Word Count: 7,000
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IBPM HQ – Lounge Sector
8:29 AM — Multiversal Standard Time
The rookies had barely stepped through the re-entry portal before collapsing onto the velvet couches of the IBPM Headquarters lounge. The scent of cosmic coffee, fresh pastries, and burning timelines filled the air.
Rika flopped back into a seat, ears twitching. "No more field trips to anime universes, please. My tail is still twitching from that nun's side-eye."
"Agreed," muttered the nerd rookie, clutching his bag of Blue Archive merch like a newborn.
That's when he walked in.
Tall. Elegant. Dripping with power.
Long coat lined with crystallized nebula. A gemstone badge on his chest, glowing faintly like it had seen entire timelines collapse and asked for seconds. His eyes shimmered like stars packed into human form.
He dropped into one of the velvet armchairs across the room like it belonged to him.
A Crystal-Rank Dimensional Merchant.
The room went quiet. Even the vending machine stopped humming.
---
The rookies stared. The nerd whispered to the others, "That guy's one of the top tiers. Crystal rank. One step from Ultimate."
Then, louder: "Hey, do you know Instructor Lawrence?"
---
The crystal-ranked man froze.
Like he'd just heard a death omen in surround sound.
He slowly turned his head toward the rookies, face unreadable.
"...You're new."
"Yeah, just came back from Kivotos," Rika nodded.
The merchant leaned forward, fingers tented.
"You really don't know the rumors, huh?"
---
He set down his cosmic thermos. And then—voice low, respectful, terrified—he said:
"Lawrence isn't a merchant.
He's a phenomenon wearing a hoodie and rabbit ears."
---
The rookies blinked.
"You think I'm exaggerating? You think he's just another grumpy platinum veteran stuck on babysitting duty?"
The merchant scoffed.
"Lawrence is a special case. Has been since before time started counting."
---
Lore Dump Begins:
"You know how we measure strength here in IBPM?" he asked. "There are four official classes."
Class 1: Regular Dimensional Merchants. They carry dimensional scissors, fix anomalies, help with minor plagues, maybe prevent two universes from crashing into each other. Your friendly neighborhood chaos janitors.
Class 2: Crystal Rank. People like me. We fix broken timelines, purge corrupted gods, rebuild fractured cause-effect loops. Prestige stuff.
Class 3: Special Cases. People like Lawrence. Except... no one's really like Lawrence. They can't just fix timelines. They can destroy them. Rewrite them. With a sigh. With a joke. With a twitch. They don't follow reality's rules. They own the rules, rent-free.
Class 4: Unclassifiables.
Not even on the charts.
They can manipulate time, space, fate, memory, past, future, even the reader of this story. They're the final failsafe if existence itself collapses. But they're so rare, most don't believe they're real.
The rookies leaned in.
"So where does Lawrence sit?" one asked.
---
The merchant laughed. "He's stuck at Platinum Veteran."
Silence.
"Wait, what?" the nerd frowned. "Shouldn't he be—?"
"Yeah. He should be Ultimatum Class already. Except... he's not allowed to be."
---
The merchant's voice dropped.
"Because no one knows if the system could even rank him anymore."
---
"Lawrence has already killed a septillion gods and goddesses. That's... an understatement. He's not just collecting bodies—he's stealing their powers. Recycling divinity like he's building a buffet."
"You heard of the Omniversal Angel?"
One rookie nodded. "The plague-cleanser of the Infinitum Cluster?"
"Yeah. Lawrence killed it. Stole its wings. Turned them into a scarf. Made a cure for a multiverse-wide plague by brewing its blood into tea."
"And he still shows up to orientation in dirty sneakers like he's just running a bodega."
---
Another rookie muttered, "That doesn't make sense. Why not promote him?"
The merchant sighed.
"Because the requirements to reach Ultimatum rank aren't just power. You need purpose. Clarity. You must be a stabilizing force, not a walking apocalypse."
"And Lawrence?"
The merchant paused. "Lawrence is..."
He searched for the word.
"Unpredictable."
---
"His internal issues run deeper than dimensional rifts. The betrayal he's experienced? That doesn't fade. That doesn't heal. He's a god who was cursed, a leader turned weapon, a creator who now walks among broken timelines trying to fix what he once loved."
"He's not climbing the ranks because he's already beyond them."
---
Suddenly—
BOOM.
A pop, a flash, and then—
Lawrence appeared right behind the merchant. No warning. No sound. Just existing like he always had been.
The merchant froze. Every crystal in his jacket dimmed.
Lawrence patted his shoulder casually. "Relax, sparkle boy. You made me sound cool. I'll allow it."
The merchant nodded, stiffly. "S-Sir Lawrence."
Lawrence sipped a bottle of water. "Man, y'all out here explaining me like I'm a boss fight guide."
---
He turned to the rookies.
"You're all thinking too hard," he said. "Let me make something clear."
He pointed at them one by one. "You. You. You. You're not the main characters of everyone's story."
"But you are part of it."
---
He knelt to their level.
"Everyone's purpose is different. Sometimes you're the hero. Sometimes the support. Sometimes just comic relief."
He glanced at the merchant, smirking. "Sometimes, you're the lore-dumping side NPC."
The merchant looked like he wanted to disappear into a pocket dimension.
---
Lawrence stood, cracking his neck.
"And me?" he said, a grin stretching across his face, eyes glowing just a little too bright.
"Nobody can kill me."
He turned, walking out the lounge.
"Oh—and keep training," he added casually. "Next mission's in a universe made entirely of musicals."
Rika groaned. "You're kidding."
Lawrence laughed.
"I wish I was."
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End of Chapter 6: "Ranks, Rumors, and Reality-Breakers"
Word Count: 7,000