Qui Tensigon's avatar sat upon her throne, perched high atop a colossal statue woven from living story and bark that breathed like lungs. The figure beneath her throne wasn't stone or art—it was narrative incarnate, an ever-shifting mass of words, faces, and scenes frozen mid-motion. Each pulse of the statue's veins wrote and erased realities beneath her bare feet.

This was not the avatar Vari had irritated earlier, but another—one designed for direct intervention. Her violet dress rippled like wet ink, its hems threaded with raspberry colored sigils that shimmered and rearranged whenever she moved. Long ribbons of blue and gold ornaments swayed from her sleeves, chiming faintly like crystal wind chimes. Across her skin, faintly glowing runes crawled like restless thought—living sentences etched by her own hand. Her eyes, twin orange suns rimmed with unmaking, gazed through planes of existence toward the realm of Yulem.

Mortals defying a Story. That was worth her attention.

The idea alone made her smile.

The fact that the tale itself had tried to flee its own ending amused her even more. Vari's Jujisn had proven resilient—as expected of a serpent's protégé. And the Blood Prince, Jafar's Jujisn, had confirmed why the other Kings either absorbed or erased theirs. A single being capable of sharing a King's will could easily disturb truth's balance—perhaps even beyond the scope of Supremes. But that wasn't her concern. Understanding others had never interested her. Cataloguing them, however, was another matter.

She tapped her finger against her throne, watching the lights of countless stories ripple beneath her.

New entries. New archetypes. New threads to archive.

Below, her chosen pieces moved according to design. Cawren—fierce, unstable, but brimming with potential—continued his duel against the white-cloaked fool, Ozzy. He had strength, yes, but no rhythm, no literary core. He might fill a role, but not lead one.

Then there was Vari's team. Her band of Outlanders fascinated her, particularly the one called Jamal Wright. His defiance carried the raw energy she loved—authentic, unrefined, dangerous. But he too was incomplete. What he had in soul, he lacked in structure.

The girl, however… the yellowed eye one. Ria Dyusin.

That one complicated things.

Qui leaned forward, her lips curling into a faint smile. The girl bore the mark. Not unusual—every Supreme and King had once been marked before they transcended consequence. But this one's mark carried intention. It had the flavor of something old, something deliberately left unfinished. If nurtured properly, it could become a cornerstone for a far grander narrative.

And… there was another marked soul, wasn't there?

Her gaze drifted sideways through realities, toward a faint thread pulsing in the distance.

She smiled wider. Interesting. The pattern was aligning.

This tale—this small conflict, this collapsing tournament, was almost finished. The Endless Folklore was getting closer, and she still needed the Blood Prince. Jafar's Jujisn would be the key, one way or another.

But Qui Tensigon was not reckless. She knew better than to show her full hand. Vari would surely interfere again, coil and bite as she always did. That was fine. Let the serpent waste her time protecting pawns while Qui cultivated protagonists.

After all, decoys made the best distractions—and sometimes, the best seeds.

She leaned back against her throne, eyes gleaming with mischief. "This tale is ending," she murmured, her voice rippling through the story beneath her like a tremor, "but the grander narrative… the one worth remembering… has only just begun."

————

The one's gaze who's pierced the dome like a sunbeam. If you traced that light across the expanse of the upper realms and found its origin.

You would find Supreme Being Holgelic.

Her attention brushed over the chaos below, through collapsing domes, fracturing narratives, and the trembling echoes of gods pretending at consequence. For a fleeting instant, her light sharpened—curiosity flickering behind the indifference of eternity. Mortals defying Story. Supremes interfering with each other's designs. Predictable, all of it.

It was… interesting. But not enough to move her. Not yet.

She saw how the threads wove together—Vari's venom bleeding through Qui Tensigon's fables, Basingal calm veiling a slow anger, and countless lesser divine and mortal hands, reaching to shape the same fragile realms. She could almost taste the desperation in their work. Each one clawing for legacy, building narratives that would inevitably fall when the next age began.

