The cosmos groaned. Reality was no longer a stage; it was a dying animal, thrashing in the talons of two opposing laws.
Asmon's divine creation—a celestial leviathan composed of a million golden, grasping hands—swept through the space.
It was not merely a physical manifestation; it was the manifestation of intent. Every hand was a variable of causality, a decree of existence.
Where they reached, space solidified. Where they snapped shut, new, immutable physical constants were born.
Reign moved like a black-red comet, a jagged, discordant note in the symphony of creation. He did not dodge; he unmade the path before him.
He was a vacuum of existence, a living paradox that dictated nothingness.
When a golden hand attempted to bind him with the concept of "gravity," Reign simply erased the definition of weight from his own trajectory.
He blurred through the fingers, his aura carving scars into the golden construct.
