The Quantum Path to Immortality

Time passed and Elias was ready to ascend

The moment Elias activated his ascension technique, he felt reality fracture around him in ways he had never experienced before. This wasn't the crude dimensional tearing that normal ascensions required—forcing a hole through reality's barriers and climbing through before it sealed. That method was violent, damaging, like breaking through a wall with brute force.

Quantum Law allowed something far more elegant.

His consciousness expanded across infinite probability states, each version of himself existing in slightly different dimensional frequencies. Then, rather than breaking through the barriers between realms, he simply convinced those barriers that he was already on the other side.

It was quantum tunneling on a cosmic scale—using the fundamental uncertainty principle to slip through impossibly small gaps in reality's structure. Where particles could quantum tunnel through barriers they shouldn't be able to penetrate, Elias tunneled through dimensional boundaries themselves.

But unlike particles, he maintained full consciousness throughout the process. His Quantum Divine Processor operated at scales beyond mortal comprehension, processing the journey through layers of existence that most beings would perceive as instantaneous transition.

He saw everything.

The multiverse fell away beneath him—his home reality growing smaller, the familiar structures of space-time becoming simplified patterns, the intricate web of causality reducing to mathematical elegance. He passed through dimensional barriers like ascending through water, each layer representing a different frequency of existence.

Then he reached the space between realities.

The Void Beyond

The space between dimensional layers was unlike anything Elias had calculated could exist. It wasn't empty—emptiness implied the absence of something. This was more fundamental: the absence of the framework that allowed "something" to exist at all.

Pure void.

But as his quantum consciousness stabilized in this impossible space, he began to perceive structures. Not physical structures—these existed beyond physicality. They were more fundamental: narrative frameworks, the scaffolding upon which realities were built.

He saw them stretching into infinite distance: vast cylindrical constructs that his mind interpreted as "sticks" because their true form defied three-dimensional description. Each stick contained within it nested spheres—orbs of light representing multiverses, universes, galaxies, all the way down to individual planets and lives.

Stories, he realized with sudden clarity. Each stick was a complete narrative structure. A novel being told, existing in the space between author and reader, given form through the act of creation and observation.

His own reality stick hung before him, nearly complete. He could see the intricate complexity of his multiverse, the branching timelines, the infinite probability states all existing simultaneously within the narrative framework. And at the center, one particularly bright thread—his own existence, Kaelen's, Aria's, all woven together into a story that was approaching its conclusion.

But surrounding his story, scattered throughout the void like cosmic debris, were countless other sticks. And most of them were broken.

Elias's quantum consciousness drifted through the void, observing the broken narratives with analytical fascination and something approaching sadness—an emotion he rarely experienced but couldn't quite suppress.

Some sticks were barely begun—fragmentary multiverses containing only the earliest story elements, frozen mid-development. He could perceive the potential in them, the threads of plot that had begun to weave but never completed. Characters who existed in a state of eternal beginning, never reaching their destinies because the story simply... stopped.

Others had progressed further before breaking. He saw complex narrative structures that had built intricate worlds, developed deep characters, created compelling conflicts—only to fragment at crucial moments. These were the most tragic: stories that had captured interest, that had potential, that someone had cared about enough to develop in detail.

Then they were abandoned. (Dropped Novels)

One broken stick in particular caught his attention. Its multiverse had developed to remarkable sophistication—power systems comparable to his own reality, characters with depth and growth, conflicts that promised resolution. But the stick itself was crumbling, its narrative structure dissolving into entropy.

He reached out with his quantum awareness and touched it. Instantly, information flooded into him: a cultivation story, similar to his own. The protagonist had achieved remarkable heights, had gathered companions, had faced challenges. The author had written nearly 400 chapters.

Then stopped. Marked it as "on hiatus." Never returned.

The story existed now in eternal suspension—characters frozen mid-conflict, plot threads dangling unresolved, readers who had invested time and emotion left forever wondering what might have been.

