The Sanctum’s trainee residential wing was quiet by the time Null returned.

  Evening light filtered through the tall arched window of his room, washing the stone walls in muted gold. His quarters were modest—a bed, desk, bookshelf, narrow wardrobe, and a small attached kitchenette that most trainees barely used beyond boiling water.

  Null did not fall into the category of “most trainees.”

  He removed his coat, washed the dust and faint grim residue from his hands, tied his long white hair loosely at the back, and rolled up his sleeves.

  Tonight’s ingredients sat neatly arranged on the counter:

  Mana-infused grain.

  Riverleaf greens.

  A cut of firehorn stag meat—lean, faintly marbled with red mana veins that shimmered if you looked closely enough.

  A small vial of crushed ember-pepper.

  And salt.

  Always salt.

  He lit the rune-stove with a flick of mana.

  The flame hummed softly.

  As he began slicing the meat into thin strips, something surfaced in his mind unbidden—

  A cramped apartment kitchen.

  A cheap gas stove.

  Late-night cooking videos.

  The smell of garlic hitting hot oil.

  He paused mid-slice.

  Then—unexpectedly—he chuckled.

  It slipped out of him without warning.

  A soft, almost nostalgic sound.

  The knife continued moving.

  From nowhere and everywhere at once, a voice echoed lightly within his consciousness.

  [Master.]

  Null did not look up.

  “Yes, Fantasy Omniscience-san.”

  The presence stirred faintly—curious.

  [You are exhibiting unusual facial activity while preparing sustenance. Your lips curved upward twice. Statistical anomaly.]

  Null smirked. “Ah. That.”

  [What is so amusing?] she asked. [Is the ingredient quality of this world unsatisfactory to you?]

  He exhaled quietly through his nose.

  “No, Fantasy Omniscience-san. The ingredients here are incomparable to those of my home world.”

  A pause.

  [How so?]

  He slid the sliced meat into a bowl and began lightly salting it.

  “Well… my home didn’t have magic.”

  He reached for the ember-pepper, sprinkling just enough.

  “The ingredients there were purely nature’s work. No mana-infused soil. The vegetables grew from sunlight, water, and minerals—untouched by supernatural interference.”

  He tossed the meat with practiced efficiency.

  “Here, even the grain hums faintly with magical properties. The greens absorb ambient mana. That firehorn stag likely spent its life grazing on mineral-rich, mana-saturated terrain.”

  He dropped the meat onto the hot pan.

  It sizzled instantly.

  “In my world, flavor complexity came from chemical reactions. The Maillard reaction. Caramelization. Emulsification. Precise temperature control.”

  He flipped a strip midair with the edge of the spatula.

  “Here, flavor complexity can literally come from ambient magical radiation.”

  Fantasy Omniscience processed this.

  [So your home’s ingredients were… weaker?]

  “In terms of mystical properties? Absolutely.”

  He added chopped riverleaf greens to the pan.

  “They could not strengthen the body. Could not enhance stamina. Could not temporarily increase mana capacity.”

  [Correct,] she replied smoothly. [In this world, certain dishes enhance muscle density, accelerate cellular regeneration, and even stabilize emotional fluctuations.]

  “And mana-grain increases internal reserves marginally.”

  [Yes.]

  [There exist documented meals,] she added, [capable of temporarily heightening spiritual awareness and dream-state clarity.]

  Null nodded slightly. “Objectively speaking, this world’s ingredients are miraculous.”

  He plated the seared meat and greens, adding a scoop of mana-grain to the side.

  He paused.

  Then shook his head faintly.

  “But.”

  Fantasy Omniscience perked up at the tonal shift.

  [But?]

  Null picked up his fork.

  “I agree that the ingredients here are extraordinary.”

  He took a bite. Chewed thoughtfully.

  “However.”

  A small smirk curved his lips.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “I disagree about something.”

  [Clarify]

  “The taste.”

  A beat of silence.

  [Elaborate]

  “In my home,” Null said, leaning back slightly against the counter, “centuries of scientific analysis and culinary experimentation refined flavor balance to an absurd degree. Sweetness measured against acidity. Umami amplified through fermentation. Precise heat control. Controlled caramelization.”

  He gestured lightly with his knife.

  “Every flavor profile dissected. Optimized. Replicated.”

