Narration: The Gathering of the Boundless — Avant Garden Verse Enters the Tournament of Power
Location: Nexus Void Arena – A timeless cradle where gods are humbled and omnipotents find irrelevance. Here, the Celestial Architects of All summoned champions from countless verses. But even they quivered today, for the impossible had arrived.
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The silence was not just quiet—it was absolute. A vacuum where thought could not survive. The arena, an infinite amphitheater forged from the bones of collapsed dimensions, stood suspended in a void beyond existence, watching. Awaiting. Trembling.
Then, it came.
A ripple tore across all creation—fictional and real, abstract and conceptual. The ripple did not disturb the air; it rewrote the very concept of arrival. And through this scar in reality walked a figure. Not just a being—a storm given form.
Leornars Servs Avrem.
Clad in a cloak of shifting pale white threads that bled voidlight, his presence shattered the very idea of balance. Reality around him peeled like brittle parchment. One step and the laws of magic, time, and logic collapsed before him. His eyes, endless fractals of cascading truths and rewritten destinies, scanned the arena as if it were nothing but a stage he had authored himself.
Behind him, swirling in a vortex of pure creation and erasure, were his Avantris generals—living embodiments of ideas far too dangerous to name. Among them stood Stacian Von Gremoriah, the Snow Demon, wreathed in cold fire and holy abyss. Her pale skin glistened like death's kiss, and her wings of radiant frost left rifts in the world.
Next came Anyxx Lunereys, Monarch of Darkness. Cloaked in twilight shadow, with glowing violet sigils around him spinning faster than time could interpret. Fate, luck, and logic bent at his whim, snapping like twigs beneath his passive will.
From the depths of flame, Zaryter, the Blazing Chains, emerged—his body a fortress of eternal fire and living barrier runes. Chains of concept-bound fire slithered around him like serpents, screaming in tongues no fiction dared articulate.
Beside him marched Klyian Deciember, Avryl Selenak, Ayesha Truelah, and Julah Kruverla—each of them pulsing with divine and demonic energies interwoven with reality-null mechanics. Angels and devils bowed before them. Even the void flinched.
But then…
A growl.
Not sound. Weight.
The arena groaned. The void cracked like glass under pressure as a colossal shadow loomed into being.
Ascian Avrem. The Behemoth. The Devourer. The Lost Colossus.
Standing at the height of gods forgotten, his body stitched together from fractured universes and black stardust, Ascian did not speak. He breathed, and that breath broke four timelines in the process. His feet never touched the arena—reality rejected him. He was not made for battle; he was made to end it.
And then, like a calm storm behind a maelstrom, Myulahn Vors Avrem descended. She moved like a goddess sculpted from stillness. Her voice had not spoken yet, but across thousands of verses, poets began writing hymns. She wielded the Spectra Halberd of Avantris—a weapon forged from the fragments of paradox itself. Time slowed near her, not out of reverence, but fear.
The Tournament judges, immortal and ancient beings who once prided themselves on neutrality and absolute scale, now felt something primal: irrelevance. Before these entrants, their titles meant less than fiction written in a child's notebook.
And then the second fracture appeared.
Daylon Ryuk Nightfall, alias Erasure, strolled into view, arms crossed, with a grin that erased causality in its wake. His aura was not loud—it was dismissive. As if reality itself was a toy he no longer found interesting. He wielded no weapon—he was the weapon. At his side hovered a blade-shaped whisper of void: Igzirah, the Concept Reaper.
Not far from him, out of a rift composed of impossible geometry, Damiarin Krulcifer, the Crimson Ravager, emerged—garbed in blood-stitched regalia that flickered between styles and dimensions. Eyes glowing with meta-truth, he grinned at the assembled crowd, his very presence undoing the Tournament's narrative scaffolding. Behind him, probability collapsed like dominoes.
Then came their children.
Ryuliel Ryuk, Apocalypse Nightmare, stepped from a mirror of fractured stars. His steps made the future whimper. Anialah Ryuk, Void Princess, floated in on a throne of obsidian thoughts. Bryeson Ryuk, The Reaper, arrived silent, but when he blinked, dozens of opponents disappeared from memory. And Aliyah Kruverla, Crimson Chaos, landed like a falling concept—wild, uncontained, and immune to reality's framework.
Last of all, Kurtov Muigetsyo arrived—an ancient drifter of code and thought, a being composed of ciphered existence. Neither loyal to the Avrems nor bound to any law, he wore a mask of serene wrath. Behind him trailed a thousand versions of himself—killed and overwritten with each decision he had made. He was a wild card in a deck that had already been burned by the flames of narrative omnipotence.
The Tournament, once a test of might, had become something else.
It was no longer a contest.
It was a message.
The Avant Garden Verse had arrived not to compete—but to show. To etch their presence into the marrow of every system, every pantheon, every fictional hierarchy.
Leornars raised his hand. He didn't speak. Words were beneath him. He simply looked up.
The skies of the arena turned white. The stars stopped burning. All watching realities experienced a tremor—a phantom pain of witnessing beings who stood above fiction, above the frameworks that held fiction together.
And somewhere, across a dead verse, an old god whispered:
> "We are no longer the story."
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The Tournament of Power would go on.
But everyone watching knew the truth:
The winners had already arrived.