The silence after his defiance was deafening.

  The void no longer pulsed with divine decree. The ever-present hum of law had vanished. In its place lingered uncertainty, as though the cosmos itself awaited instruction, paralyzed by a paradox it could neither judge nor erase.

  Ascheritt stood at the heart of this fracture, his bare feet hovering just above the lightless floor of the void. The warmth of rebellion still lingered in his chest—though he did not know why. He had no memories, no guidance, no name even, save the one he had whispered to himself: Ascheritt Velgrind. A name that felt like a whisper from a forgotten eternity.

  He reached out into the stillness, and the void reacted.

  Not with sound, but with resonance.

  The space around him trembled. From that tremble, came form—loose shapes in the mist, silhouettes of distant towers, shattered relics of forgotten wars, crumbled temples abandoned by time. A broken world, dormant yet waiting.

  Then came the voice again. Not many—only one this time. And it spoke with clarity.

  —"You should not be. And yet, here you stand."

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  He turned, eyes narrowing. The speaker stood draped in shadow, only the glint of a single silver eye visible through the gloom. It wore a robe that flowed like liquid ink, adorned with symbols that shifted too quickly to comprehend.

  —"Who are you?" Ascheritt asked, his voice calm but curious.

  —"A Watcher," it replied. "One of many who remain when the gods flee and the laws falter. I observe what must not be... and you are precisely that."

  A pause.

  —"Then why not destroy me like they tried to?"

  The Watcher gave a hollow laugh. "Because you exist outside the codex now. The divine decree cannot act where its language fails. And you, paradox, are unreadable."

  Ascheritt took a step forward. The void beneath him cracked, and where he tread, reality bled colors that had no name. Images flickered—distant stars, screaming angels, ruins of empires buried in sand and time.

  —"What happens now?" he asked.

  The Watcher tilted its head. "That depends. The gods will not stop. You are a wound in the tapestry. To let you exist is to risk collapse. But should you survive long enough, you may find that your existence will begin to write a new law... one of your own."

  Ascheritt said nothing.

  Because somewhere within him, a fire had stirred. A will, ancient and boundless. Not to destroy—but to challenge.

  And as the veil around the void began to lift, and the real world returned—skies of red dusk, broken monoliths hovering above oceans of glass, winds carrying whispers of forgotten names—Ascheritt Velgrind took his first step into a realm not prepared to hold him.

  He was not a hero. Not a villain. Not even a god.

  He was a question.

  And the world was running out of answers.