{Fictional Falsity: Perfect Imitation — Limitless Technique: Infinity}
The descending claws stopped.
Not blocked. Not deflected. Not resisted. Just stopped. Mid-air. A hair's breadth from his face—and yet infinitely far away.
The wyvern's full force. Its augmented strength. Its blood-frenzied power. All of it ceased. The concept of reaching Null had been divided endlessly—reduced into an infinite sequence that could never resolve into contact. A spatial distance of unreachable, untouchable state.
The wyvern strained against it, tendons pulling tight beneath layered scales, blood-red mana surging and receding in violent pulses that had nowhere to go. The force behind the strike hadn't diminished. If anything, it had grown heavier, denser, more desperate. Yet it had lost direction. Because reaching Null had become impossible.
He didn't move. Unwavering in stance. Not because he couldn't—but because nothing required him to.
He studied the halted limb in front of him the way one might examine a mechanism that had failed to complete its function, then gazed directly into the wyvern's burning red eyes.
"Yeah," he exhaled softly, the sound almost lost beneath the tension in the air. "As expected."
He tilted his head slightly, observing the halted limb, the trembling strain behind it. Almost curious. Close enough to feel. Close enough to matter. But not close enough to exist as contact.
A faint smile returned. Not playful. Not mocking. Certain.
"Now this—" His eyes flicked upward, meeting the wyvern's burning gaze. "—is more like it."
---
The moment held. Not frozen—but denied.
The wyvern's claw trembled in place, suspended inches from Null's face, every ounce of force behind it still present yet fundamentally incapable of arriving.
The beast did not understand. Its muscles strained harder. Its wings flexed. Blood-red mana surged violently along its limbs, crawling like fire beneath its scales. It pushed. Harder. And harder. Yet achieved nothing.
Null watched it quietly.
"You can feel it, can't you," he said, voice even, almost thoughtful. No strain. No urgency. "Something's there… but not really there."
His hand lifted—not to block, not to meet the strike—just to place itself between him and the unmoving claw. There was still distance. Endless distance. Yet existing along the same path the strike was trying to complete.
"It's not that you're slow," he continued. "It's that you'll never finish reaching me."
The wyvern roared in response. Louder. Furious. Its wings exploded outward, generating a shockwave that tore through the already collapsing forest. The pocket dimension flickered at its edges, struggling to maintain coherence under the strain of overlapping forces.
The beast pulled back—then lunged again. Another strike. Faster. Stronger. More desperate. Its claw descended once more—and once more, the motion broke before it could become contact. A fraction closer than before. Yet still infinitely far.
Null's expression didn't change. "Yeah. You're starting to get it." He exhaled lightly.
---
The wyvern didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Predator Lock held firm. Its entire existence now revolved around one singular objective: Kill.
It opened its jaws. Mana condensed violently in its throat—something deeper began to gather. A dense, blood-red sphere formed, spiraling inward as heat and pressure built to a critical point.
[Semi-Draconic Breath: Berserk Variant]
The air warped. The space in front of it trembled. Then it fired.
A surge of condensed destruction erupted forward, tearing through the replicated forest in a straight line, erasing everything in its path as it surged toward Null. The ground disintegrated. The trees vanished. Even the air seemed to peel away under its passage.
Null didn't move. Didn't dodge. Didn't even blink.
The beam reached him—and failed.
It held there, suspended just short of him, still pouring forward with unstoppable intent that led nowhere. Hovering in front of him like a painting that refused to complete itself. The destructive force continued to pour forward—but it never arrived. Because arrival was not possible.
Null stared into it. Into the raw, violent power being thrown at him without restraint.
"That's actually impressive," he admitted. "Good output. Clean trajectory. Solid compression." A small pause. "Still meaningless, though."
He stepped into it. Into the beam. Through it. Untouched. Unharmed. There was no resistance. No heat. No force to push against. Just the absence of arrival.
