I Own the Multiverse's General Store!

The Core Citadel hummed with new life.

Once silent, cold, and reserved for those few deemed worthy by the old law, it now pulsed with movement, thought, and potential. No longer merely a throne room, it had become a crossroads—where the dreams of the Multiverse converged.

The Grand Hall, formerly a chamber of judgment, had transformed into a living amphitheater. Its marble columns had softened into fluid trees of crystal and thought, their branches weaving through starlit air, shedding particles of light that whispered fragments of philosophy and hope. Above them, a dome of swirling constellations responded to the mood of the room, mapping emotional resonance and ideological tension like celestial currents.

Here, Lucius would assemble his Council.

Not of nobles, not of conquerors—but of voices.

They arrived in waves.

From the molten heart of a world made of flame, came Sol'Ahn, the Living Inferno—once a tyrant, now reborn. His skin glowed with ever-burning embers, and his footsteps left warmth in their wake. He bowed not in submission, but in solidarity.

From the harmonic layers of a sentient sea came Maerith, a being of current and song, whose form shimmered between water and sound. Her people had once known only unity, and her voice echoed with centuries of collective grief—and curiosity.

From the shattered crystal towers of Jharidan, a realm still healing, came a half-blood healer named Eloreh. Her robes were woven with fragments of ancient lawbooks. She walked with a cane, but her gaze was fierce—unafraid of kings or gods.

And there were others.

Dozens. Then hundreds.

From cloud-throned worlds to subterranean voids.

From creatures of rhythm to beings of silence.

From dream-born diplomats to deathless seers.

Some ancient. Some new.

Some who looked human. Others who shimmered with essence instead of form.

And they came not to kneel—but to stand.

Lucius welcomed each with open hands.

The newly forged dais at the center of the hall pulsed with every voice it recorded, absorbing debates and truths like roots drawing rain. Ethereal bridges flowed from each seat to the heart of the platform, a metaphor made literal—every voice mattered, every perspective connected.

Lilith stood beside him, arms crossed, but her eyes betrayed her pride. Her flames responded to the mood, soft golden embers trailing like petals in her wake.

Alexia sat upright at the judicial pillar, observing with an analytical grace. She had already categorized every speaker, cross-referenced cultural cues, and begun outlining consensus zones.

Luna? Luna drifted.

Not just physically. She danced between delegates, whispered things into their ears that made them laugh—or reconsider. Her presence disarmed, destabilized, and then gently challenged. A disruption by design.

Walter moved through the crowd like a river of calm. He listened more than he spoke, scribbling into his eternal ledger not rulings, but reflections.

Lucius finally stepped forward.

The hall dimmed.

Not by force.

By focus.

He projected no power—only presence.

"I did not bring you here to rule you," he began, his voice warm and resonant. "I brought you here to build with you."

He lifted a hand.

Above the chamber, a model of the Multiverse unfolded—a living tapestry of pulsing strands, intersecting and diverging. Each strand lit as a representative stood.

"There is no longer one law, one ruler, one future. There is only the shape we choose together."

Sol'Ahn rose first. "And if our visions clash?"

Lucius smiled. "Then we forge a third path—together."

Maerith sang a ripple of agreement, her voice part melody, part emotion.

Eloreh tapped her cane once against the floor. "Then we must ensure no voice is lost beneath another's shadow."

A murmur passed through the crowd. Not doubt. Not resistance.

Hope.

After the first session concluded, a secondary chamber opened—a garden of converging cultures. Trees from one world grew beside hovering waterfalls from another. Thought-beasts whispered myths to each other beneath the canopy of possibility.

Lucius moved among them, not as a king, but as a witness.

He found Sol'Ahn kneeling beside a child from a starlit refugee colony. The fire-king conjured a miniature sun just to make her smile.

He found Maerith harmonizing with an insectoid envoy from the Hive-Nexus, weaving empathy from shared vibration.

He found Luna flirting with an ancient dragon who had once eaten prophets for sport.

He found Lilith, alone by a pond, watching her reflection ripple not with fire—but peace.

He found Walter asleep beneath a tree made of parchment.

And when Lucius looked up—

The constellations above them had shifted again.

A new pattern had formed.

Not prophecy.

Becoming.

***

As the Council of Becoming began weaving the earliest frameworks of the new Multiverse Accord, a message arrived—silent, subtle, and impossible to ignore.

