The universe did not scream.
It listened.
From the farthest corners of the multiverse to the deep spaces between dimensions, all things stilled in silent recognition of what had just taken place. The Scarlet King had gathered five of the most powerful forces in existence—not as thralls or subordinates, but as equals, as lovers, as balance incarnate.
The Court of the Scarlet King was complete.
And all who watched knew: nothing would ever be the same.
In the chambers of the Living Tribunal, golden scales trembled.
The Tribunal, with three faces turned inward, convened in a moment outside of time.
"The axis shifts," said the face of Necessity.
"He seeks not dominion," murmured the face of Equity.
"But equilibrium," finished the face of Vengeance. "That makes him more dangerous."
They passed judgment not on action, but potential.
The verdict was silence.
And from that silence, the Tribunal sent forth an observer: Eternity.
Within the astral firmament, Eternity appeared before a star system collapsing under its own metaphysical weight. He raised a hand, rewound its death, and let it bloom anew.
He turned his eyes toward Earth.
Toward Antarctica.
And he whispered, "Scarlet King. We will meet."
In the shadows of the Negative Zone, Annihilus sharpened his claws.
"A king returned... with queens beside him," he growled. "Then I shall burn them all."
His swarm, endless and hungry, screeched their readiness.
But something in the darkness laughed.
Not Annihilus.
A deeper voice. A forgotten god, long imprisoned.
"Do not rush to be devoured," it said. "You are not his predator. You are his prey."
Annihilus paused. And, for once, he did not roar. He listened.
In the mind of Galactus, ancient memories stirred.
He saw a red sun devouring gods.
He saw Death, not as his lover, but as another's.
He saw balance.
"The devourer," he said to himself, "is no longer enough. I must become more."
Galactus turned his ship not to feast, but to witness.
He would watch the Scarlet King.
And decide.
At the edge of Limbo, Magik stood at the gates of her realm, staring into the swirling mists. She felt the presence of the Beyonder now woven into the fabric of reality, and it made her uneasy.
Illyana whispered, "If he wins... what happens to us?"
From the shadows, a voice answered.
"Then we change."
It was Strange—Stephen, or something that had once been Stephen—half-man, half-sigil. A being reforged by secrets and consequences.
"You're not fighting him?" Magik asked.
"Would you fight a black hole to stop gravity?" Strange replied. "He's not a villain. He's a fulcrum."
"Then why are you here?"
"To make sure no one tips the scale too far."
Back in the palace, the Scarlet King sat with his court.
Wanda leaned against a column of light, her gaze unreadable. Jean hovered in silence, her fire pulsing softly with her breath. Doom and Emma debated strategies, already preparing for what would come next. Hela and Death spoke in a language of endings only they understood. And the Beyonder... watched everything, eyes reflecting stars.
The Scarlet King rose.
"We will not wait for war to find us. We will move."
"To Earth?" asked Emma.
"Eventually," he said. "But not yet."
He gestured, and a map of dimensions unfolded—threads of time, realms, and realities interwoven.
"The multiverse is wounded. Not just Earth. Entire timelines collapse because those who sit above choose stagnation over change."
He pointed to a realm quivering on the edge of decay. "We begin here."
"What is it?" Jean asked.
"A world where heroes failed. Where gods fled. It rots. And we will heal it."
Doom stepped forward. "What will we call this movement?"
The Scarlet King looked at each of them. "Not a conquest. Not a crusade."
He smiled.
"An Ascension."
And in the deep corners of unreality, something stirred that even the Beyonder could not see.
A whisper.
A hunger.
Something older than fear.
Watching.
Waiting.
Ready to rise again.
Because not all things that burn bring light.
Some bring only the end.