There was once a time when even the word infinite had meaning.
Before the collapse of all definitions, before Dao lost its hierarchy, before laws forgot who had written them—there existed a figure standing alone in a place where space no longer stretched and time no longer flowed.
This place had no name.
Because names required limits.
The man stood barefoot upon nothingness, long black hair drifting without wind. His eyes were calm, so calm that even annihilation would have felt embarrassed to approach him.
Around him, fragments of reality floated like broken mirrors.
Each fragment contained a universe.
Each universe had once trembled beneath his footsteps.
"So this is the end," the man said softly.
His voice carried no emotion, yet the moment the sound formed, entire concepts shattered. Silence itself recoiled, unable to coexist with him.
In front of him, something began to move.
Not a being.
Not a consciousness.
But a Logic.
It had no shape, yet it pressed down upon existence with absolute authority.
[All things must return to origin.]
The declaration echoed—not as sound, but as an unavoidable conclusion.
The man smiled faintly.
"How boring," he said.
He raised his hand.
In that instant, countless Daos screamed.
Sword. Time. Fate. Destruction. Creation. Desire.
All of them bent, twisted, and collapsed into his palm like obedient children.
"If all things must return to origin," he continued,
"then I will simply become an origin that does not end."
The Logic trembled.
For the first time, something that had never doubted itself… hesitated.
The man closed his fist.
And everything—Dao, Law, Logic, Boundlessness itself—collapsed inward.