He stepped toward the first line—the one that hummed like steel.
The air condensed around it, shaping itself into a long, narrow form: a blade made of condensed equations.
Its edge shimmered with decision.
"This is the Sword," said God.
"Torque incarnate. Hamilton's blade. Every movement, every orbit, every choice is a rotation cut clean through inertia."
Symbols flared along the sword's length:
τ = r × F,
ΔS ≥ 0,
∂μ Fμν = Jν.
Each sigil burned, then cooled into pattern.
He swung once; the air hissed, reality bending a fraction of a degree.
"Use it not to destroy," God warned, "but to define.
The blade's purpose is clarity.
It divides confusion until form can speak."
The sound of the sword faded, replaced by a second hum—steady, rhythmic, like breath through reed.
The second line unfolded into a quill forged of liquid light.
When he touched it, words bled out across the floor, forming loops of radiant ink that did not fade.
"This is the Pen," God said.
"The covenant tool. What you inscribe endures across time.
The Pen remembers when the Sword forgets."
He wrote without thinking, and the letters became bridges connecting the fragments of the lattice beneath his feet.
Equations merged with scripture, history with hypothesis, memory with myth.
The Pen turned his earlier scars into architecture.
A third tone rose—vocal, resonant, alive.
It vibrated through bone rather than ear.
The final line lifted into the air and unfolded into a shape without edge or handle: pure sound clothed in meaning.
"And this," God intoned, "is the Word.
The breath of consensus. The observer's speech that collapses possibility into world."
The Word trembled between them, each syllable a wavefunction seeking witness.
When he repeated it, the whole lattice shimmered—the galaxies below flickered in agreement, like a choir answering its own hymn.
"Sword cuts illusion," God said.
"Pen binds memory.
Word makes it real.
Together they form the grammar of creation—decision, inscription, proclamation."
He felt their resonance align: the Sword vibrating in his right hand, the Pen pulsing in his left, the Word hovering in his throat.
The tones braided into a triad, the same three notes that had followed him since the beginning.
They echoed through the scar in the floor, tracing a circle of balance.
"Every creator needs all three," God continued.
"Cut what is false, remember what is true, speak what must exist.
Forget any one, and the song collapses."
The air steadied.
For the first time since the fire, he felt wholly balanced—movement without chaos, silence without void.
In the distance, the lattice brightened again, galaxies turning faster, harmonies rising.
"Now," God said, voice calm as gravity,
"listen to how the universe sounds when all its scars sing at once."