He passed beyond it without slowing, the beam continuing behind him as though it had simply forgotten what it was meant to destroy.
---
And in that moment, the wyvern faltered.
Not physically. Something else. A hesitation that didn't belong to instinct. Because something about this did not align with survival logic.
It adjusted its stance, wings pulling back slightly as if searching for a new angle, a new answer to something it couldn't perceive. Its gaze remained locked on him, but the certainty behind it had shifted—just enough to notice.
Null noticed. Of course he did.
A faint smile returned. Subtle. Sharp.
"There it is. Desperation."
His eyes lifted, meeting the wyvern's gaze again.
Something in the wyvern shifted. It didn't retreat this time. Didn't circle. Didn't reposition. It dropped. Straight down. Not as a calculated attack—but as a brutal, overwhelming assertion of force. Everything it had, compressed into one motion.
Its body became a falling mass of destruction, mana flaring so violently that even the pocket around it began to distort in layers—like multiple versions of the same moment failing to stay aligned.
Null didn't move. He simply watched it descend.
And for the first time since the fight began, his expression changed. Not into fear. Not into excitement. But into something quieter. Something that carried weight beneath it.
"Yeah," he said, almost to himself. "Now you're serious."
---
The wyvern hit. Or rather—it should have.
The collision never completed. Its body slowed the closer it came, its overwhelming force dissolving into an infinite regression of motion that could never resolve into contact. The ground beneath Null remained intact—not because it was protected, but because the impact itself had been denied existence.
For a moment, everything held. The wyvern suspended mid-descent, wings frozen in a position that promised destruction but delivered none.
Null stood beneath it, looking up at something that had given everything it had—and failed to arrive.
Silence followed, full of something that hadn't been there before. Something heavier. Recognition.
His eyes gleamed faintly. Dark-red. Unreadable.
"You've been doing everything right," he said, his tone carrying something quieter now. Not mockery. Not praise. Just observation. "Overwhelming force. Relentless pressure. Perfect predator behavior."
The beam faded behind him. Useless. Forgotten.
"But none of that works against something you can't reach."
The wyvern roared again—but this time, there was something else in it. Not fear. Not yet. But disruption.
Its wings beat again, violently, launching its massive body backward to create distance—instinctively trying to reset the engagement.
Smart. For a beast in berserk state—surprisingly smart.
Null watched it go. Then he moved. Not fast. Not aggressively. But inevitably. Each step closed distance that didn't seem to exist. Each motion carried a quiet certainty.
"You know what the real problem is?" he said, voice soft. "You're still fighting inside a frame—" He stopped a short distance away, close enough now that the fractures in its scales were visible—not from damage, but from strain. The space between them felt thinner. Not weaker. Just more defined. "—I've already stepped out of."
A brief silence. Then his fingers flexed once.
The air changed again. Subtle. But undeniable.
"Let's take this one step further." His voice dropped slightly. Not louder. Just heavier. "As a courtesy…" A faint smile formed. "…I'll let you experience it properly."
---
He raised his hand again. But this time—not for defense. For demonstration.
The space between them warped. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But fundamentally.
"Infinity isn't distance," he said, quieter now. "It's control over whether distance matters."
The wyvern moved again—refusing the pause, rejecting uncertainty—and lunged.
This time, Null didn't step away. Didn't slip past. He remained where he was as the claw descended, watching it approach through that same endless narrowing that would never become contact.
The infinite division tightened. Condensed. Refined.
The claw didn't just stop. It slowed. Gradually. Noticeably. As if something unseen had thickened the path it traveled, turning certainty into effort, effort into resistance, resistance into impossibility.
Null watched it. Calm. Focused.
"Convergence and divergence."
The claw trembled. The motion stretched. Dragged. Until even that slowed progression began to fail. Suspended. Helpless.
The wyvern roared in frustration, its entire body straining against an invisible principle it could neither see nor comprehend.
