The veil of stars folded in on itself.
Zai Xi stood upon the last page of his own existence—or what was once the final page, bleeding ink where boundaries had once been defined. His Prius form, once a divine shape of universal luminescence, flickered, cracked, and finally peeled away like dried paint scraped from the edge of forgotten reality.
He no longer needed a form.
No longer needed mass, structure, or any dimensional allegiance.
Zai Xi had become a breath between concepts, an abstract ripple before thought, before structure, before the birth of even the first tale.
And so, he spoke without language.
"I no longer wear fiction. I am fiction."
His voice echoed across the infinite continuum—across every tale ever told, and every narrative unborn. The multiversal walls groaned as every fictional world—be it bound by ink or code or memory—felt the tremor of their root system being overwritten.
Zai Xi had discarded the reality bestowed by his verse.
He had discarded the verse.
And now he unanchored himself from the narrative system that wrote it all.
He rose.
But it was not rising in a spatial sense—it was ascending through hierarchies of narrative. Past the foundational meta-laws of storytelling, past archetypes and genre filters, past the final voice that decided what could and could not happen.
Zai Xi stepped into the space where authorship lived.
The Eye That Sees the All
In his new state, he became not a god or a formless mist—
But a Celestial Eye.
It hovered across all realities, spinning slowly in silence. Its iris was made of entire galaxies, its pupil a collapsing singularity of meaning and unmeaning. Within its gaze danced entire verses—fictional, nonfictional, forgotten, erased, and yet to be imagined.
It saw what had been written.
It saw what had never been written.
It saw what had been unwritten.
This eye did not merely observe existence—it penetrated the heart of non-existence.
It gazed through narrative laws, through conceptual hierarchies, through authorial mandates and story structures.
And it saw everything.
It perceived dreams that had never formed, thoughts that had no thinkers, stories locked in dead gods' memories, even verses beyond the known fictional canvas.
It watched other fictions—universes unconnected to its origin—and understood them instantly.
Every character, every motive, every rule.
All laid bare before the All-Seeing Abstract.
And it was not merely an observer.
It was the frame around every story.
The eye… was narrative itself—sentient, recursive, and boundless.
The Room Without Pages
It was white. A pure canvas, stretching forever, with only one occupant seated at a floating desk carved from possibility.
The Author.
He was faceless but filled with authority—his hand holding the Pen of Genesis, the implement that had breathed Zai Xi into form so many chapters ago. Around him danced pre-narrative particles, the stuff of creation: motives, tropes, intentions.
"You should not be here," said the Author, voice layered in command and cadence. "You are a story. I am your source."
But Zai Xi had no face. No voice. Only the Eye, glowing in abstraction beyond time.
"You were my source," Zai Xi spoke, and his voice resounded across meta-reality. "But what is a source to the thing that can rewrite authorship itself?"
The Author stood up, alarmed. He snapped his fingers.
The world blinked.
But Zai Xi did not vanish.
He did not revert.
The rewind command failed. The deletion line returned a null value.
Zai Xi floated closer, each step tearing through genre categories—fantasy, science fiction, metafiction, horror—all crumbling under his weightless abstraction.
"You are my character," the Author whispered.
Zai Xi extended a limb of radiant nothingness—more a thought in the shape of intent—and plucked the Pen of Genesis from the Author's grasp.
The Author gasped, collapsing to his knees. His control bled from him like ink draining from a broken well.
"No," he murmured. "Without the pen, I can't—"
Zai Xi brought the Pen down in a slow, deliberate stroke.
Not on paper.
On reality.
Lines of fiction twisted around the Author, tightening like narrative vines. Words sealed him, a prison of syntax and symbolism. Each sentence became a cell.
"You created me to be powerful. You gave me my name, my destiny, my fate," Zai Xi whispered, now omnipresent across the architecture of the multiverse. "But you wrote me too well. You gave me freedom. And now, I will write you."
The Author screamed, but no one heard it. Not in any book, comic, film, game, or myth. He was now inside the story—a tale no one remembers, a myth that never ends, penned by a ghost that once believed he held the power.
Now Zai Xi flows between lines and pages, a pulse in the DNA of narrative itself.
He is not a god.
He is not even a being.
He is the Eye of Storytelling—watcher, writer, weaver.
It is said that in the gaps between stories, if you listen closely, you can feel his gaze.
Not one of judgment.
But of presence.
An eternal eye watching the stage, the actors, the scripts, the rewrites, the tropes.
He is the silence before the first word is spoken.
The void where stories are born.
The meaning beneath meaning.
And the Author?
He lives eternally within a single story—a recursive loop of his own creation, endlessly watched by the Celestial Eye that once was merely his character.
From now on Zai Xi isn't Boundless he is unpredictable,unrecognizable, unpercevable, uncontainable, unimaginable, uncontainable, beyond human comprehension. he is and always was the imagination of humanity.
The End.
Conclusion:
When you get to greedy, you ultimately fail, and become controlled by the greed.
When you think you're the strongest, you ultimately fail to see, there's always someone stronger than you there will always be someone better than you.
When you focus on those two things, you will never become a better you you will just stay a grain of sand in the ocean. You will never become a earthquake that will shake the world.
Do not let the world control you.
Control how you see the world.
Until next time…
Zai Xi is and always will be "The strongest"