The Hall was no longer set for a banquet. The tables were gone. The crystal dome overhead—shattered by Agyenim's escape—let in the howling wind of the Dildillaac invasion.
Through the jagged hole in the roof, the sky was a bruising mix of purple and grey. Ghostly shapes spiraled down from the Astraposphere, leaking into the physical world like ink in water.
THUD.
Agyenim Davu hit the floor hard.
Azure Oba stood over him, breathing heavily, his Red Aura still crackling with the heat of the Desert Mirror. He had dragged the traitor across dimensions to kneel here.
"He is secured," Azure rumbled, stepping back to take his place at the High Table.
Libaax Akoma sat on the High Throne. He did not look like a man who had won a victory. He looked like a man watching his world bleed.
"You broke the sky," Libaax said. His voice was quiet, but the Severity of his presence pressed down on Agyenim's shoulders like a physical weight.
Agyenim looked up. His indigo waistcoat was shredded, his face burned by the desert sun. He looked at Arora Lakshmi, who refused to meet his eyes. He looked at Omari Imani, who looked at him with cold disgust.
"I tried to lower a ladder," Agyenim rasped. "I didn't know the Mufarikha wanted to pull the roof down."
"Ignorance is not a defense for treason," Alem Amari said, adjusting his glasses. "You funded a terrorist cell. You provided Imperial access codes. Under the Nommo laws of cause and effect, you are the architect of this invasion."
"Then kill me," Agyenim whispered. "End it Libaax, rid yourself of one the six pillars holding you back."
Libaax raised his hand. Blue Aura gathered at his fingertips. He was ready to restore order
"Wait."
The voice cut through the tension. Ahia Senan stepped forward from the shadow of the pillars.
She wore the golden Treasury pin Omari had given her. She didn't look like a frightened gardener anymore. She looked like a woman who understood the cost of growth.
"He wants you to kill him," Ahia said, walking until she stood between the King and the traitor. "He wants to be a martyr. If you execute him now, his story becomes 'The Man Who Died Trying to Check the King's Lust for Power'. The Mufarikha will canonize him."
Libaax lowered his hand. "What do you suggest, Ward Ahia?"
Ahia looked down at Agyenim.
"He loves stories," she said. "He loves to write narratives where he is the hero and people are just props. He paid for the market riots, but he hasn't paid for the pain."
She turned to Libaax.
"Don't kill him. Make him count."
"Count?" Agyenim raised his brow.
"Bind him to the Archives," Ahia proposed. "Sentence him to be the Scribe of Ash. He must find every single person injured in the riots. He must find every family who lost a home to the invasion. He must record their names, their losses, and their pain. And he cannot stop writing until the debt of Ubuntu is balanced."
The High Table was silent. It was a punishment worse than death for a narcissist. It stripped him of his grand narrative and forced him to face the microscopic, human consequences of his actions.
"A life of service," Libaax mused. "To replace the lives he endangered."
He looked at Agyenim.
"So be it. You are no longer Authority Davu. You are the Scribe of Ash. Take him away."
As the guards dragged a stunned Agyenim out, the sky outside roared. A bolt of black lightning struck the palace shields.
"The Needle," Azure Oba growled, pointing at the holographic map. "It is still transmitting. The Dildillaac is pouring through. We need to strike the Desert Mirror again."
"No," Alem Amari said, standing up. "Physical force failed. The Needle eats energy. We cannot break it with Ase."
He turned to face Arora Lakshmi.
"We must deny it," Alem said.
The doors to the hall opened.
Twelve elderly men walked into the hall. They wore Kente cloth robes that draped heavily over their frail frames. The Head Elder, a man with skin like wrinkled papyrus, wore a leopard skin sash.
The Tohunga were the wisest men in Middle Earth, all Elder Stage. These were the Dibia members of the Tohunga.
"The premise is false," the Head Elder wheezed, looking at the storm outside. "The sky cannot be grounded. It is a logical fallacy."
"Then we must correct the argument," Arora Lakshmi said, floating down from the dais to join them. Her Prismatic White Aura blended with Alem Amari's Yellow Aura and the multifaceted Auras of the Elders.
They formed a circle in the center of the ruined hall.
This was not a spell. This was a Discourse.
"The Object: Obsidian Needle," Alem Amari began, his voice taking on the metallic resonance of Nommo. "It exists in the Desert Mirror. It conducts Iku."
"The Premise," Arora countered. "The Desert Mirror is a reflection. A reflection cannot influence the Source."
"Objection," a Tohunga Elder murmured. "The connection is already established. The variable is active."
"Then the variable is irrational," the Head Elder declared.
The air in the room began to hum. This was the High Level Nommo System: Symbolic Logic . They weren't just debating; they were editing the source code of reality.
The Dibias closed their eyes. Above their heads, glowing symbols of pure logic materialized—gold and silver glyphs that represented the fundamental laws of Aye.
∃x(Needle(x)∧Conducts(x))
The equation floated in the air. The existence of the Needle.
"Negate," the Head Elder commanded.
The circle of Dibias spoke as one voice. It was a sound like the closing of a massive book.
"¬∃x"
There is no such x.
They didn't attack the tower. They attacked the concept of the tower. They argued that a structure made of Hate (Utupu) cannot exist in a world made of Life (Ase). They proved, through sheer philosophical weight, that the Needle was a lie.
The Erasure
In the Desert Mirror, the Obsidian Needle was howling, pumping ghosts into the sky.
Suddenly, it stopped.
It didn't explode. It didn't crumble.
It simply... ceased to be valid.
One moment, it was a towering spire of black stone. The next moment, the universe accepted the Dibia's argument. The stone turned into sand. The "Ground Wire" connection vanished because the logic sustaining it had been disproven.
The beam of Anti-Light flickered and died.
High above, the tear in the Astraposphere sealed itself shut, the inductive pressure reasserting its dominance. The funnel cloud of the Dildillaac was cut off from its food source.
The invasion halted. The ghosts that had already crossed over screamed as they were pulled back into the vacuum or dissolved by the ambient Ase of the physical world.
In the Hall of Ten Thousand Lumen, the wind stopped. The purple bruise in the sky faded, replaced by the calm silver of the night.
The Tohunga Elders slumped, exhausted. Alem Amari wiped a trickle of blood from his nose. Rewriting reality took a toll on the mind.
"It is done," Alem whispered. " The logic is restored."
Libaax stood up. He looked at the peace returning to his city. He looked at the Dibias who had fought with words, the Akin who had fought with fists, and the Manomi who had fought with mercy.
"We have survived the night," Libaax concluded.
He looked at Ahia.
"But the morning," he added grimly, "will bring its own questions."