Null stepped forward one last time. Closing the gap completely. Standing directly before it. Untouchable. Unreachable. Unavoidable.
He let the silence stretch after that. Not forced. Just present.
The forest around them no longer resembled what it had been. The replicated structures were thinning, losing cohesion at the edges—like a scene that had been pushed too far beyond its intended limits.
And in that unraveling space, the difference became clearer. The wyvern existed within it. Fought within it. Was bound by it. Null wasn't.
He took one final step, closing what should have been the last measurable gap between them, standing within reach that could never be fulfilled.
"You're strong," he said quietly. "And in any normal situation—you would've killed me already." His eyes sharpened slightly. "But this isn't one of those."
Another step. Now he was within its range. Completely. And yet—still beyond it.
"This is what happens—" His voice softened. "—when the rules stop applying."
No arrogance in it. Just truth.
His gaze lingered for a moment longer. Then Null stretched both his hands. Not to block. Not to demonstrate. But to decide.
"Now, it's about time I stopped playing around."
The air changed again. Subtle. Final.
---
The air did not shatter when he decided. It yielded.
Subtly at first—like a boundary remembering it was never meant to hold him. Null's hands spread slightly at his sides, fingers loose, posture relaxed in a way that no longer resembled caution. Something in his expression shifted—not outwardly dramatic, not exaggerated—but unmistakable. The calm that had defined him until now didn't disappear.
It warped. Bent into something sharper. Louder. Unrestrained.
A quiet, breathless laugh slipped past his lips. "Heh."
It wasn't directed at the wyvern. Not really. More like something inside him had finally been given permission to surface.
His iris gleamed—dark red, but brighter now. Wilder.
"Alright," he murmured, almost indulgently, as if humoring a thought he'd been holding back. "You've had your turn. Now it's mine."
His lustrous white hair danced crazily, and his dark pupils glinted to the utmost.
"Let's ruin the balance a little more."
The space behind him rippled. Not violently. Not with force. But with presence. Like something ancient and excessive had been acknowledged into existence.
{Fictional Falsity: Perfect Imitation — Gate of Babylon (Treasure of the King)}
It didn't tear open. It revealed itself.
Golden fractures spread across the air behind him—not cracks, not tears, but apertures layered over reality itself. They didn't distort the world so much as assert a deeper layer beneath it. Each one shimmered with quiet authority, their interiors dark and deep, as if they led somewhere far older than the space they occupied.
Weapons emerged. Not drawn. Not summoned. Simply taken out.
Blades. Spears. Chains. Constructs that carried weight not just in form but in history—each one humming with a presence that refused to be ignored. Each one hovered, angled slightly forward. Waiting.
Null didn't even look back at them. A smirk tugged at his lips.
"You should feel honored," he said lightly, voice carrying that new edge—arrogant, amused, utterly unconcerned. "I don't usually entertain things this far."
The wyvern roared. Louder than before. But something in it had changed. Not fear—but instinct screaming that something had shifted beyond comprehension.
And then its wings snapped outward—and for a moment, Infinity loosened.
Not broken. Not undone. But thinned.
The wyvern forced itself through that margin, blood-red mana detonating across its frame in violent surges as it tore free of the invisible hold—not overcoming it, but slipping through the smallest inconsistency in its application.
It fled. Skyward. Fast. Desperate in a way it hadn't been before. A violent burst of wings and blood-red mana carried it upward, tearing through the thinning ceiling of the pocket dimension.
Null watched it rise. For a second.
Then he laughed. Soft. Sharp.
"Running?" He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with something dangerously amused. "Good. That makes it better."
The space beneath his feet shifted. He didn't jump. Didn't launch. He simply stepped forward into nothing—and didn't fall. Manipulating Infinity, the space beneath him held, adjusted, carried him upward as naturally as ground would have.
Behind him, the gates flared.
And then they fired.
