The void stirred.

  Deep within the formless expanse, where existence had yet to take shape, something new was coming into being.

  A world was forming.

  Swirls of cosmic energy spiraled and wove together, feeding the delicate process of creation. This was a place untouched by time, where the universe itself whispered a new reality into existence.

  It was a sacred process, governed by forces beyond mortal comprehension.

  And yet—someone was here.

  A lone figure stood at the precipice of this celestial birth, an intruder in a place where no being should exist. He hovered at the edge of the forming core, watching the weaving strands of energy with tired, knowing eyes.

  He had not come to witness creation.

  He had come to steal from it.

  A sharp inhale. His fingers twitched, his breath uneven. His body was failing, unraveling at the edges. This was no ordinary theft. This was an act of defiance.

  His hand reached toward the forming world’s heart.

  The response was instant.

  A violent pulse of rejection exploded outward, sending a deafening shockwave through the void. The forming world resisted, pushing him back with the full force of its unyielding will.

  Pain lanced through his chest as an unseen force slammed into him, throwing him backward. He spun through the emptiness, gasping.

  A cough. A grimace. His hand clutched at his ribs as he steadied himself.

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  "Damn it," he muttered.

  The world was rejecting him. Of course it was.

  He exhaled sharply. He had expected this. But time was running out.

  His body was deteriorating. He was barely holding himself together. If he failed here—there would be no second chance.

  Gritting his teeth, he shifted his approach. If brute force wasn’t enough, then he would break the flow instead.

  He raised a hand—not to crush, but to disrupt.

  The forming world thrived on balance. Creation energy spiraled in harmony, stabilizing its birth.

  And so—he shattered that harmony.

  A single, precise pull.

  The foundation fractured.

  A deep, violent tremor surged through the void. The core buckled.

  And then—the world collapsed.

  The luminous heart of the forming realm shattered into cosmic dust. The light that had once spiraled with purpose imploded, spiraling into nothingness.

  And from the ruin—it emerged.

  A crystalline artifact, brilliant and untouched, floated amidst the wreckage—a Treasure of the Universe, unclaimed and unbound.

  His breath hitched.

  He lunged.

  The moment his fingers brushed its surface, an unbearable pulse of rejection shot through his body.

  A scream tore through his mind. His very essence burned.

  His grip faltered.

  It refused him.

  His vision blurred. His limbs trembled.

  And yet—he refused to let go.

  Tendrils of his own energy lashed outward, anchoring him to the artifact—not forcing it into submission, but binding himself to it.

  This was no ordinary theft. This was a claim. A binding.

  The artifact pulsed again, resisting, pushing back, testing him.

  Pain. Heat. A silent war between man and object.

  And then—it stopped.

  The balance of existence wavered.

  Something shifted.

  He had it.

  But the moment of triumph was brief—because he was no longer alone.

  From the fractured veil of reality, they arrived.

  Entities of balance. Cosmic enforcers. Guardians of creation.

  They did not speak. They did not threaten.

  They simply watched.

  Waiting.

  His jaw clenched.

  He had no time.

  The tear in existence—the wound in reality, still raw from the world’s destruction—remained open behind him. It was unstable. It would not stay open for long.

  With one last glance at the silent watchers, he turned.

  And then—he stepped through the rift.

  The wound sealed behind him.

  And the void where a world should have been was left empty, swallowed by silence.