I Own the Multiverse's General Store!

In the highest chamber of the Multiverse King's Citadel, light poured like golden wine through crystalline arches, washing over the polished obsidian floor in languid waves. The air shimmered faintly, not from heat, but from the residue of divine intent. This was a place shaped by Will, carved from the bones of reality, and now it responded to Lucius—not with fear, nor resistance, but reverent silence. The throne at the heart of the chamber no longer rejected him. It pulsed faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat, as though waiting.

Lucius stood before it, cloaked in the mantle of authority, but weighed by the stillness of victory. He had earned the seat, yes—through trials that tested more than flesh. Each pillar claimed had not merely granted him power, but unravelled pieces of what he had been. Mortality had been shed like old skin. Now, every step he took echoed through worlds he hadn't yet walked.

Behind him, the great double doors groaned open. Walter entered with measured steps, his ancient face unreadable. But in his eyes was a depth that shimmered somewhere between awe and the lingering grief of an old wound finally salved.

"She knows you've risen," Walter said quietly, bowing his head. "The Woman on the Throne Eternal. The Betrayer."

Lucius's fingers curled against his palm. Not in anger, but focus. His gaze remained on the throne.

"And she will not yield it easily."

Walter lifted his head. "She has seen your path as clearly as I have. For centuries she has ruled not as a monarch, but a parasite. Feeding off what remained of the True King's legacy. That legacy is yours now."

Lucius stepped forward. He didn't yet sit.

Instead, his thoughts turned to the women who had helped him rise. Morgana, whose fire had sharpened his spirit. Alexia, timeless and proud, who had taught him what it meant to command without fear. Luna, who had given him gentleness without weakness. Lilith, whose jealousy burned with a devotion that refused to let him fall. Romie, Aria, and the others, each shaping some corner of his soul with touch, faith, and challenge.

"Summon them all," he said.

Walter blinked. "Here?"

Lucius nodded. "They are not ornaments to be placed in courts. They are queens. Warriors. Pillars. This throne is not mine unless it honors the strength of those who carried me."

Walter bowed again, deeper this time, and left without another word.

What followed was not ceremony. No horns. No fanfare. No silken banners rising on celestial winds. The throne did not demand such things.

What came was presence.

Morgana arrived first, cloaked in robes that flickered like oil on water, her eyes sharp with battle-readiness even here. She said nothing, only crossed the chamber and placed a hand on Lucius's chest, grounding him.

Then Alexia, a wind before a storm, regal and eternal. She offered no bow. Her gaze alone was salute.

Luna, radiant in soft blue, met Lucius with a kiss not of passion, but oath. Her light was not a weapon, but a promise.

Lilith trailed after, reluctant and radiant, lips twitching with mischief she refused to abandon even now. Her eyes searched for doubt in Lucius, found none, and softened.

Romie came barefoot, her connection to the Veil plain in her aura. She carried flowers that hadn't bloomed in this realm for eons. Aria was last, her eyes wide, as though she still could not believe her place among titans.

They encircled him. Not as a harem. Not as subordinates.

As anchors.

Lucius turned to the throne.

And sat.

The chamber responded with a long exhale, as though the world itself had been holding its breath. Runes flared across the floor in geometries older than time, tracing sigils of acknowledgment and right.

"The Throne of Origin recognizes you," Walter intoned, his voice now amplified by the Citadel itself.

"Lucius, Heir of the Fallen Line.

Breaker of Pillars.

Bearer of Keys.

Chosen by the Veil and the Flame.

Rise now, not as challenger—but King."

The light in the room bent, turned, and focused not on Lucius, but on the women around him. Power moved from the throne outward, marking them not as consorts, but as Guardians of the Multiversal Seat. Each was gifted a Crownless Sigil, invisible to mortals, eternal to creation.

And far beyond, in the Throne Eternal, the Woman who had usurped the True King felt a tremor she had not known since she claimed the seat. She stood in her garden of glass, staring into a mirror that no longer reflected her alone.

She saw him.

Lucius.

And she felt the first threads of fear uncoil.

The next move would not come with war.

Not yet.

But Lucius was now known. By gods. By traitors. By worlds desperate for change.

And the Multiverse—for the first time in centuries—breathed in a new name.

Lucius.

***

Lucius stood beneath the obsidian archway of the Memory Spire, the vast monolith etched with symbols from across countless realms—forgotten runes of titans, celestial glyphs, and demonic tongues layered like veins of history. The spire pulsed with latent power, casting elongated shadows across the courtyard like grasping hands reaching back through time. The ground underfoot was a mosaic of broken mirrors, reflecting every version of himself that had walked the roads of suffering, triumph, lust, and loyalty.