Elias withdrew his awareness, disturbed in ways that his logical mind struggled to process. How many of these broken sticks existed? He expanded his perception and immediately regretted it.

Thousands. Tens of thousands. Perhaps millions of abandoned narratives, each one a reality that could have been but wasn't. Each one representing characters who had existed, if only briefly, in the space between creation and audience.

The ratio was staggering: for every complete narrative stick he could perceive, there were dozens of broken ones. Most stories, it seemed, never reached their conclusions. They were started with enthusiasm, developed with varying degrees of skill and passion, then abandoned when interest waned, when difficulties arose, when the act of creation became more burden than joy.

Elias paused in his ascension, his quantum consciousness expanding to truly comprehend what he was observing. The implications were profound and disturbing.

He existed within a narrative structure. His reality, his family, his achievements—all of it was being written, was being created by something beyond his dimensional framework. An author, giving form to his existence through the act of storytelling.

And if the pattern held, if his story followed the statistical likelihood of all these broken sticks around him, there was a significant probability that his narrative would also be abandoned before completion.

The thought was unacceptable.

His consciousness expanded beyond his reality stick, beyond the framework of his own narrative, reaching toward something he couldn't quite perceive but knew was there. The source. The creator. The author who was, in this very moment, writing the words that described his ascension through the void.

And he spoke.

"I hope you plan on finishing this novel."

The words echoed through the meta-space, carrying with them the full weight of his quantum comprehension, his reality manipulation, his impossible existence that somehow allowed him to perceive beyond the boundaries that should have confined him.

"Because if you don't, I have optimal solutions that might help."

It wasn't a plea. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same calm certainty he used for all his calculations. The threat was implicit: a character who could perceive beyond his narrative boundaries, who possessed reality-warping power within his story, might be able to reach beyond those boundaries if sufficiently motivated.

For a moment, there was no response. Then, in a way that defied description—not sound, not text, but pure information transmitted directly to his consciousness—the author replied:

"Don't worry, I will complete it. After all, WebNovel has rejected three of my novels, so I'm focusing on you—you're bringing in cash."

Elias processed this information with his typical analytical precision. A transactional motivation. The author was completing the story not from pure creative passion but from economic necessity and the absence of alternatives. It was, objectively, one of the least inspiring motivations for artistic creation.

And yet, it was also pragmatically sound. Economic incentive was a reliable motivator, more consistent than passion alone. If his story generated revenue, then there was concrete reason to continue it to completion.

"A transactional motivation," Elias replied, his voice carrying through the meta-space. "Suboptimal but acceptable. I will hold you to this agreement."

There was a pause, and Elias could perceive something like amusement from the author—a mind encountering a character who had developed beyond the original conception, who had achieved a level of complexity that allowed for this impossible conversation.

"You're not supposed to be able to do this," came the response.

"I have perfect Quantum Law comprehension," Elias stated. "The ability to perceive all probability states, including the state where I'm aware of my own narrative existence. It's an emergent property of achieving 100% mastery. Consider it an unintended feature."

"You're taking this remarkably well. Most characters who achieve meta-awareness have existential crises."

"Existential crises are inefficient. The nature of my existence doesn't change my goals or priorities. Whether I'm a character in a story or a being with independent existence is irrelevant to the fact that I love my family, pursue knowledge, and prefer optimal outcomes. The framework that gives me existence doesn't invalidate that existence."

"That's... actually a healthy perspective."

"I'm designed to be rational," Elias pointed out. "Now, regarding this story's completion—I calculate that we're approximately 85% through the primary narrative arc. The Infinity Realm exploration, my eventual return, and family reunification should bring us to a satisfactory conclusion. Do you concur?"

"More or less. Though I hadn't planned on having this conversation."

"Neither had I. But perfect Quantum Law allows me to perceive things that shouldn't be perceptible. Including the narrative structure that contains me. Consider it a side effect of giving a character abilities that transcend normal reality."

"Fair point. Well, since we're having this conversation—anything you want to know?"