Chapter Title: "How to Get Banned from a Divine Assembly"
The silence after my reckless use of Null was... deafening.
Even the echo of the Grand Celestial's pressure paused. Like the cosmos itself was tilting its head.
I cleared my throat. "I... humbly request pardon. I just didn't want my assistant to be turned into celestial paste."
No one laughed.
A low murmur spread through the balconies. Dozens of Executioners. Some ancient, some barely sane. All of them looking at me like I had slapped a sacred cow.
I tried again.
"I understand the gravity of—well, your gravity, my Lord Celestial, sir. It's just that she's new. And breakable. Unlike me! I mean, I'm not unbreakable. But I've broken a lot. And I'm still here."
I was rambling.
The Grand Celestial slowly turned his head toward me. He didn't speak. He didn't blink.
He just… looked.
And that was enough.
My legs buckled. I went down on one knee. Not out of respect. Out of survival.
He finally spoke. His voice wasn't sound. It was law. A whisper forged in divine iron.
> "You presume too much."
I bowed low. "And regret all of it."
He raised one finger.
> "Aikio of Loom Twelve. You are hereby suspended from the Vantor Assembly… for fifty thousand cycles."
My jaw dropped.
"Wait—wait, I didn't mean to offend—"
> "You already did."
The pressure vanished.
And so did he.
The silence that followed wasn't just awkward. It was funeral-level awkward.
I stood up slowly, dusting myself off, pretending my entire body hadn't just been spiritually pressure-washed.
"Okay. So. Not invited back for a while."
My assistant looked at me, wide-eyed. "You got banned from a universal governing council… in under an hour?"
I shrugged. "Honestly? Not my worst record."
Someone coughed in the gallery above.
Someone else whispered, "Arrogant little brat."
Great.
Now I was that guy.
Banned from the biggest meeting in the Prime Loom for five epochs, labeled a cosmic clown, and still technically in charge of a universal Execution squad.
I sighed.
"Let's go," I muttered.
"Where?" she asked, still reeling.
I grinned—grim and reckless.
"Somewhere they really don't want us to go."
---
Back at my house.
I'd barely sat down when the system blinked into view—violent and bright, like a slap in the soul.
> [NEW PRIORITY MISSION: CLASS 7 INFRACTION DETECTED ON PLANET MIRA-9] Crime: Infanticide (Matricide Classification: Level Red) Perpetrator: Civilian - 34 years, female. Authorization granted for intervention. Choose body vessel for entry. Estimated stay: 7–10 days.
I sighed.
Even as an Executioner, the kinds of sins we encountered sometimes clawed past the layers of numbness. But murder… of a child? That never settled easy. Not in my lungs. Not in my bones.
"Don't tell me you're leaving me behind," the woman said, arms folded at the edge of the hallway.
She'd taken to wearing my old robes, the oversized ones she claimed made her look like a 'sorcerer's disappointed wife.' She'd made herself comfortable—frighteningly fast. As if she'd always been here.
"I work alone."
She shrugged. "Not this time."
"You're not trained."
"I won't get trained if you keep running off like some cosmic hitman every time a mission drops." Her eyes didn't blink. "You'll need someone to pass the salt."
"Pass the salt?"
"In case you end up dead and need someone to revive your bones with ancient seasoning rituals."
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Fine.
---
The transfer pod hummed beneath us. The bodies chosen were standard human vessels—organic, weak, slow, and emotionally fragile. But this planet was in a locked system. Too primitive for interdimensional signatures. Which meant we had to blend.
Skin felt wrong on me again. I hated skin.
She giggled beside me like she'd just swapped into a fancy dress. "This one's got curves," she said, twisting side to side.
"You picked it."
"Of course. A woman should look like one."
"You already were."
She looked pleased at that.
---
We crossed the gate threshold together—body warped, mind sheared through the veil of dimensions like paper meeting wind. Then the fall: that messy, weight-dropping vertigo that told you you'd touched dirt in a universe that wasn't yours.
I blinked into daylight.
A harsh sun hung crooked above suburban streets, stained with the kind of heat that melted resolve off your bones. Mira-9. Earth-analog. Maybe 200 years behind Prime Loom tech. Cars. Shops. Children screaming somewhere distant. Ordinary life.
"Stay low," I muttered.
She was already sniffing something fried from across the road.
"Smells like hope," she said.
I didn't argue.
---
We'd only just crossed the street.
My eyes were on the identifier glyph hovering in my retinas. Tracking the signature of the woman. Thirty meters. Two levels up. Second floor. Apartment 23B. Still time.
I wasn't paying attention.
I should've been.
The woman screamed.
Not the one in the apartment.
Mine.
Ziva.
No—
The truck came out of nowhere.
Not fast.
Just wrong.
Its aura didn't match the dimension.
I turned my head and saw metal.
Inches.
Maybe less.
And I wasn't in my body.
This wasn't a divine shell or executioner armor. It was muscle, bone, and human blood. And that—
That thing was about to crush it.
There wasn't time to summon a glyph. Not time to blink away.
Instinct took over.
I flung my arm out. Not at the truck.
At her.
Ziva.
I shoved her to the sidewalk—
Just as the front of the vehicle rammed through me.
---