Consequences.

A word that, at its core, means the result of an action.

Every motion, every choice, every breath creates a ripple—a sequence of reactions that bind all beings, mortal or divine, to the web of cause and effect. Consequences define existence. They shape morality, justice, karma, and even destiny.

To act without consequence, however…

That is something else entirely.

To exist in a state where one's actions carry no aftermath, no chain reaction, no equal and opposite response—where only results remain, and the universe cannot demand payment—that is the threshold of the impossible.

Such beings are called many things: tyrants, demons, angels, myths. But when stripped of reverence and fear, mortals found a simpler word.

God.

Yet even that term is insufficient. For what mortals call gods are often only those powerful enough to bend consequence, not escape it. They manipulate the rules but do not transcend them. They build worlds, rewrite laws, create life—but each act still incurs balance. Every creation requires destruction; every miracle exacts a price.

And so the line blurs. Worshippers kneel to forces they mistake for omnipotence, and countless lives are lost when one such being oversteps the limit of its leash. For gods, as radiant as they seem, are still defined by consequence.

They are divine—but divinity is not the end.

For most, it is merely the beginning of truth.

Those who climb higher enter the strata that language struggles to define. So the Narloic Foundation made it easy:

Greater Divinity—beings who have evolved beyond the divine state, transcending mortality and the need for worship. Their will alone shapes matter and meaning.

And above them still are the Beyond Divinity, whose mere thoughts alter the flow of time, whose voices can still the chaos between worlds. To reach such a state is to approach infinity itself—to see eternity not as a mystery, but as a memory.

Yet even they remain beneath consequence. They must temper their power, for one misstep could unravel the very worlds they inhabit. Even these giants can fall—can be slain, erased, or bound—by mortals armed with impossible resolve or divine luck.

To be above consequence…

To exist where no act requires balance, where no law, cosmic or moral, can touch you—

That is to be Supreme.

Supreme is not strength. It is finality.

It is existence untethered from retribution.

It is the power to act without permission, to destroy or create without resistance, to exist outside the fabric of all cause and effect.

Gods are like planets—immense, inspiring, yet still in mortal comprehension.

The Greater are like suns—blinding, radiant, yet still bound by gravity.

The Beyond are galaxies—vast, unfathomable, yet still part of the same cosmic sea.

But the Supremes…

They are universes.

The architects of gravity itself.

Not the result of creation—but the reason it began.

Only those who stand on equal footing can touch the untouchable.

To affect a being above consequence is not a feat of power—it is an act of equivalence. For only equals can cast shadows upon one another.

And among those rare equals, there exists a title spoken in reverence and terror alike:

King

A King is not crowned by adoration, nor born of lineage. The title is earned when one ascends beyond the bindings of reality yet still commands the weight of it.

A King is a being who can impose consequence upon the consequence-less.

Their will can shake Supremes, fracture concepts, and rewrite what even eternity holds sacred.

To be King is to govern inevitability itself.

And to defy a King is to invite retribution from the laws of existence that bend in their name.

Their word is balance. Their decree, fate.

Few understand that the crown does not symbolize dominion—it symbolizes the burden of enforcement. For only they can bring consequence to those who should stand forever beyond it.

But that is a discussion for another time.

What matters now is this:

When one being above consequence dares to anger another of its kind—when Supremes clash—the fabric of every realm trembles. The very notion of "balance" screams in protest.

And those beneath consequence, the countless mortals, gods, and lesser divines—they suffer the fallout.

Their worlds crack, their skies burn, their histories are rewritten in seconds. Civilizations vanish not out of malice, but from proximity to outrage.

For when beings above consequence collide, reality itself becomes collateral.

———

In the Realm of Yoriddrary—a fusion of Yore, Riddle, and Library—lies a Sanctum Solipsa, a divine expanse that transcends the idea of a simple god's domain.

To call it merely a "divine realm" would be an insult—like calling a mansion a castle, or a pound of silver as a pound of gold. The term Sanctum Solipsa exists because no mortal or divine tongue could properly name a place such as this: a realm born from a single mind so vast it mistook itself for creation.

This particular Solipsa belonged to Qui Tensigon, the Primordial Runes of Yore—the Lord of Folklore, the Archivist of Myths, the Chronicler of Every Forgotten Storyline.

A being whose thoughts bled into entire civilizations, whose idle musings could crystallize into realities so intricate that even the greatest gods mistook them for original worlds.