---
The first volley screamed through the air—not chaotic, not random, but precise in a way that bordered on inevitability. Dozens of weapons shot forward simultaneously, tearing through space with golden trails that distorted the already unstable expanse of the pocket dimension.
The wyvern twisted mid-flight, instincts screaming as it dodged. Barely. A spear grazed its flank—blood splattered, but shallow. A blade clipped its wing—enough to disrupt, not enough to cripple.
It roared, veering sharply, its massive body weaving through the sky with desperate precision.
Null followed. Unhurried. Floating upward, hands still loose, expression settling into something unmistakably regal.
"Run," he said softly, almost encouraging. "Struggle."
Another wave fired. More this time. Faster. Denser. The sky of the pocket dimension fractured under the barrage as weapons rained from every angle, forcing the wyvern into constant motion. It twisted, dove, ascended—barely staying ahead of the storm.
Some struck. Not cleanly. Not fatally. But enough. Small wounds began to accumulate—thin lines of damage across its scales.
And yet they healed. Rapidly. Faster than before. The berserk core amplification intensified. The physical stat boost from Blood Frenzy scaled due to the immense amount of damage being dealt. Its defenses hardened with every strike it endured.
The regeneration was visible now, no longer subtle. Blood-red mana surged thicker around its body in thicker layers, reinforcing, hardening. Each wound became less effective than the last.
Null noticed. Of course he did.
"Oh?" A slight lift of his brow. Then a grin. Wide. Sharp. "Now that's interesting."
Another volley. This one heavier—larger constructs, denser weapons. They struck. And this time, some didn't penetrate. They bounced. Deflected off scales that had grown harder, denser, reinforced by the very damage they'd taken.
Null let out a quiet breath. Not frustration. Something closer to appreciation.
"Adaptive defense triggered by damage accumulation, huh?" he mused, almost delighted. "That's… actually impressive."
Then his expression shifted again. Not calmer. More dangerous.
"Still doesn't change your place."
The gates behind him multiplied. More apertures layered into existence. More treasures. Layer upon layer. The sky itself began to resemble a throne room turned inside out—an overwhelming display of ownership and excess.
And then he spammed.
Weapons fired in relentless succession, no longer spaced, no longer measured. A storm of Noble Phantasms rained down, forcing the wyvern into a chaotic flight pattern across the entire dimension.
It ran. Not in fear—but in survival. Through collapsing space. Through golden trajectories that closed in from every direction. Every instinct pushed to its limit as it dove, dodged, twisted, endured. Occasionally, a weapon struck—drawing more blood, leaving more shallow wounds—but never enough to end it.
Null's gaze followed it calmly, one hand lifting slightly, fingers adjusting just enough to shift the entire storm's pattern.
He wasn't aiming to end it. Not yet.
He watched it struggle. Watched it adapt. Watched it refuse to fall.
And somewhere in that observation, his grin widened.
"You're persistent," he said, voice echoing faintly across the fractured sky. "I'll give you that."
Another wave fired. Faster.
"But don't get the wrong idea."
A spear narrowly missed the wyvern's eye. A blade shattered against its reinforced scales. Chains coiled through the air, barely evaded.
Null's gaze sharpened.
"You're still just something being allowed to survive."
He extended one hand forward. Casually. As if directing something trivial. And the entire storm adjusted. Angles shifted. Trajectories refined. The pressure increased—not in power, but in inevitability.
The wyvern roared, its movements growing more erratic, more desperate as the space around it shrank—not physically, but functionally. Every escape path narrowed under the relentless assault.
And still, Null didn't reach for anything deeper. Didn't draw upon anything that would end it instantly. Because this—this was still play.
"Entertain me a little longer," he murmured, almost softly, eyes gleaming with something unrestrained now. "Show me how long you can endure the beating and survive. Before I decide you're done."
Above him, behind him, around him—the Gate of Babylon remained open. Endless. Patient. Waiting.
Like a king's treasury—with no intention of running out.
★
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