Holgelic exhaled, and the realm dimmed around her.

Legacy. How small a word for those who had no idea what eternity truly was.

The others would fight. They always did. Supremes tearing down Supremes. Kings breaking their toys and calling it creation. It was careless and stupid. All of it. She had no interest in their petty rivalries or the politics of consequence. The endless loop of destruction and rebirth had long since lost its novelty.

No—Holgelic had learned better. She was the Quiet Apex, the flame that refused to burn needlessly.

While the others flaunted power, she prepared.

While they warred, she fortified.

While they sought to shape the narrative, she made sure hers could never be rewritten.

She withdrew her light, her vast radiance folding back into the Sanctum she ruled—an infinite hall of cold suns and burning time. Her gaze drifted over to her Jujisn, the one she would shelter from this madness. A faint hum pulsed through the air, and for a heartbeat, Holgelic smiled.

Let the others play their games. Let them fall for the seduction of narrative and legacy.

She would be ready for what came after.

————

The one who watched through time as if through rippling water sat back and exhaled, his presence sending quiet tremors across time. Supreme Being Hatten had seen this pattern before. Every cycle began the same: Supremes overreaching, Kings stirring, and the realms trembling beneath their arrogance.

He knew what it meant now. A King making moves—truly spicing things up—never ended cleanly. It meant a new age of destruction was coming. Not the kind that purged or rebirthed, but the kind that rewrote.

He could already feel the pieces aligning. Vari's serpent stirs, Qui Tensigon weaving Folklore, Holgelic in her silence, Rhan no doubt sharpening a blade of chaos. And now Jafar. That name made Hatten frown.

Of course it was him. Hopefully this wasn't a ploy to aggravate King Nebuchadnezzar.

The rivalry between Jafar and Nebuchadnezzar went back to the first timeline—the one no one speaks of anymore. Back when they all were part of the Everest Corp. When they all evolved beyond consequence. That's when the rivalry really amped up. Their war had shattered what was once whole, reducing the original 360 million realms to the 245 million today. Entire continuums erased because two beings couldn't stand each other's existence. It was poetic, in a foolish kind of way.

But Hatten wasn't interested in poetry. He was interested in prevention.

He leaned back, folding the ripples of time into stillness, watching endless moments rewind and fast-forward in perfect sync. There was still a chance to avert another cycle. It would require swallowing pride, even for one such as him.

He would go to Qui Tensigon and Vari first. Keep the serpents and storytellers from turning their feud into another cataclysm. Maybe reach out to Rituain and Holgelic while he was at it—if they'd even listen. He knew La Fan would listen…but Basingal would be a problem given his current mood.

He sighed again. Even as a being who transcended consequence, he couldn't escape the weight of babysitting eternity.

No matter how powerful they became, how ancient, how divine… in his eyes, they were still children.

Children playing with creation, trying to outdo each other—while he was the only one still cleaning up their mess.

————

The one who watched as a scent—like old ink, perfume, and blood. Moved as if he were made of rhythm itself, every step leaving a trail of ink-black perfume and starlight in the air. The grand hall where he danced was suspended in a spiral of gravity and flower petals, each petal a nebula drifting between dimensions. The band—creatures with too many limbs and mouths to count—played notes that mortals and lesser divine would never hear, their music bending color, memory and concept into a perfect waltz.

Across from him glided his partner, Rhan. Tonight Rhan had chosen a female form: a goddess sculpted from light's last breath. Her hair streamed in shades of black and sapphire, her golden eyes soft but ancient, her dress spun from the death of a star. Every thread of it burned and healed at once, radiance bound in elegance.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The Supreme Being La Fan wore a kimono stitched from dragon scales and angel feathers, each fold catching the music like water catching moonlight. Black hair tied into a bun. His grey-purple eyes glowed like a lantern. When their hands met, the entire realm shifted. Moons trembled, galaxies slowed to match their tempo, and the scent of the hunt, and war's perfume folded into one intoxicating breath.

