So, although he couldn't use his Dinsion Superpower to teleport them, Parker had already figured out a workaround—painting.
It wasn't as instant as blinking them across space, but who cared about shortcuts when he had an Overpriced Cosmic Quill and an Endless Supply of Phoenix Tears for ink? If reality refused to give him a doorway, then fine—he'd just draw one himself.
Parker exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was about to crack his knuckles against the universe itself. He could feel Ere's stare burning into the side of his face, but he ignored it. Yeah, yeah—he knew what she was thinking. Why the hell are you drawing when we could just teleport?
Except they couldn't.
He'd locked this place down so hard that even he had to be careful getting in. Not even Ere, with all her dinsion-warping bullshit, could just pop them in there without his direct touch. Even if he shared his mories with her—even if she had been there before but forgot—it wouldn't work. The security he'd set up was absolute.
And runes? Pfft. Not an option.
Runes were old as ti, complex as hell, and stubborn as a pissed-off god. A single mistake, and instead of teleporting, he'd probably just blow a hole in existence. And with his current power? Yeah. Using runes right now would be like trying to punch through a concrete wall with a ballpoint pen.
So yeah. That left painting.
Parker crouched down, flicking his wrist as he summoned the Overpriced Quill. The mont Parker crouched, the world seed to still.There was no rush, no urgency—just deliberation, patience, inevitability.
The mont the feather touched his fingertips, a faint glow traced along its edge—white-hot, cosmic, untad. This wasn't just a quill. It was a phoenix's first molted feather, dipped in tears that refused to run dry. A brat's blessing, literally.
And now? Ti to put it to work.
With a smooth motion, he pressed the quill to the ground. The second the tip touched the dirt—whoosh. A pulse of invisible energy scattered every grain of dust away, leaving behind a perfectly smooth, untouched canvas of earth. Ere sucked in a breath, her tail flicking.
And then Parker moved.
His movents were unhurried, yet with each stroke of the quill, an invisible weight pressed down on the air, like the universe itself was holding its breath.
The first line shimred into existence, not as ink but as sothing deeper, sothing ancient. It pulsed with aning, as if the very fabric of reality recognized what was being written and bowed in quiet submission.
Then his hand blurred, the quill a streak of white light as it glided, cut, and carved into reality itself. Lines curved and stretched in a way that shouldn't have been possible—too smooth, too perfect, too alive.
It was like watching a 3D printer on god-mode, only instead of layering plastic, it was manifesting pure concept.
Parker's expression was unreadable—not cold, not distant, but sothing untouchable. Like a sage who had spent lifetis in silent contemplation, like an artist who had long since surpassed the need for mortal tools. Each stroke was effortless yet absolute, carrying the sa weight as a king's decree, a god's will.
The ground did not resist him. The cosmos did not question him.
They rely accepted.
Ere, for once, didn't speak. She just watched, her usually sharp tongue caught in the gravity of the mont. Her jaw hung open. "What the actual fuck—" only she who was watching understood how profound each stroke of the quill was.
The air thickened, vibrating with an unseen force. The ink didn't just sit on the earth—it sank into it, rging, rewriting the rules beneath it. The sky above seed darker, or maybe brighter, as if the stars themselves had leaned in, watching, waiting.
A single brushstroke, and the heavens shuddered.
A curved line, and the wind sighed.
Parker exhaled slowly, his fingers never faltering.
He didn't slow down. His strokes were effortless, almost lazy, but the result? Ridiculous.
The ink pulsed, rippled, flickered between dinsions, reacting to sothing deeper than just art. The design—whatever the hell it was—seed to shift with every glance, like reality was struggling to process what he was making.
He barely noticed Ere stepping closer, her ears twitching wildly.
"Okay, first of all," she muttered. "What the fuck are you drawing?"
Parker didn't answer. He just kept going, his mind locked in that strange, hyper-focused zone where nothing existed but the lines. The strokes. The flow.
It wasn't just a painting. It was a doorway. A threshold.
A final stroke—an ending, a beginning—and the painting breathed..And when he finally finished, he stood up, rolling his wrist like it was no big deal.
The ink didn't dry. It shimred. Warped. Breathed. Like it was seconds away from peeling itself off the ground and becoming sothing else.
Parker tilted his head. His eyes were calm, indifferent. The mont had passed. The weight was gone.
"Well," he muttered. "That should do it."
Ere just stared at him, looked back at the painting, then back at him. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
For a mont, just a fleeting mont—he hadn't seed human.
And all it took was five seconds to make Ere doubt herself and her own eyes. "…I fucking hate you sotis."
Ere had seen Parker do impossible things before—had watched him defy logic, rewrite the rules of understanding like they were nothing but suggestions. Like the ti he suddenly got white flas, no explanation, no buildup, just—boom, new power, deal with it.
But this? This was different.
This wasn't raw power. Wasn't brute force. Wasn't even that terrifying cold precision he usually carried himself with. This was sothing older. Sothing deeper. He had brought sothing into existence with just drawing. She felt as if Parker could paint anything into life as long as his will stood.
It felt inevitable. Like the stars in the sky, like the turning of the world. As if Parker wasn't just painting—but creating. And that? That unsettled her more than anything else.
She was witnessing Parker using his power for the first ti, and he wasn't flexing so wild energy attack or doing sothing flashy. No. The guy was just moving his hands with a quill—an actual phoenix feather, dripping endlessly with the most precious tears in existence.
Who said phoenix tears were rare when this jackass was out here scribbling nonsense on the dirt with them?
Reviews
All reviews (0)