It was not written.

It was dreamed.

Every sleeping soul within the Core Citadel, from the lowliest courier to the highest delegate, awoke with the same image burned behind their eyes:

A forge of starlight, veiled in mist.

A hammer made of lullabies and lightning.

A figure with hands of smoke, crafting something not of metal—but of meaning.

Lucius, too, had dreamed it.

He awoke not with fear or confusion, but with a calm certainty humming through his veins.

And when he rose, the first thing he said was, "The Dreamsmith is calling."

None knew exactly where the Dreamsmith resided. Not even Walter, who had memorized the map of every known realm, charted the routes through dying dimensions, and witnessed the birth of conceptual layers.

But the Crown had begun to pulse with strange rhythm, humming a path through thought, not space.

They followed that resonance through layers of forgotten realms.

Past the spiral of Time's Loophole.

Through the veil of Abandoned Truths.

And into the Fractured Horizon—a tear in the edge of potentiality, where unfinished worlds drifted like forgotten sketches, some still whispering dreams that had never been fulfilled.

There, suspended in a current of half-felt memories, they found the gate.

It was unlike anything they had ever seen. Made of golden filigree and stardust chains, it shimmered like a lullaby caught in twilight. Its locks were not forged but remembered.

It did not open with force.

It opened with intent.

Lucius placed a hand upon it, and it dissolved beneath his touch like frost kissed by sunrise.

He passed through first.

Then Lilith, her fire subdued, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.

Then Alexia, silent and composed.

Then Luna, smirking faintly, though she too felt the gravity of this place.

And Walter, last of all, stepped through with a bow of the head, as if entering sacred ground.

The Forge of Dreams did not obey the rules of space.

It floated in an endless sky of twilight clouds, suspended among drifting islands of memory and possibility.

Anvils larger than cities spun lazily beside flickers of forgotten oaths.

Forges burned not with flame, but with forgotten intentions.

Chains forged from compassion. Steel tempered by pain. Runes inscribed with laughter and regret.

And at the center stood the Dreamsmith.

He was tall, yes—but his form was… unstable. One moment, a child with starfire eyes. The next, a titan cloaked in galaxies. Then a hunched figure whispering to themselves beneath a hood made of yesterday's wind.

He was not singular.

He was dreams given voice.

And his voice…

It was wind through storybooks.

It was lullabies sung to the dying.

It was potential, breathing.

He did not greet them in ceremony.

He simply held out a single glowing spark.

"Your reign," he said, voice rippling across reality, "needs a vessel."

Lucius stepped forward.

"What kind of vessel?"

"One that remembers," said the Dreamsmith. "One that learns. One that evolves with every truth you earn."

The spark hovered above his hand, spinning slowly.

"This is not a weapon. It is not a throne. It is you—made manifest. But to shape it, you must face your deepest contradiction."

Lucius's brow furrowed. "Contradiction?"

The Dreamsmith nodded, motioning toward the sky.

Above, the twilight parted.

And a storm took shape—a swirling spiral of all the choices Lucius had not made. Every path not walked. Every alliance not forged. Every act of mercy not given. Every rage not indulged.

The storm shrieked.

"I offer you no tool," the Dreamsmith said. "I offer you yourself. But first, you must survive who you might have been."

Lucius turned to his allies.

Lilith drew her blade. "We go with you."

The Dreamsmith shook his head.

"This trial is yours alone. It must be. For no ruler can be whole if they do not reconcile their unbecoming."

Lucius looked to the storm.

It looked back.

Then he stepped into it.

And the trial began.

***

Lucius stepped into the storm.

The moment he crossed the veil, color vanished. Sound dissolved. The concept of presence fractured like glass beneath his feet. Time scattered. Self blurred.

The storm was not weather.

It was possibility made violent.

And it wanted to unmake him.

He landed—if the word could be used—on a mirrored plain where the sky bled smoke and memories. Reflections of himself surrounded him, each one tethered to a path he had never taken.

One version wore armor soaked in blood, a tyrant who had ruled through fear.

Another stood alone, cloaked in ash, having sacrificed all others for peace.

A third wept openly, weak and broken, having abandoned his throne rather than face loss.

A fourth laughed, mad with immortality, his eyes vacant.

Lucius watched them form a circle around him. They spoke in unison.

"We are your unbecoming."

He drew breath. "Then you are my responsibility."

And they attacked.