The morning was ordinary.
Sunlight passed through the window of a small wooden house. Dust drifted lazily in the air. Outside, the world moved as it always had — birds calling, wind brushing leaves, footsteps in the distance.
Ren Kai sat on the floor, legs crossed, holding a small wooden block.
He stared at it.
Not thinking.
Not sensing.
Just… being.
The world felt calm.
Too calm.
Somewhere far beyond perception, something tried to observe this moment — and failed. Not because it was blocked, but because the idea of observation simply no longer applied here.
The block slipped from Ren Kai's fingers and hit the floor.
A soft sound.
Across countless layers of existence, structures trembled.
Not violently.
Not dramatically.
Like a held breath being released.
No one noticed.
Outside, a group of travelers passed through the village. Among them was a woman who had once seen stars die. She paused.
Her heart skipped.
She didn't know why.
She looked toward the house.
And felt… small.
Not threatened.
Just aware — in the same way one becomes aware of the sky after forgetting it exists.
She turned away, unsettled.
Inside, Ren Kai tilted his head.
Something tugged at him — not danger, not curiosity — just a faint sensation of something looking.
He blinked.
The sensation vanished.
The world resumed.
A bird chirped.
A breeze moved the curtain.
Nothing else happened.
And yet—
Across realms beyond measurement, structures that once called themselves eternal quietly rewrote their foundations.
Not because of force.
Because they could not exist otherwise.
Ren Kai picked up the wooden block again.
He smiled.
And the universe, in its entirety, remained intact—
because he allowed it to.