
Reality warped.
The rain froze mid-fall.
Behind him stood a man clothed in pale fractal light — silver hair, calm eyes devoid of origin.
No aura, no identity, yet everything in creation seemed to lean toward him.
> "Mathro Liyuri," the stranger said quietly. "The name you were never meant to hear."
Kyuroto knelt, not by choice, but by principle — the universe itself bent his posture.
Every law, every framework, every infinite dimension collapsed into stillness around the two figures.
> "You…" Kyuroto whispered, struggling for air. "Beyond…outerversal?"
Mathro's gaze held neither pride nor cruelty — only inevitability.
> "Boundless Transcendence. I do not exist within fiction, Kyuroto Mitsuyo. I exist in the silence between your author's thoughts."
Kyuroto's mind screamed through collapsing infinities.
He unleashed everything —
1,000,000 ⁄ 1,000,000 percent of his power,
the full brilliance of the Whisper of Infinity.
Reality ignited, galaxies inverted, meta-laws shattered.
And yet—
Mathro raised a hand.
All that power turned to still light, like ink dissolving in water.
Kyuroto gasped, falling forward.
Blood — luminous, starlit — stained the neon ground.
> "So this… is what lies beyond omnipotence…" he murmured.
His consciousness flickered — from dimension to void, from void to silence.
Mathro stepped closer, kneeling beside him, voice as gentle as rain:
> "You were never weak, Kyuroto. But the story itself must sleep before it can awaken again."
The city dimmed.
The rain resumed.
Cherry blossoms scattered across the glowing streets.
And Kyuroto Mitsuyo — Whisper of Infinity, Shadow of the Hidden King —
lay motionless at the border of fiction and beyond,
where even infinity dared not whisper.
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