They twirled, smiled, and spoke in the silent language. Two Supremes indulging in something the lesser beings below had forgotten how to do.

Dance.

"So Jafar and Vari's Jujisns managed to defeat a Story." La Fan's voice was smooth, but even he couldn't mask the faint intrigue curling behind it. He dipped Rhan back, their movements flowing like water in a seamless river. "Haven't seen something like that before…" He paused, spinning her again. "Has that ever actually happened?"

Rhan chuckled softly, resting her head against his chest as galaxies spun above them in rhythm. "Yes and no. In this fashion—deleting a Story timeline outright, while in a rap battle? No. That's something only our lesser selves could ever manage. But a Story has been beaten before. It's why Qui hasn't made any hasty moves."

La Fan nodded thoughtfully. "I thought so. But…Vari making an example of her Sanctum though—that's quite the performance. A statement. She almost started a war."

Rhan laughed, the sound shattering stars in perfect beat with the melody. "Would you expect anything less from her? Especially with Jafar and her Jujisn tangled in it?"

He smiled faintly. "No, I suppose not." His eyes drifted upward to the celestial ballroom ceiling, a slow whirl of dying stars and spinning constellations.

Rhan's golden gaze flicked toward him. "What do you think of all this?"

"It's not of my concern. But I'm keeping an eye out."

That earned a small grin. A wise stance.

La Fan had always been the quiet one among their kind—the observer who never interfered, never played sides. Even Holgelic, who despised nearly everyone, tolerated him. The fact that Hatten and him were already monitoring the situation meant no cosmic reshaping would happen unless a King willed it.

And Jafar, mercifully, was preoccupied. Nebuchadnezzar hadn't stirred from his realm in ages. Mobocracy remained sealed behind his infinite republic, refusing contact with anyone outside his chosen few. La Fan and Rhan weren't one of them. And Laos… well he was minding his business. No need to poke and pry.

Rhan's eyes narrowed slightly. "What makes you nervous, then?"

He chuckled under his breath. "Nervous isn't the word. Cautious, perhaps."

"You mean for your Jujisn."

He nodded once. His Jujisn was the first to ever survive this long—he'd never absorbed the mortal, allowing him to ascend on his own. A rare bond. A dangerous precedent. And one the others would surely want to replicate—or play with.

"And yours?" he asked lightly, while twirling her.

Rhan smiled, distant but fond. "My little wanderer is still… wandering. I'll see what she becomes." She tilted her head. "But that's not what's really bothering you. So what's your real concern?"

La Fan exhaled, his expression unreadable. "Because of who else was watching."

For a moment, even Rhan's composure faltered. Then she nodded. "Ah. If they're interested again… that could be a problem."

"Exactly." He glanced toward the flickering horizon, his eyes catching subtle ripples through reality.

"Where is your Jujisn?" Rhan asked. "I thought I would finally meet them tonight."

"He's currently meeting Craqoen at the Narloic Foundation headquarters. Craqoen's Jujisn came into Requiem a few days ago. Thought it might be nice for them both." He smiled faintly. "Craqoen's always been tolerable company."

Rhan's lips curved upward. "Life is becoming entertaining again."

La Fan pointed forward, through a shimmering fold in the dance hall's air—showing a vision suspended between realities. "Speaking of interesting things, look at your Jujisn now."

Rhan turned her head, her golden eyes sharpening as the scene revealed itself. For a heartbeat her amusement vanished—replaced by something harder to read.

"Hmmm."

—————

The ones who watched as a hum—a vibration woven through existence itself. Every realm carried that tune, every breath of wind or flicker of flame hummed their rhythm without realizing it.

In the realm of Uverda, that unseen melody origin was in the Henevah Sanctuary, a Sanctum Solipsa suspended among the heavens. Its vast spires of alabaster and crystal stretched endlessly, their edges glinting with celestial script. Light flowed through its arches like liquid time, and the clouds themselves seemed to bow around it. This place was not built—it was forced into being.

