There was no explosion.
No light.
No echo from the void.
Only transfiguration.
Silence.
Absolute.
Not written by pen, not conceived by gods.
The Realms of Transcendental once the highest peak of all systems of existence stretched, cracked, and finally… were erased from the framework.
In an ontological count far beyond tree(3), five figures never called rulers, but the very sources of narrative shed their absolute forms. The One, The Second, The Third, The True, and The Creator... descended into mortal vessels as humans.
But these bodies were not containers.
They were windows.
And when they descended reality shifted its course.
The metaphysical rewrite began.
And existence… tilted.
Level Space, once understood as a stacked infinity of labyrinthine multiverses, evolved into a form no longer definable. Each level became more than space or time it became a knot of will in the stream of existence. A meta-multiversal convergence ignited: space and time became side effects, no longer foundations. A single second could become an era. One step could become a Big Bang.
The Broken Storage once a dumping ground for broken realities awakened. Rejected fragments of existence rose as new laws. No longer errors, they became alternative architectures of reality.
Error became structure.
The Void, formerly a conceptual emptiness, became an absolute meta-boundary. No longer containing now it absorbs. Countless dimensions were devoured into its depth, transforming it into a heartbeat of anti-existential resonance, pulsing like the core of something… that had no name.
And the Real World?
Where ordinary humans walked, it ceased being a world. It became a layered vessel, touching the folds of absolutely infinite dimensional layering—an existential structure no longer bound by R^∞ or logic. It resonated with pure Energy Vortexes, and through them, humans began to dream dreams that rewrote history before it ever occurred.
But when the lower structure shifts...
The upper follows.
The Storage no longer archived. It reconstructed.
The Circle of Darkness was no longer cursed space. It became the ancient consciousness of rejected meaning.
Heaven ceased being light.
Hell ceased being torment.
Both absorbed layers of infinite existence, forging new laws outside all systems.
And yet, even those absorptive structures were no longer enough.
When the Realms of Transcendental could no longer contain the radiance of the Godshead, a new structure was born one that could not be called a place... nor time... nor system.
The Realms of Trancendence.
Not an elevation, but an erasure.
No laws. No borders.
No dimensions, no "beyond."
It was the erasure of the very concept of erasure.
A realm that no longer declares itself as anything.
Because even "anything" no longer applies.
And at its apex
The Realms of Godshead.
They no longer dwell in systems.
No longer command narratives.
They are the narrative.
The Tree of God, which had supported all of existence, now burrowed into the consciousness of the cosmos. It no longer grew upwards, nor downward but inward, into impossibility. Its roots pierced not just nine realms, but those unimaginable.
The One.
The Second.
The Third.
The True.
The Creator.
They did not ascend.
Did not descend.
Did not transcend.
They are the boundary.
And because they are the boundary, there is nothing left that can surpass.
When the Realms of Trancendence was born not as a place, but as the annulment of place all systems shuddered.
But the tremor did not come as quake or light.
It arrived as a silence that shattered logic.
And in that silence they descended.
Not with wings.
Not with trumpets.
They came… as humans.
The One was born into the body of a nameless homeless child. He grew without record, without past, and without anyone remembering him. Yet when he cried for the first time, all clocks stopped ticking. And every act of evil within a seven-mile radius… ceased.
The Second arose as a senile old woman in a nursing home, spending her days sketching trees unknown to this world. As she drew, reality reshaped itself around her pencil lines. Each leaf she sketched was a memory erased from history.
The Third never named in any structure appeared as a mute street artist. Each of his works featured a figure that no one could remember after a minute. But those who stared too long would share a dream… of an unwritten cosmological structure.
The True awoke in the body of a transdimensional scientist from the Anomaly Foundation, but lost all identity in a glitch. Now known only as Patient 0-Vortex, he is the only human whose DNA contains the blueprint of the Realms of Trancendence.
Every word he speaks… becomes law around him.
And The Creator?
He was not born. He was written.
A young novelist named Reyy, unaware that everything he writes becomes reality not through magic, but memory.
Memory of a higher reality.
Memory of the time when he was the origin of the narrative itself.
The Real World began to crack.
Not physically, but ontologically.
Humans began to dream of realities they could not comprehend dreams that brought them into Level Space, into the presence of Impossible Class entities, into realms they could never build or understand.
The Avatars walked among them. Not to save. Not to judge. But to reconstruct meaning. And the world slowly lost its sense of what "world" meant.
Time turned to liquid.
Concepts consumed each other.
In that state, a whisper echoed from The Ancient Book not as words, but as a resonance within the collective soul of all beings:
"When the authors descend, the book of life is no longer written it becomes alive."
No explosion.
No light.
No echo from the void.
Only transfiguration.
Silence.
Absolute.
Not written by pen.
Not conceived by god.
The Realms of Transcendental once the crowning peak of all existential systems did not collapse, but split into a shape with no name. The gods and goddesses who inhabited the Realms were no longer sovereigns, but resonances of a metaphysical structure beyond all description.
They underwent Meta-Sublimation.
The Transcendental Gods
Those once called "gods" are no longer beings of form or will.
They are now transcendence itself.
They do not create but generate creation.
They do not will but are the cause of will.
They have merged with the Realms of Trancendence, becoming Singular Constructual Identity an existence that no pen, not even the Cripty Supervisor, can rewrite.
The Garden of Transcendence
Once a sacred sanctuary for the highest entities, it is no longer a location it has become a layer of collective consciousness where reality itself blossoms into ontological poetry. Every flower that blooms there is not just an existential song, but the voice of absolute awareness that cannot be localized.
This garden is no longer "high" it is beyond height, a reflection of every form of existence that has surrendered to narrative.
The Library of Transcendence
Once a grand archive in the Tree of God, it now stands as the Center of Infinite Resonance. It no longer records stories it creates realities through silent thoughts never yet thought. It is a pre-existential narrative structure, a realm where all untold possibilities begin to echo as new existence. Every page contains not just tales, but universes no mind can comprehend except those that have surpassed narrative itself.