The hill was silent, yet alive in a way that no ordinary observer could understand. A child sat atop it, prism-gray hair glinting faintly under the impossible light of distant stars. He did not move, yet the air itself seemed to bend around him, shifting like water in a still pond.
A faint, distant voice echoed from beyond perception, tremulous and uncertain.
"Who… is that?"
No answer came. The voice itself faltered, suspended in hesitation. Galaxies twisted gently, stars froze mid-flare, rivers curved, mountains shifted subtly. Even the abstract laws of causality seemed to pause in recognition.
Another, higher voice whispered, almost in awe.
"It… cannot be. Nothing can exist like this. How can a child command such authority?"
The child blinked once, Lumen-white eyes calm and observing. He made no gesture, spoke no word, yet the universe itself obeyed. Streams realigned, winds curved softly around him, clouds shifted in perfect arcs. Every layer of reality flowed according to his silent permission.
"Impossible… all power, all frameworks… they bend because of him," a third voice muttered, trembling. "He… he is beyond all limits…"
The child yawned, small and gentle, and the sound carried through the void, faint yet resonant. Silence answered, not in emptiness, but in agreement. Every being—gods, multiversal overseers, apex abstracts, and entities that had never been challenged—paused, stilled, and acknowledged his presence. None could oppose him. None could resist.
"No ceiling… no tier… no law… nothing can touch him," the first voice whispered again, fading into awe and fear.
The Quiet Universe existed entirely because he allowed it. Stillness became obedience. Inaction became influence. Every being, every layer of reality, flowed in accordance with him—not through command, not through effort, but through presence alone.
And the child sat, small and serene, laughing softly to himself.
The universe, vast and infinite, obeyed.