Though the origin of that hum—did not reside there currently, the sanctuary still thrummed with a fraction of their power. Its halls glowed faintly with awareness, listening to the echoes of lower realms.

To those actually watching—his wife and a few of their children—the battle within the domes below was… entertainment. A spectacle of fate and ego, chaos dressed in artistry.

The lesser gods saw conflict.

The Supremes saw consequence.

But the family within Henevah Sanctuary saw only a performance—mortals, Kings, and Supremes all dancing to a narrative that didn't concern them.

—————

One last presence had been watching—but not from the heavens.

Deep within the Blood Realms, inside the Northern Wing of Royal Palace Redevune O'le Tiegren, a high chamber shimmered with light reflected through endless glass veins. There, in quiet authority, was Neviare—the Seer of Unwritten Futures. An irregular presence.

She was a native of the Blood Realms, known for her composure and ominous grace, she carried herself with the regal poise. Adorned in a flowing black gown streaked with gold and draped in a mantle of shadowed fabric, she looked both divine and dreadful—her crown glinting faintly under the light.

Among all the figures in the palace, Neviare was one of the few trusted by Emperor Jafar himself. When matters of fate, consequence, or prophecy threatened the balance, it was to her he turned. To the woman who could weave silence through the threads of destiny itself.

Neviare's gift was simple but terrifying: she could erase possibilities. Not the past, not the present—only what might be. For any being dependent on prediction or prophecy, her very awareness was a death sentence.

Right now, she lounged before her laptop glass orb, its surface rippling with the echoes of the "epic rap battle" and the subsequent deletion of an entire Story. She watched the scene with mild curiosity, her green-blue eyes flicking between storylines collapsing like dominos.

She would have enjoyed it more if not for the constant distraction beside her. One of Jafar Princesses. She was radiant, loud, and painfully fascinated by everything. Every few seconds a gasp or squeal, and or a shout, "Did you see that?! He shot him while rhyming! That's so gangster! I love it!"

Neviare pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, "By the thousand threads… please shut up."

Still, she didn't send her or the other princess away. They were the only ones who visited her regularly besides Jafar himself—and between endless fates and forgotten possibilities, their noise was a kind of warmth she'd quietly grown used to.

So she sighed, adjusted her orb, and let the girl chatter.

If nothing else, watching mortals rewrite destiny was better with a little background noise.

Rank 18 Princess Lena Jafar was practically vibrating with excitement. Her words tumbled out in a blur of sound—crazy, insane, unbelievable, magnificent, and then back again to crazy—each one louder than the last. The room didn't need light with how bright her energy burned.

She leaned over Neviare's shoulder, eyes glued to the glass orb streaming the chaotic dome battle. "This is wild! Absolutely wild! I can't believe that's him! That's Jafar's Jujisn! He's actually real!" she squealed, clapping her hands together. "Ohhh, when this tournament's over, I have to meet him!"

Her long blonde hair shimmered like threads of sunlight against the room's dark marble. She wore a green battle dress, cut to move easily but still gleaming with polished edges of ceremonial gold. Her blue eyes practically sparked with devotion as she pressed closer to the display.

Lena was an Outlander—a rare one who had clawed her way into the ranks of the Jafar aristocracy. After winning the Red Ribbon Pageant, she'd become something of a legend: the foreign girl who conquered the empire with charm and fire. Her reward? The title of Princess, and the envy of half the noble court.

But titles weren't what made her heart race. It was Jafar—her idol, her obsession, her unreachable star. She had never met him, but every record, every archived tale of his feats, every whisper of his wars—she memorized it all.

Now, seeing North, his Jujisn, alive and burning with that same unrestrained chaos she'd only read about… it was everything she'd ever dreamed of.