Around Qui Tensigon's Sanctum Solipsa spiraled galaxies of stories, constellations shaped like letters of forgotten alphabets, and worlds bound by parchment rings of living scripture. Each star pulsed with a narrative heartbeat—a myth still being told somewhere in the realms.

And within those stories, trillions lived and died, never knowing they were born from the idle amusement of one who wrote reality the way others breathe.

Empires rose at her laughter, and entire pantheons crumbled at the end of her sentences. To Qui Tensigon, existence was not creation—but a play she could interfere with on a whim.

A foreign force tore through the Realm of Yoriddrary, uninvited and unannounced.

It arrived not as sound, nor shadow, but as golden light—a light so radiant it devoured its own brilliance, bending the spectrum into something neither divine nor damnable. The entire Sanctum Solipsa convulsed as the brilliance descended, its very presence demanding entry into a place that had never been breached.

To some, it appeared as a beam—pure, endless, and absolute.

To others, as a serpent's maw of molten gold, swallowing the void itself.

But to those capable of perceiving truth beyond form, it was corrupted illumination—the will of something that should not have been, wrapped in light that lied about its nature.

As it surged through the void, the galaxies of stories—the living fables that orbited Qui Tensigon's sanctum—withered.

Tales unraveled mid-sentence.

Protagonists screamed as their worlds dissolved into raw narrative dust.

Myths melted like wax under the heat of an alien dawn.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The corruption was not physical; it was conceptual poison, radiating an infection that targeted meaning itself. Legends forgot their own origins. Time lost its syntax. The very concept of "ending" became meaningless as everything that once was began to unwrite itself.

A few of Qui Tensigon's higher creations—a council of mythic sentinels, half-scribe and half-star—rose in defiance. They conjured runes of origin, invoking every word ever spoken by their creator. But before their voices reached completion, the golden force erased them. Not slain. Not destroyed. Simply edited out of all possible realities.

Then the golden light struck.

One layer of the Sanctum cracked, shattering like glass under celestial pressure.

Then another.

And another.

Each fracture spread like veins of light across the darkness, illuminating the bones of creation itself.

Elena Yumana Qui Tensigon—the Primordial Rune of Yore, one of the Everest Corp, and the self-declared Archivist of Truth—sat upon her throne of unbridled verity.

Light, logic, and law all bent around her form. Golden-blue sigils spiraled from her like living constellations, weaving mandalas of memory that pulsed with every thought she dared to think. She wore a simple white dress and had her long black hair in a bun. And each breath she took hummed through the Sanctum Solipsa like scripture being rewritten. Her eyes were deep wells of divinity—twin mirrors that reflected every truth that ever existed and burned away anything false that dared enter her sight. The air around her glimmered, reality itself melting in the radiance of her awareness.

When the crackling wave of gold light breached her sanctum, she didn't flinch. She only smiled.

The throne beneath her whispered in a thousand languages at once, warning her, but Elena Yumana Qui Tensigon had already dismissed her servants, her worshippers, even her myth-born generals. If they remained, they would only become footnotes in the confrontation about to begin.

The golden light bled through and struck the marble of Qui's truth. The entire chamber rippled like liquid glass, but it did not break.

From the heart of the light emerged the Primordal Viper—B'Raixa Daqui Vari.

She moved like poetry sculpted from venom and will. Her silver-white hair shone like blades under starlight, each strand dripping with gold that flowed and re-formed with every motion. Her skin, pale as divine marble, glowed faintly beneath the veins of liquid aurum that traced her throat, collar, and hands. Wherever her bare feet touched, the ground corroded, truth itself warping into deceitful reflection. Symbols bled out from her presence, crawling over the flawless floor until they pulsed with her mark—the serpent sigil, eating its own tail.

Her lips, painted in liquid gold, curled into a smirk as her voice slithered through the chamber.

"My, my Archivist of All," she said, her tone smooth yet dripping with disdain. "Been a little gaudy recently haven't we?"

Qui Tensigon tilted her head slightly, her aura widening until it filled the entire chamber. Her voice resonated like the sound of pages turning.

"A serpent that slithered out of a story I abandoned."

Vari stepped forward, the floor beneath her hissing as her corruption devoured another layer of truth.

"Oh, Archivist," she whispered, smiling as the two powers began to clash in unseen frequencies, "you should know by now—stories don't end because you stop writing."