  “Entire industries existed solely to perfect snack foods.”

  Fantasy Omniscience was quiet for a moment.

  […Snack foods?]

  “Yes.”

  [Define.]

  “Small, often nutritionally questionable consumables designed purely for pleasure.”

  A pause.

  […I am uncertain whether to categorize that as cultural advancement or collective self-harm.]

  Null laughed softly. “Fair assessment.”

  “In this world, the ingredients are powerful. Nutrient-dense. Mana-rich.”

  He tapped the plate lightly.

  “But the cooking? At least what I’ve had so far—especially in the trainee residence?”

  He made a vague gesture.

  “It’s… functional.”

  Fantasy Omniscience responded immediately.

  [The Sanctum prepares meals optimized for trainee recovery and energy stability.]

  “Yes.”

  [Flavor variance is considered secondary.]

  “Exactly.”

  [It is efficient. Balanced. Nutritionally superior.]

  “But it lacks… experimentation.”

  [You desire controlled culinary chaos.]

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  He smirked faintly.

  “Back home, chefs would layer flavors intentionally. Contrast textures. Infuse oils. Ferment ingredients for weeks.”

  He looked down at the mana-grain.

  “This grain probably contains more mystical potential than any rice I’ve eaten in my previous life.”

  He took another bite.

  “Yet no one has attempted to turn it into a properly seasoned fried dish.”

  Fantasy Omniscience paused thoughtfully.

  [You believe this world underutilizes its magical ingredients in terms of sensory optimization.]

  “Yes.”

  [You intend to correct this.]

  He smiled slightly. “Perhaps.”

  “To be fair,” he added, wiping his hands, “I’ve mostly eaten trainee meals and field rations since arriving.”

  [So your data pool is limited.]

  “Correct.”

  Fantasy Omniscience spoke more softly.

  [There are regions in this world renowned for culinary mastery. The Atlantis Empire, for example, is documented to possess advanced gastronomic traditions that combine magical infusion with aesthetic presentation.]

  Null paused mid-bite.

  “Oh?”

  [Yes. Particularly among high nobility.]

  He stared at his plate thoughtfully.

  “…Interesting.”

  [You appear intrigued.]

  “I am evaluating future research opportunities.”

  [You mean dining.]

  “Terminology varies.”

  He continued eating, slower now.

  Comfortable.

  “I will admit,” he said quietly, “this world’s ingredients possess potential beyond anything my previous world could produce.”

  Fantasy Omniscience replied gently, [And your previous world possessed refinement beyond this one.]

  “Yes.”

  Her tone softened just a fraction.

  [Master.]

  “Yes?”

  [You appear… lighter while discussing your former world’s cuisine.]

  He paused.

  Water ran quietly as he rinsed the plate.

  “Food,” he said after a moment, “is one of the few universal comforts across worlds.”

  A brief silence.

  Then—

  He smirked faintly again.

  “Besides. If I survive long enough, I might revolutionize this world’s culinary arts.”

  […You intend to conquer battlefields and kitchens simultaneously?]

  “Efficiency,” he replied solemnly. “Why limit my ambitions?”

  Fantasy Omniscience processed this.

  […Understood. I will begin compiling comparative seasoning matrices between Earth-based and mana-based ingredients.]

  Null laughed softly. “Of course you will.”

  He dried his hands, extinguished the rune-stove, and finally sat at his desk.

  The room settled into quiet once more.

  But the faint trace of amusement lingered in the air—

  ****

  Null stretched his arms over his head as the quiet of the room deepened.

  Shoulders rolled.

  Neck loosened.

  A faint crack of joints.

  “Acceptable nutritional outcome,” he declared to no one in particular.

  [Caloric intake sufficient. Mana absorption within optimal range.]

  “Thank you for the post-meal performance review.”

  He stepped away from the desk and, without ceremony, flopped backward onto the bed.

  The mattress gave a soft thud beneath him.

  One arm draped over his eyes.

  The other hung loosely off the edge.

  Silence.

  Then—

  He shifted slightly and turned his head toward the window.

  The white moon of this world was rising.

  It dominated the sky.

  Not gently.

  Not subtly.

  It was enormous—at least ninety-nine times the size of Earth’s moon, a colossal silver disc climbing slowly above the Sanctum’s towers. Its light poured into the room like diluted milk, washing everything in pale luminescence.

