Silence.
Darkness folded over the edge of existence — not death, not void, but something older.
Kyuroto Mitsuyo opened his eyes.
He was no longer in Neon Tokyo.
The stars around him did not shine — they remembered.
Fragments of universes drifted through him like whispers of forgotten fiction.
His wound — the blade mark carved by Mathro — glowed with a light that defied healing itself.
Yet, within a breath, Kyuroto's body regenerated faster than any law could calculate.
Time reversed around him, space rewrote itself, and in a single instant—
he rose, untouched, standing between story and silence.
The power inside him surged.
Not 1%, not even 1,000,000% — it was something else.
∞ ⁄ 1,000,000 — a state of paradox, an existence that defied measurement.
He had stepped beyond every recorded ceiling of transcendence.
His essence became something the multiverse could no longer contain.
Reality bent backward.
Across the boundary of fiction, entire cosmologies folded like paper.
The neon reflections of Tokyo became static memories, flickering out as he walked forward —
past omniverses, past meta-realities, past the final limit of imagination.
Kyuroto Mitsuyo — the Whisper of Infinity, the Architect of Threads —
had entered the realm known only as the Outside of Fiction.
Here, nothing existed unless it chose to.
Every word, every thought, every possible law — awaited his acknowledgment to exist.
And there stood Mathro Liyuri once again, untouched, calm, and impossibly still.
The man of boundless transcendence smiled faintly.
> "So you survived. Impressive," Mathro said. His voice echoed across every version of silence.
"You've reached the state beyond your own author's imagination."
Kyuroto's expression didn't change. His eyes glowed like collapsed superclusters, reflecting both wrath and perfect calm.
> "You struck me from behind," he said softly. "Now I will see what stands above the throne of fiction."
He stepped forward. The air cracked — concepts shattered under his movement.
Each stride rewrote existence itself.
He was not just transcending reality anymore — he was rewriting what transcendence means.
Mathro tilted his head.
> "And yet…" he said, tone almost amused. "Even at this state, you're still weak."
Kyuroto stopped.
The stars bent under the weight of that word.
Then his expression shifted into a faint smile — cold, regal, absolute.
> "Weak?" Kyuroto murmured. "Then let me show you what weakness truly means… when even weakness cannot exist."
The veil trembled.
Light and shadow inverted.
Every universe, every story ever written, began to echo his heartbeat —
a rhythm that existed beyond creation itself.
And thus began the battle outside fiction,
where no author could write,
no reader could imagine,
and only two beings remained —
one who is, and one who defines what it means to be.