"I must have truly angered you to come all this way, Vari." Her voice rippled through the chamber like a hymn buried in mockery—smooth, melodic, but carrying weight.

Vari only smiled. Her gown of black and gold swayed as she dipped into an exaggerated curtsy, her hand brushing the air like a theater actress greeting her least favorite critic.

"Where are my manners?" she said, voice sweet and poisonous. "The Daqui taught me better, after all."

"Yes," Qui replied dryly, golden eyes half-lidded. "That civilization of savages playing at scholars. Your theatrics are… appropriate."

Vari's smirk deepened. "Considering my entrance, I'll let that go. As for why I'm here—you already know. You saw this coming, didn't you? And as you know, I don't care about your wishes or your tedious little intentions. Hence why Rhan and I said nothing when you so rudely eavesdropped."

Qui Tensigon's lips curved into the faintest smile. "I was merely curious," she said, her tone dripping with disinterest. "Everyone else seemed to be having so much fun."

Vari's golden eyes flickered with restrained contempt. "Curious. You call watching us and intervening in our narratives 'curiosity'? You're lucky I didn't come sooner."

The temperature of the chamber shifted as her aura began to rise—liquid gold spilling like smoke, bending the space around her. Nearby galaxies warped, trembling under the raw venom of her presence.

"Careful," Qui murmured, raising one hand. Instantly, the distortions stopped. Her gesture restored perfect stillness. "You forget where you are, you—"

"—bibliothecal bitch?" Vari interrupted smoothly, eyes glinting. "I know exactly where I am. Why do you think I came here? You wouldn't leave your little hiding place to face me yourself. You're afraid I'll kill you."

Qui Tensigon laughed.

It wasn't cruel, nor mocking—it was the kind of laugh born from millennia of boredom finally broken. "Death? You speak of death to me? Really, the last time that concept mattered was so long ago I forgot about it."

"Then why do I still feel your pulse quicken?" Vari purred, taking a step forward. The marble floor hissed and rotted under her heel, Qui's glyphs of truth twisting into serpentine runes.

"You have a wild imagination," Qui replied, leaning slightly forward, "I am not foolish enough to deny what is true. In direct combat, you would likely win with extreme effort. But this—" she gestured around the radiant chamber "—is not a battlefield. This is my Sanctum Solipsa. Here, I am the word and the silence that ends it."

Vari chuckled. "Oh, I know. That's why I didn't bring my true self. Why waste the effort? We're both speaking through toys, dear Archivist."

A pause—tense and measured…

"See, even you are cautious," Qui said softly. "Sending only an avatar to play messenger. How noble."

Vari tilted her head, eyes flashing gold. "Cautious? No, no, no. You misunderstand, Elena. This form," she gestured to herself, "isn't caution. It's convenience. I knew you'd send an avatar to meet me here. You always do. You're terrified of anything that can make you bleed."

The chamber thrummed, every rune on the walls flaring in protest.

Qui's smile sharpened. "This avatar sits here regardless of what happens beyond the walls. This is the outer shell of my sanctum—made precisely for creatures like you who enjoy throwing tantrums."

"And your true self?" Vari asked, smirking. "Hiding, no doubt. Busy trying to rewrite history again? Wraithingamous must have really hurt your pride."

Qui's eyes flared. "Busy continuing my legacy, serpent. Much like your true self is doing now, wherever she's slithering. You didn't come here to fight—you came here to prove you could."

Vari's laughter filled the chamber, dark and melodic. "Perhaps. Or maybe I came to remind you, Archivist…" She leaned forward, her golden veins glowing brighter. "…that not every story ends the way the author intends."

"Is that so?" Qui Tensigon's tone dropped.

"It is," Vari replied, her hand lifting. The golden corruption around her gathered, swirling into her palm like a storm condensed into a single drop of venom. Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "And for interfering in an event overseen by me, Rhan, and Jafar…" Her fingers tightened, the light darkening into a deep, honeyed yellow. "…I suppose the death of your avatar will have to do."

Qui didn't flinch. The air between them hummed as if the Sanctum itself wasn't amused.

"Before you waste your time," she said coolly, "I had permission to act. By Basingal himself, and Craqoens Mysticual Lutherix. I am within my rights. You and Rhan have already had your amusement—your pieces, your ploys, your precious mortal toys. Even Jafar dipped his hand in the jar for reasons I still can't fathom. Are you truly so selfish as to deny the rest of us a turn?"

