From the depths of the Black Lowness, where reality’s rules dissolve and the grand meta-narrative collapses, The Conqueror’s Crown unleashed a fragment of itself—its silence. This silence was not just the absence of sound; it was the void, the end of all narratives, creators, and destroyers alike. Only 0.1% of its true essence, this silence had already begun unraveling worlds, erasing both gods and ideas. The Conqueror's Crown remained sealed, its incomprehensible form hidden, yet even in its restraint, it emanated a force beyond any power. The hooded silhouette, with stars and omniverses swirling within its cosmic form, stood as a testament to the overwhelming nihilism it embodied—a transcendent void, both beautiful and terrifying.

Though sealed, its silence swept across realities, seeping into cracks in the Omniverse, dissolving all in its path. Universes fell, rendered to dust as the silence negated not just existence but the very possibility of existence. And in its march of voidness, it reached a world already scarred—a ruined battleground where Mimir Týrspear, the lone warrior, stood.

Mimir was a sight to behold, her hair twisted into tight dreadlocks adorned with silver beads that shimmered with residual energy from her lost Omniverse. Her piercing red eyes reflected the fires of a thousand battles fought across untold realms. Her skin was dark, smooth, and marked with intricate tattoos that glowed faintly with the runes of forgotten gods. She wore a sleeveless yellow jacket, loose and flowing over her muscular form, which contrasted with the intensity of her presence. Her midriff was exposed, revealing a powerful physique, and she held in her hands a katana forged from the essence of broken realities.

Mimir was no ordinary warrior. She had transcended the concept of dimensions, her skills honed in arenas where gods fell and stories rewrote themselves in blood. She was the last remaining defender of her Omniverse, the one that The Conqueror’s Crown had already erased. Her strength was boundless, her mastery over beyond-boundless energies allowed her to stand where others had fallen, yet now she stood against something that defied even her understanding.

“I am here to avenge my world,” Mimir said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

But the silence did not respond, for it did not need to. It enveloped her, expanding, reducing all power, all strength, all reality, to nothingness. Mimir could feel it—the gradual unraveling of everything she had once been. Her katana flared to life, the very fabric of existence bending around it as she launched herself at the silence. The blade sliced through space, time, and narrative, aiming for the heart of the void itself.

But the silence consumed the attack as if it had never existed.

With each strike, each swing of her blade, Mimir found herself drawn deeper into the abyss. The silence was unrelenting, erasing not just her physical form, but the very concept of her existence. Mimir’s tattoos glowed brighter as she tapped into the forgotten runes of the gods, her body becoming a beacon of raw power—yet even that was meaningless. For The Conqueror’s Crown was not something one could destroy. It was the end of destruction. The void-all.

Mimir struck again, her katana blazing with the light of a centillion suns, but the silence devoured it. For every ounce of power she unleashed, the silence responded with the absence of power itself, a nihilistic force that absorbed and negated everything.

“You cannot win,” the silence whispered—not with words, but with the absence of them. The sheer negation of language, thought, and identity. Mimir’s very existence was being erased, not by an enemy’s hand, but by the void of being itself.

Mimir’s breath came heavy, the weight of the silence pressing down on her, unmaking her. Yet she did not falter. She would not give up, even if it meant the end of her story. She swung her katana one last time, a final act of defiance, knowing that she would never survive this battle.

But the silence swallowed her effort, and in that moment, Mimir Týrspear—the last of her Omniverse—was undone. Her body dissolved into nothingness, her existence erased, as if she had never been.

The Conqueror’s Crown, though still sealed, moved on, its silence drifting through the ruins of yet another broken world. There were others to find—warriors who had once dared to seal it. And this time, it would not be stopped.

The silence continued to devour all, a creeping inevitability that would bring the end to all stories, all creators, and all destroyers.