  Null watched it absentmindedly.

  “…That thing still feels illegal.”

  [Its gravitational equilibrium is maintained through layered celestial mana currents,] Fantasy Omniscience replied.

  “I know. That does not make it less absurd.”

  The moon climbed higher.

  His thoughts drifted.

  Then—

  Suddenly, a memory of the earlier conversation swept over him—the playful exchange between himself, Sora, and Illiana.

  His curiosity sharpened.

  Illiana’s teasing.

  That passing comment.

  A boy under pressure.

  Cultists.

  A Saintess saved.

  Null lowered his arm from his eyes.

  “Fantasy Omniscience-san.”

  [Yes, Master.]

  “About that boy Illiana mentioned earlier.”

  [The individual who repelled cultists and assisted the Saintess under extreme stress?]

  “Yes. That one.”

  A faint pause.

  “…Why does that feel like a cliché plot scene from some academy-based novel?”

  Silence lingered for a fraction longer than usual.

  [It is possible, Master. It is a recognizable narrative pattern.]]

  Null’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “So it’s not just me.”

  [No.]

  He exhaled softly.

  “Does that mean that guy is a protagonist?”

  A beat.

  “Wait.”

  He stared at the moon again.

  “Do protagonists even exist in this world?”

  A calm, unwavering response:

  [Yes. They do.]

  Null blinked.

  “…They do?”

  [Affirmative.]

  He sat up halfway.

  "You serious?"

  [Yes.]

  He ran a hand through his white hair.

  “So this is that kind of setting.”

  His tone shifted—half incredulous, half amused.

  “Is this like one of those ‘I Am the Fated Villain’ type novels where those fortunate bastards known as ‘heavenly children’ roam around like rare commodities?”

  Fantasy Omniscience went quiet.

  Then—

  […Analyzing the mortal plane designated ‘Earth.’ Acquiring narrative data regarding ‘I Am the Fated Villain.’]

  Null lay back down, folding his hands behind his head.

  “Go on. I’ll wait.”

  […Acquisition complete. Cross-referencing cosmological patterns.]

  A short pause.

  [Except for the cultivation hierarchy and macro world-building, there are limited parallels—at least regarding the ‘heavenly children’ part. Other than that, these two fictions are incomparable]

  Null turned his head slowly.

  “…Did you just compare this world to a fiction?”

  Fantasy Omniscience chose silence. Admitting that would mean breaking the fourth wall.

  “…Fantasy Omniscience-san.”

  No response.

  “…You’re avoiding that.”

  [Moving forward.]

  He snorted.

  “As expected.”

  Her tone resumed, calm and composed.

  [In our cosmology, each world possesses only one protagonist at a time.]

  “Only one?”

  [Yes.]

  “So no swarm of destiny-favored golden luck parasites running around collecting cheat skills like festival prizes?”

  [Negative.]

  “Shame. I was preparing anti-protagonist contingency plans.”

  [Unnecessary.]

  He tapped his fingers lightly against the mattress.

  “And these protagonists,” he continued, “do they possess absurd luck? The kind where treasures trip over themselves to land in their pockets?”

  [Not in the exaggerated manner common in Earth-based web fiction.]

  “Ah.”

  [They do not receive everything upon a golden plate. Events will not always unfold in their favor.]

  “Reasonable.”

  [However.]

  He smirked faintly. “There it is.”

  [They do possess a degree of narrative resilience.]

  “…Plot armor.”

  [To some extent.]

  Null exhaled through his nose.

  “How comforting.”

  Fantasy Omniscience continued, voice steady.

  [The reason an individual is labeled ‘protagonist’ in our cosmology is not due to convenience or shallow fortune.]

  “Then what qualifies them?”

  [Because they possess Supreme Destiny.]

  The term hung in the air.

  “Oh? Quite interesting. But what exactly is ‘Supreme Destiny’?” Null's curiosity deepened, intrigued by the concept's potential implications.

  The moonlight shifted across the room as it climbed higher.

  [Supreme Destiny refers to an individual born once per era within a world. Someone whose existence is interwoven with that world’s survival.]

  He listened carefully now.

  [If the world faces collapse—be it demonic invasion, internal decay, or existential erosion—the protagonist emerges as a fulcrum axis.]

  “Axis,” he repeated softly.

