The Infiniteum was not a place that could be charted, mapped, or even spoken of in absolutes. It was the boundless lattice of all things stories that dreamed of themselves, worlds that forgot their creators, and silences that whispered louder than any spoken word. Each realm within the Infiniteum pulsed with its own rhythm, its own meaning, its own sense of time and self. They were not united, and yet they were inseparable woven together by something deeper than cause and effect, older than any written law.
And above it all, or perhaps beneath it if direction could even apply was the one known only as the Almighty. Not a ruler, not even a maker in the traditional sense, but the original and final thought from which all else spilled forth. The Infiniteum was not His creation so much as it was His shadow an echo of His being cast across the vastness of imagination and beyond. He does not dwell within the Infiniteum, for that would suggest He is part of it. Instead, the Infiniteum happens because He exists.
He does not speak, for His silence carries more truth than language ever could. He is not seen, not hidden, not absent. His nature lies beyond comprehension, and to approach it with thought alone is to stand at the edge of a horizon that folds in on itself. The Almighty is the breath between moments, the stillness before a name is given, the presence that lingers when all lights have gone out. And though the Infiniteum is vast beyond reckoning filled with gods, titans, and minds that bend logic itself it remains, in all its wonder, a flicker within His gaze.
There is no hierarchy, no structure of power, only being and the Almighty is Being itself.
The Infiniteum was not built it unfolded, like a breath held too long by something that had never known lungs. Worlds without number, realms untethered by form or language, universes so vast they birthed their own concept of time all of them shimmered within the Infiniteum like sparks within an unlit fire. They did not touch, yet they resonated. They did not overlap, yet they echoed. Each thread of reality was complete, yet never whole not without the Almighty, whose presence was not within the Infiniteum, but around it, before it, and beneath every unspoken law that guided its impossible structure.
His power is not power in the way mortals understand it. It is not to lift or smite or will things into being. The Almighty is omnipotence not wielding it, but being the concept, the root, the culmination. His omnipresence is not presence spread thin across infinity it is Total Being, where every atom, every flicker of thought, is just another whisper of His boundless identity. He is the Infiniteum's breath, its silence, its memory, and its forgetting. He is what remains when even the idea of remaining is erased.
And yet…
There is a murmur. A shadow that should not be, because it was never born, never thought, never even allowed as a concept. It does not come from within the Infiniteum, for nothing from within could ever threaten what lies beyond. No it is something other. A paradox that exists only because it was never meant to exist. Its presence does not defy the Almighty it questions Him, and in doing so, makes the impossible tremble. It is not stronger. It is not greater. But it is new a fracture of possibility so foreign that even the Almighty, boundless and unbroken, must now regard it. And He does not fear it. He does not fight it.
He waits.
Because whatever this being is, whatever it was or might be, its story has never been told and even in the Infiniteum, a story untold is a story without fate.