I was overpowered.
There was no point pretending otherwise.
Creation came as easily to me as thought. If I imagined an object clearly enough—truly understood it—I could bring it into being. Matter, energy, structure, function. The Spirit World did not resist me; it listened.
A cup formed in my hand with a flicker of intent.
Porcelain. Smooth. Balanced.
Tea followed—clear amber liquid, steam curling upward in perfect convection patterns.
I paused.
That alone was telling.
To create the cup, I needed to understand ceramics: silica, alumina, firing temperatures, crystalline structure. To create the tea, I had to recall water's molecular geometry, the chemistry of tannins, the volatile compounds released by heat.
Ignorance produced nothing.
Imprecision produced failure.
Knowledge was the key—not imagination alone.
Which meant my power was not limitless.
It was conditional.
I could not create iron without knowing iron. Atomic number 26. Electron shells. Metallic bonding. Crystal lattice. Impurities. Grain structure. Without that understanding, my will slipped uselessly through the concept, like a hand grasping smoke.
Creation was not magic.
It was applied comprehension.
And that was why this power belonged to me.
In my previous life, I had devoured knowledge compulsively. Physics. Chemistry. Biology. Engineering. History. Mythology. Not because I sought power—but because I needed to understand. I remembered everything. Eidetic memory, sharpened further now into something near-perfect.
Here, that obsession had become divinity.
My intelligence—if it could even be measured anymore—had surpassed anything human. An IQ over a thousand would still be a crude metaphor, but the truth was undeniable:
I was likely the smartest being in this universe.
Not the wisest.
Not the strongest.
But the most capable of understanding why things were the way they were.
And that distinction mattered.
I could create a blade—but not instantly design a perfect weapon without knowing metallurgy, stress tolerances, combat philosophy.
I could create a spirit construct—but not rewrite another spirit's nature without comprehending their essence.
I could not simply imagine omnipotence and become it.
Balance would not allow it.
That was the true limitation—not imposed externally, but intrinsic to what I was. Knowledge without balance became catastrophe. Creation without understanding became distortion.
The universe corrected such errors violently.
I had felt it once—early on—when I attempted to create something too complex, too absolute. Reality resisted, pushing back like a strained membrane. The Spirit World rippled, and for the first time since my rebirth, I had felt pressure.
A warning.
Even primordial spirits were not exempt from consequence.
I exhaled slowly, letting the tea dissolve back into light.
"So," I murmured, more amused than troubled, "I'm not omnipotent."
Good.
Omnipotence was boring.
What I was instead was something far more dangerous:
A being whose power scaled infinitely with understanding.
A scholar whose curiosity could reshape worlds.
And somewhere beyond the Spirit World, the mortal realm moved closer to upheaval. The Avatar would rise. Nations would clash. Spirits would grow restless.
Knowledge would be needed.
And balance would demand intervention.
I smiled faintly, eyes glowing red in the shifting light.
"Let's see," I said softly, "how much I can change… without breaking everything."