  [Such individuals possess the potential to bring order amidst turbulent chaos, ensuring their world’s continued survival and, if possible, elevating it to greater heights]

  “Potential,” he echoed.

  [Yes.]

  He narrowed his eyes slightly.

  “So they’re not guaranteed victory.”

  [No.]

  “They can fail?”

  [Yes.]

  That caught his interest.

  “And if they fail?”

  [The consequences scale with their destiny.]

  Null contemplated this.

  "So person with supreme destiny becomes pivotal not just to their own fate but to the fate of their entire world?”

  [Precisely]

  [They are often thrust into situations where they must confront overwhelming odds, yet they possess the intrinsic qualities that allow them to surmount those challenges. This makes them figures of admiration and hope in their realms.]

  The room seemed quieter after that.

  “So Supreme Destiny doesn’t mean personal glory.”

  [No.]

  “It means responsibility.”

  A pause.

  [Protagonists are catalysts.]

  Null’s gaze returned to the moon.

  “Ensuring the world continues.”

  [Yes.]

  “And elevating it?”

  [If capable.]

  He was quiet for a long moment.

  “So its is less about personal gain… and more about systemic preservation.”

  [Correct.]

  “So they aren’t blessed for comfort.”

  [They are burdened for continuity.]

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  “That sounds significantly less glamorous than web novels advertise.”

  [Reality is rarely glamorous.]

  He considered that.

  “So what distinguishes them from ordinary talented individuals?”

  [Trajectory.]

  “Explain.”

  [An ordinary talented individual may alter local outcomes. A Supreme Destiny bearer alters epochs.]

  The air felt slightly heavier.

  [Wars bend around them. Ideologies shift because of them. Entire civilizations may rise—or fall—depending on their choices.]

  Null’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  “So their existence generates gravitational pull in the narrative flow of the world.”

  […That is an accurate metaphor.]

  “And this boy Illiana mentioned.”

  A small pause.

  [[Insufficient data for confirmation.]

  “But the circumstances fit.”

  [They align with common awakening triggers observed in past eras.]

  “Extreme Pressure.”

  [Yes.]

  “Symbolic target in danger.”

  [Correct.]

  “Sudden power manifestation.”

  [Affirmative.]

  He lay back fully again.

  “…How troublesome.”

  [Do you feel threatened, Master?]

  He stared at the ceiling.

  “Not particularly.”

  A small smirk formed.

  “I’m simply assessing whether I’m about to be cast as the rival, background strategist, or tragic early casualty.”

  […You assume you must fit within a narrative role.]

  “Everything fits somewhere.”

  [Not everything.]

  He glanced toward the window again.

  “Tell me something, Fantasy Omniscience-san.”

  [Yes.]

  “If each world has only one protagonist… what happens when an anomaly appears?”

  A longer pause this time.

  [Define anomaly.]

  He closed his eyes.

  “Someone not born into this world.”

  The air felt faintly cooler.

  “Someone who was never part of its original design.”

  Silence stretched.

  Then—

  [Such an existence is categorized as a Variable.]

  “Variable.”

  [Yes.]

  “Meaning?”

  [They are not bound by pre-established destiny threads.]

  A faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “So they can interfere.”

  [Yes.]

  “With the protagonist?”

  [With the world.]

  He opened his eyes again.

  The moonlight reflected faintly in his dark red irises.

  “So Supreme Destiny ensures the world's continued survival,” Null murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “And variables introduce uncertainty.”

  [Correct.]

  He chuckled softly.

  “Well.”

  His dark-red eyes refl

  ected moonlight as they opened again.

  “Chaos has always been more interesting than order.”

  Fantasy Omniscience did not immediately respond.

  When she did, her voice carried something faintly complex beneath its usual calm.

  [Master.]

  “Yes?”

  [Your emotional state has shifted.]

  “In what way?”

  [Increased amusement. Elevated curiosity.]

  He smirked faintly.

  “How inconvenient.”

  A pause.

  “…Tell me one more thing.”

  [Proceed.]

  “If this world already has its protagonist… what does that make me?”

  Silence.

  Longer this time.

  Then—

  [Undetermined.]

  He laughed quietly.

  “Fair.”

  Suddenly, Null blinked rapidly.

  “Wait a minute. Why am I speculating when I have the ultimate cheat code for knowledge?”