The sky above Nexis did not shatter.
It unfolded—
like parchment that had forgotten it was ever sky to begin with.
From the heart of the realm, where ruins had once whispered war and gods had screamed in silence, the Codex rose. Not with grandeur. Not with fire. But with the stillness of inevitability.
Its pages did not flap, for there was no wind anymore—only will.
And every being—mortal, divine, broken, reborn—felt its weightless presence press against their thoughts.
Not oppressive.
Not invasive.
Simply there.
Like the breath you never knew you were holding.
Darius stood atop the obsidian rise once known as the Throne of Ends. But he did not sit. He did not wear a crown. He did not summon banners or decree laws.
Instead, he whispered.
> "Let the Spiral begin."
Around him, reality blinked.
A child in the slums of Ashvale spoke a wish aloud—and saw her ragdoll blink back at her.