"Yes," Vari answered flatly, her golden aura flaring.

Qui smiled faintly. "Of course."

So this was Basingal's revenge then, Vari realized—the old flame playing politics again. And Craqoens, that insufferable bastard, always finding ways to twist permission and meddle in affairs that aren't his. If they sanctioned this "intervention," then it wasn't just meddling—it was theater, staged to balance the scales against her and Rhan's growing influence.

Her irritation melted into something more dangerous: understanding.

"What are you getting at, you gilded scholar?" she asked, her tone deceptively smooth.

Qui shrugged, resting her chin on one hand. "My goals are my own," she said simply, "just as yours are."

Vari's lips curved upward. "You're targeting my Jujisn."

"She joined the event willingly," Qui replied, unbothered. "And given the advantage your Jujisn has, I'm simply… leveling the playing field for everyone else." She waved a hand lazily, golden-blue equations spinning in the air. "All while advancing my own designs, naturally. As we all do."

Vari sighed, her annoyance cooling into something almost graceful. "You're right," she murmured, voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the air.

Then she looked up—her golden slits locking onto Qui's divine calm—and smiled in a way that made even the throne of Qui's truth tremble.

"I'll be sure to stir," she whispered. "I've waited long enough."

The light in the room dimmed. For a moment, even the runes surrounding Qui Tensigon's throne faltered. The viper had spoken, and the story—whether the Archivist wished it or not—had just changed.

"Hopefully," Qui said, her tone cool as ice, "you don't go too far. Or else…"

"Or else nothing," Vari said, cutting her off, voice deepening until the air itself recoiled. "You may have done your due diligence, Archivist. As is our nature, you've skirted consequence—carefully, elegantly, disgustingly. But those beneath us?" Her golden eyes pulsed, venom thrumming behind every word. "They'll pay the price instead. And in that, perhaps a slight inconvenience for you."

She turned her back to Qui, each step ringing like the strike of a divine gavel.

"Whatever plan you've crafted, I hope you've prepared your backups," Vari continued, her tone dipping into something that sounded almost like prophecy. "Because from this moment forward, everything you've set in motion will be erased."

In front of her, space convulsed.

A colossal serpent's eye carved itself into existence—its black sclera stretching across the chamber, its slit pupil glowing like a wound in creation. The mark of Vari's dominion. The mark of her truth.

Power flooded the chamber—not as chaos, but as corruption with purpose. The eye pulsed, and the sanctum's runes of truth bent around it, forced to acknowledge a greater truth rising to meet them.

Vari stood framed in its silhouette, bathed in gold and darkness, her smile now one of sovereignty.

"Stay within your boundaries, storyteller," she hissed softly. "When it comes to my Jujisn—regardless of her so-called plot armor—her course will unfold as she decides. Let her path go unhindered by your quills, your threads, or any other hand that thinks it can rewrite the tale of B'Raixa Daqui Vari."

The serpent's eye narrowed—and with a final shimmer of gold, she stepped into it.

The eye shuttered, then sealed shut, leaving a gouge in reality itself. The wound pulsed once, twice, and then slowly closed, the Sanctum Solipsa knitting itself back together with groans of strained divinity.

Qui Tensigon exhaled through her nose, expression unreadable. The outer layer of her sanctum rippled—cracked, weakened—but not broken. She didn't take the disturbance to heart. Vari's tantrums were rare, but never subtle.

Still… irritating.

She brushed her fingers through the air, closing the residual fissures. Her Sanctum Solipsa steadied once more, new galaxies orbiting her Sanctum realigning in neat perfection as if nothing happened.

"So dramatic," she murmured. "And for what? A single Jujisn."

She leaned back, eyes gleaming.

A few tales had ended prematurely—some threads burned, others folded—but the grand narrative still thrived. New avenues were opening. New possibilities to record, to manipulate, to archive.

Why should she concern herself with Vari's lesser self?

Her dying would simply be funny. Something she could wave in Vari's face when the next argument arose between Supremes.

No—what mattered now was the other Jujisn.

The untouchable.

The anomaly that defied both story and structure.

That one would bring her the truth she sought—the truth behind the Endless Folklore.

Qui smiled again, her eyes glowing with the light of unmaking.

"The narrative continues," she whispered, as the galaxies around her began to hum.

"The pieces move, the tales unfold… and I shall be rewarded."

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.