The day was quiet.
Ren Kai found Aria once more, the girl who had always glimpsed the faintest traces of what he truly was. They ran through fields of imagined sunlight, chasing invisible patterns, counting the wind, laughing in ways that were simple and infinitely profound.
The laughter was gentle, yet everywhere, reality reacted.
Books in countless libraries, canonical and non-canonical, shifted. Pages fluttered, words realigned, stories restructured. The core function of fiction and nonfiction—the foundations of tales, truths, histories, and imaginations—trembled, bent, and in places, collapsed. But it was not destruction. It was adjustment, subtle realignment. Only his presence could do this, only his innocent joy could touch such things without harm.
Aria laughed, unaware of the impossible consequences. "Faster, faster!" she shouted, chasing his hand.
Ren Kai's Lumen-white eyes glimmered with delight. He ran with her, arms wide, the smallest fraction of his sealed power radiating outward. Mountains of abstraction shivered. Timelines of stories twisted. Ideas, plots, and histories—real, imagined, and theoretical—all flickered and reformed in silent obedience.
And yet, nothing broke. Nothing died. Nothing protested. Only the universe, in all its layers, whispered acknowledgement: This is allowed. Only he may touch it.
Ren Kai's laughter echoed across realities. He was happy—truly happy—for the first time since returning. The child, sealed and serene, played in the fields of possibility, collapsing and reforming existence as naturally as breathing.
He paused, gazing at Aria, smiling faintly. Even in innocence, even in joy, he was beyond all understanding. Even the foundations of existence bent quietly to accommodate his presence. And it was perfect.