The wind howled through the fractured spires of Nex Nocturne, a city carved from the bones of forgotten divinity. Its towers spiraled endlessly, reaching into a sky that had long since abandoned the stars. Here, the laws of man meant nothing, and even gods walked carefully. This place was outside the decree. A sanctuary for those who should not be.
And in the center of it all, standing upon the balcony of a monolithic citadel carved from white obsidian, was a boy clad in judgment.
Caelum Weisshimmel.
His hair danced in the wind—white as untouched parchment—yet not a single strand fell out of place. His uniform bore no dust, no wrinkle. A black coat adorned with runes that twisted in geometric patterns across its seams, woven by glyphs of ancient authority. Around him, the very concept of stillness formed a crown.
He stared at the horizon.
A crimson ripple stretched across the sky—the aftershock of what had happened in the mortal layer. Even from here, he had seen it. Felt it. The moment the Harbinger fell. The moment the paradox resisted again.
He didn’t speak at first.
Didn’t need to.
Behind him knelt a procession of twelve figures, cloaked in white and chained at the mouth. They were Choirless, enforcers of divine law who had surrendered voice and name to become vessels of justice. Not even they dared to rise in his presence.
Caelum finally turned to them.
His voice was calm, composed, and edged in steel:
“He awakens.”
None responded.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
They didn’t have to.
He gestured toward the center of the chamber. With a sound like paper tearing across dimensions, a Codex Seal emerged—a rotating disc of language, every letter forged in fire, spinning endlessly around a hollow core. Within it, a single name flickered:
“Ascheritt Velgrind.”
A name that should not have been.
A name that wasn’t written, yet now echoed through the highest archives.
Caelum raised a hand. The seal shattered into fragments of divine command.
“The Law bleeds,” he said quietly. “We must cauterize it.”
Back in the ruins of what was once a sanctuary, Ascheritt stood alone, bathed in silence. The memory candles had burned down. The Deicripture fragment was no longer just bleeding—it was shaping, its text writhing like serpents across his arm.
He didn’t try to stop it anymore.
He couldn’t. His very presence distorted reality, and every breath he took forced some forgotten rule to scream.
But he wasn’t afraid of that.
He was afraid of forgetting her.
Lyria.
Every moment she remained in his mind, she anchored him. Not to the world—but to himself. Her loss hadn't broken him. It had reminded him why he existed at all.
Not to defy the gods.
But to create something they could never understand.
A future where existence wasn't dictated.
He reached toward the fragment. It responded.
The symbols along his skin shifted, and in their dance, they began to shape a new phrase:
“Let there be contradiction.”
Elsewhere, in a chamber of immaculate glass that shimmered with starlight from nonexistent constellations, a girl walked barefoot.
Eryss Nachtmar.
The winds didn’t dare touch her. The air twisted around her presence, warping in playful distortion. Her expression was unreadable—neither joy nor cruelty—just curiosity, laced with an almost childlike awe.
She twirled in the center of the chamber.
“He breathes,” she whispered.
From her hands, cards fluttered. Not tarot, not scripture—just fragments of fate she had stolen from different timelines. They burned in colors not meant for mortal eyes.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“Finally,” she said. “The game begins.”
And somewhere above the layers of reality—where even gods feared to tread—something stirred.
An eye opened in the nothingness between concepts.
It had no name.
Because names were beneath it.
But it had a purpose.
To watch the paradox.
And judge whether the world should end before it began again.