"This is the best thing ever!" Lena shouted, fists balled in triumph. "He's perfect!"

Neviare sighed behind her, muttering without looking up, "If you love him any harder, the orb might implode."

Lena didn't even hear her—she was too busy cheering for a man who had no idea his biggest fan in the realms had already decided she'd be part of his destiny.

Next to her sat Renneta Hatten Jafar, Rank 16—quiet, unreadable, and almost painfully composed. She wore a sharp street-mage outfit—hoodie, red tights, high-tops, and a pointed hat turned slightly sideways. Her bright red hair spilled like water over her shoulder as she scribbled furiously into a small black notebook, mouthing Jamal's lyrics as she wrote.

The two women turned in unison. "Renneta… what are you doing?" Lena asked, still glowing from excitement.

Renneta looked up, her crimson-yellow eyes half-lidded. "What? That was an interesting wordplay," she said matter-of-factly, pen still moving. "If he ever learns to weave spells with that rhythm, that'll—"

Both Lena and Neviare groaned. "There she goes again," Lena muttered. Renneta always did this—everything was theory, formula, and runic potential. She was brilliant, sure, but exhausting to talk to at times.

Among all the Jafar princesses, Renneta was the least emotionally attached to Jafar himself. Most assumed that was due to her Hatten upbringing—a family known for analytical detachment and divine precision.

Renneta finally set her pen down and pointed at the orb streaming the chaos. "Shouldn't someone stop that Unraveling?" she asked flatly.

Neviare, still lounging, replied without looking up, "It shouldn't be a problem. If Jafar—or any King—decides to stop it, it'll end in a breath."

Lena waved her hand, confident and dramatic. "Please. North's gonna get through this. He's the strongest! You'll see!"

Renneta stared at the orb. "He's more impressive now. There wasn't much to note when I saw him in person."

That got Lena's attention. "Wait—you what?!"

Renneta closed her book, tone casual. "When he first arrived."

"Just you?!"

"I was with three others. Their names don't matter. They're all dead now."

Lena's jaw dropped. "What?! And you never told me?!"

Renneta shrugged, unimpressed. "You never asked."

Before she could say more, Lena lunged and tackled her, shaking her like a rag doll. "That's so unfair! You got to see him and I didn't!"

Renneta went completely limp, expression blank. She droned, voice monotone even while being jostled. "He didn't feel "special" then. Didn't look like this either. I'm assuming something changed. Besides, with classes starting soon. I'll be leaving for campus. So I had other things on my mind."

Lena froze mid-shake, then sighed and released her. "Ugh… I wish I saw him in person too…"

Renneta adjusted her hat, smoothing her hair. "Maybe one day. Though," she added, glancing back at the orb, "I'm not sure meeting him is as romantic as you think it'll be."

Lena smiled wistfully, eyes glued to the screen. "Doesn't matter. It'd still be perfect. I just wanna touch him. Touch Jafar." She hugged herself.

Neviare sighed quietly, resting her chin on her palm. The glow of the glass orb flickered across her eyes, reflecting countless futures she had already silenced before they could ever exist. Jafar hadn't visited her in months and though she would never admit it out loud, she missed his presence. The precision of his questions. The weight of his silence. The way time itself seemed to bow when he entered a room.

So this—watching his Jujisn tear through a narrative and hopefully survive—was the next best thing.

A sudden flash cut through the orb, flooding the room in a pulse of red and gold light. The glass rippled like disturbed water.

All three girls leaned in at once.

"What was that?!" Lena gasped, eyes wide.

Renneta adjusted her hat again, squinting as glowing lines began to spread across the orb's surface. "Something's breaking," she murmured, half to herself.

Neviare leaned closer too, green-blue irises narrowing. The reflection of the collapsing dome danced in her eyes like a storm trapped in glass. For a brief moment, even she felt something rare—a small, dangerous flutter in her chest.

"Jafar…" she breathed softly, almost reverently. "Is this what you wanted?"

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.