He had returned not just as a claimant to the throne, but as a man irrevocably changed by trials, bindings, and revelations. The air here was heavy with meaning. It wasn't merely atmosphere—it was legacy breathing down his neck.

Alexia stood beside him, her platinum hair a shimmering contrast against the black of her ceremonial armor, which had once belonged to the Queen of Nocturne. Her crimson eyes, twin pools of ancient cunning and restored strength, remained fixed on the spire's peak. "This place remembers everything," she murmured, voice soft, almost reverent. "Your blood. Your betrayal. Your right."

Walter's hand rested on Lucius' shoulder, firmer than usual, and warmer too, as though even the ancient being had been moved. "It begins here," he said. "The coronation of a true King of the Multiverse is not performed. It is earned. The final proof is not in conquest—but in coherence."

The Memory Spire would not simply crown Lucius. It would test every fiber of his being: memory, desire, regret, and resolve. And more than that—it would measure the strength of the women he carried in his wake. For the Multiverse was built on threads of connection, not iron.

The first to step forward was Luna.

Her bare feet pressed into the mirrored stone, where reflections of her past selves twisted beneath her like spectral vines. The Spire reacted immediately—its obsidian surface glowed with moonlight, invoking her bloodline, her pain, and her potential. A path rose from the ground, unfurling before her in a winding staircase of levitating shards, each sharp enough to slice skin, each pulsing with her fears.

She looked back at Lucius once, and his nod was all she needed.

Luna ascended. Each step forced a vision: her mother burning under a false sun, the chains of her servitude, the face of the noble who'd once tried to collar her like an animal. She bled from her soles, her breath short, her mind on fire. But she climbed. With grace, with pain, and with determination only love could root deep.

When she reached the platform above, she did not stand alone. Her memories stood with her—but they bowed.

The Spire accepted her.

Then came Lilith.

Jealousy incarnate, wrath wrapped in silk. She did not take a path of shards. The Spire responded differently to her. A mirror rose from the center of the floor, tall and thin, and before it—a replica of herself. Lilith vs. Lilith. The duel would not be physical.

"You don't trust him," the mirror-Lilith hissed.

"I do," she said, curling her fingers. "I just hate the others."

"You hate yourself."

The battle was a blur of emotion. Every time she tried to strike, the mirror twisted her attack inward. Every accusation she threw at the others rebounded. She cried, she screamed, she tore at her own skin. But in the end, she embraced the mirror.

"I am flawed," she whispered. "But I am his."

The mirror shattered.

The Spire accepted her.

Next was Morgana Vera—the last of the pillars, the dark flame bound by her own past sins and endless desire for absolution.

Unlike the others, the Spire showed her not memories—but futures. Futures where she failed. Where she betrayed Lucius. Where she consumed him like all others before. The temptation to fall back into monstrous hunger was profound.

"I won't let it be true," she said, her body trembling.

The Spire challenged her again, this time with visions of her daughter—born from the new world, but burning under the flame of her former self.

Morgana fell to her knees, clutching her chest.

"I'm more than what I was," she gasped. "And I won't let my sins define what I love."

She reached into the fire of the vision and pulled the child out.

The Spire accepted her.

Then came Alexia. Her trial was not external. No path. No mirror. No fire.

The Spire simply opened.

Because she had once sat upon the throne.

Because she had once bled for it.

Because she had once given it up for someone greater.

And she had returned to see that someone rise.

Finally, Lucius stepped forward.

The Spire did not glow. It did not rise or challenge.

It whispered.

"What are you?" it asked.

He did not answer.

Instead, Lucius walked forward.

And the doors parted.

Inside was not a chamber, but a cosmos. Stars spun slowly in an infinite void. Threads of gold, red, and violet wove between them like strands of a great loom. In the center was the Throne Eternal—empty.

But not cold.

The moment he approached, he felt the pulse of the previous King.

And the betrayal.

Her name was Saelira.

Once the Queen of Continuum. Once the consort of the true King. And now the usurper.

Walter's voice echoed, though he did not speak. "She is near. She sees you."

And Saelira did see. Her voice echoed through the chamber like wind wrapped in silk.

"So, you are the little spark Walter protected. I thought I snuffed your line."

Lucius raised his head. "And yet here I stand. With their strength behind me."

In the heavens above, seven stars aligned.

Each woman glowed with celestial power, their trials etched into the very cosmos. They formed a crown not of gold, but of conviction. Their light pierced the void. The Throne responded. Not with fire. Not with music.

But with a heartbeat.

Lucius sat.

And the Multiverse knelt.