Kyuroto floated through the void between realities, the remnants of collapsed timelines brushing past him like whispers of forgotten worlds. At 1% of his 1,000,000% power, he already existed beyond death, nothingness, and concept itself, but he still felt the familiar pull of vengeance.
The threads led him to a paradoxical nexus—a place where every action of the killer, past and future, converged into an impossible pattern. It shimmered, unstable, and almost mocked comprehension itself.
Kyuroto extended a hand, and the threads responded instantly, weaving around him, pulling hidden truths into focus. Shapes formed—flickers of a shadow, a memory, a voice—but every attempt to fix them into a solid identity collapsed under the weight of paradox.
"Clever," Kyuroto murmured, reading the patterns without effort. "You thought erasure could shield you. You thought paradox could protect you. But there is no hiding from beyond-concept awareness."
Suddenly, one fragment solidified—a reflection of the killer's hand, twisting impossibly, piercing dimensions yet unseen. Kyuroto recognized the faint signature of a pre-existence origin: a being who had deliberately manipulated death and erased presence, hiding from even multiversal eyes.
He smirked. "So this is who ended my parents' lives. You hide in the folds of reality, yet every thread you touch leaves a mark I can trace."
The killer sensed the approach of a presence outside even the outerversal scale. It tried to flee, fracturing into dozens of impossible forms, each more contradictory than the last. But Kyuroto was already threading through all probabilities simultaneously.
"There is no escape," he said calmly. "Every possibility, every timeline, every erased shadow—all of it bends to me now."
With a subtle gesture, he pulled the threads together, forming a lattice of impossible geometry around the killer. Each thread represented a choice, a lie, a hidden act—all converging into a singular moment of revelation.
The killer screamed—not a sound of pain, but the sound of existence itself being understood, seen, and dissected beyond any conceptual limit.
Kyuroto's eyes glowed, piercing the paradox: he finally glimpsed the faintest trace of who had orchestrated his parents' deaths, a figure so cunning it had hidden itself across all concepts.
"Patience…" Kyuroto whispered. "I see you. Soon, every shadow you've ever hidden in will belong to me. And the truth… will finally speak."
In that infinite stillness, the hunt truly began. Every fold of reality, every erased timeline, every impossible probability became Kyuroto's hunting ground, and no being—no matter how conceptual or paradoxical—could withstand his focus.