The sky did not collapse.
There was no thunder.
No judgment declared aloud.
That was what made it incorrect.
Aster stood within the Hall of Law—
a space without walls, without ceiling, without distance. Lines of white light hung in the air like unfinished sentences, each one humming with restrained authority. His footsteps produced no sound, as if existence itself refused to acknowledge his movement.
"This isn't a trial," Aster muttered.
"It's a proclamation."
Something waited ahead.
A girl in white stood there—too pristine for a place where even the idea of dust had been erased. Her hair fell straight, untouched by wind that did not exist. Her face was calm—not cold, not kind.
Deliberately empty.
"Custodian," Aster said quietly.
She inclined her head.
"Your designation is acceptable," she replied.
"Your comprehension is not."
Her voice did not travel through air.
It manifested directly inside meaning itself.
Aster exhaled, then laughed softly.
"You're not alive."
The Custodian in White nodded.
"And you are not fully subject to the laws governing the living."
The light around them shifted. The hanging lines rearranged into symbols—
not language, but rules. Each sigil represented a boundary Aster had crossed without realizing it had ever existed.
"Why now?" Aster asked.
"If I was in violation, why did the world wait?"
"Because before, you opposed entities," the Custodian said.
"Now, you interfere with process."
Aster fell silent.
Entities could be destroyed.
Gods could be dethroned.
But process?
The Custodian stepped forward. With each step, reality subtly corrected itself—as though embarrassed by Aster's presence.
"You have touched causality," she continued.
"You altered outcomes without participating in sequence. That is not power."
She looked directly at him.
"It is existential fraud."
Behind Aster, his shadow moved on its own, laughing without sound.
"How amusing," Aster said calmly.
"A universe built on inequality accusing me of cheating."
For the first time, the Custodian's expression shifted.
Not anger.
Not sorrow.
Curiosity.
"Justice does not belong to the world," she said.
"It belongs to law. And law is indifferent to suffering."
Aster raised his hand. His shadow stopped laughing.
"Then understand this," he said quietly.
"I am not opposing you."
The light trembled.
"I am opposing what you preserve."
A fracture appeared in one of the symbols.
The Custodian took half a step back.
"If you continue," she warned, her tone finally sharpening,
"the next arc will not recognize mercy."
Aster smiled faintly.
"Since when does tragedy ask permission?"
Far beyond the city—
beyond space, beyond time—
something colossal opened its eyes completely.
And the law of the world
began rewriting its own name.