His mind raced as he visualized the structure of space itself—not just as a backdrop to reality, but as something alive, something tangible, something he could grip and rip apart.
His Three Dimensional Body flickered, resonating with his thoughts as he drew in every last thread of space aura he could muster. He didn't think of survival anymore—he thought of dominion.
With laser focus, Max concentrated all his gathered space aura to a single point—his index finger. He forced it there, condensing the abstract, unstable, chaotic essence of space into a tiny tip of his mortal body.
Immediately, the consequences came. His skin began to peel—not shred, not tear—peel, as though reality itself was trying to remove the part of him now defying its laws.
Blood burst from his fingertip in thin, red streams, dancing in the bluish air like droplets refusing gravity.
