It happened silently.
A convergence of forces, abstract and concrete, layered and unlayered, swept toward him. They moved with inevitability, with the logic of collision and consequence, and yet Ren Kai did not act. He did not resist. He did not acknowledge them in any conventional sense.
And still, the world trembled.
A pulse of reality struck him—not with malice, not with intention, not with the force of battle—but as an accident, a cascade of events that should have undone any being. Yet the child remained calm, serene, sealed. Time, space, causality, the very essence of what could destroy or end, all adjusted subtly, yielding to the presence that should not have been harmed.
He knew it.
He understood the flow, the inevitability of what passed through him. He felt it ripple across dimensions, across canon and non-canon, across foundations, abstracts, and endpoints. But he remained unbroken. Unmoved.
The accident ended as quickly as it had begun. No crack, no collapse, no fracture. Nothing remained damaged except the faint resonance of impossibility, the whisper of a world that had attempted an impossible act.
Ren Kai simply stood. Lumen-white eyes reflected the faintest shimmer of infinity. The universe sighed and settled.
Somewhere nearby, the human warmth of home, the quiet concern of his mother, persisted. She was searching again, feeling the tug of extraordinary presence even in mundane space. He remained, sealed, aware, and untouched, a child unscathed by what should have ended him, because nothing could.
And the world continued, carrying the faint echo of an impossibility—a fall that never truly was, a death that never truly touched him, yet acknowledged him as beyond all ends.