Meanwhile,
The House of Laws stood as a cathedral of history — a monument woven from every civilization that had ever dared to dream.
Its pillars were carved from obsidian and ivory, its vaulted ceilings traced with runes that pulsed in rhythms older than light.
The banners of seventeen Empires hung from the upper balustrades, their sigils whispering against one another like rivals forced into truce. And at the heart of that boundless hall, the air hummed with a silence so heavy it felt written into the bones of the world.
The trial of The Abomination was about to begin.
The Hall of Judgement, within the cathedral, was divided into three layers of importance.
On the ground floor, where shadows gathered, was the Circle of Chains — the stage where the condemned were made to stand before the eyes of every world.
Above them, the Second Level — the Balcony of Witnesses — where the rulers of the Seventeen Grand Empires sat robed in authority, their crowns reflecting the slow-turning light of the sigil above, along with other figures of importance deemed worthy to be present.
And highest of all, suspended beneath a massive dome of glass and living ink, was the Third Level, the Chamber of the Scriptborn Council.
There sat those who interpreted the Archetext's decrees, with one seat rising even above them — the Editor, the Archetext's Right Hand, the Highest Scriptborn.
Every seat was filled. Every gaze converged on the center of the hall. Even the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then, the Editor spoke.
Her voice was smooth — not loud, yet vast enough to fill every atom of the Hall and every corner of Mythralis beyond.
"People of Mythralis," the Editor said, her tone a harmony of reverence and command, "for ages uncounted, you have endured the tides of Conflict and walked beneath the pen of Fate. By your struggles, the world has not fallen silent. Your tales are written — and remembered."
Her words were transmitted through the World Projection, the boundless screen that stretched across every sky.
In slums and temples, in citadels of angels and nests of fiends, all of Mythralis could see her silver-clad form, the runes on her robes shimmering like shifting verses.
In the hall, she paused — the faintest smile touching her lips as distant cheers rippled from unseen worlds only she could hear. Though their voices could not reach her, their devotion was felt.
"This," she continued, "is the Seven Thousand, One Hundred and Thirtieth World Projection since the Chapter of Champions — and it shall be the most memorable. For today, we enact the trial and execution of a mortal who has done nothing but scar our dear realms."
Her voice darkened like ink spilling across a page.
Runes flared along the marble walls as the sigil beneath her feet began to stir — a vast circle etched with the emblems of the Seventeen Empires and the symbol of the Scriptborn.
The ground trembled.
From the center of the hall, iron ground against iron as the sigil split open.
From its depths, a cage rose.
It was an artifact of dread and divinity — an iron maiden forged from impossible metals, its surface scarred by symbols of sealing and sacrifice. Chains coiled around it like serpents of midnight, and spikes the size of spears jutted inward, each glowing with the dull heat of runic fire. Even the light of the hall seemed to recoil from it.
Gasps echoed from the balconies as the cage reached its full height, suspended above the Circle of Chains.
The Editor raised one slender hand. Upon her palm shone the mark of the Open Book with an Eye, the sigil of the Scriptborn. Power rippled outward — a silent command woven in the syntax of reality itself.
The chains slackened. The spikes dissolved into dust. The cage groaned as it began to unfold.
The Editor's voice rang once more:
"Behold — the Number One Calamity in the Scroll of Calamities.
Bearer of Infinite Atrocities.
Desecreator of all that is good and evil…
The Abomination,
Xanderous."
All of Mythralis held its breath.
The cage opened.
And inside — nothing.
The hall froze. The silence that followed was not empty but suffocating, as if the world itself hesitated to turn the next page.
The Editor's expression did not change, but across the balconies, rulers exchanged wary glances. Murmurs erupted in every tongue known and unknown.
"Impossible…" one of the rulers whispered. "He was bound by sevenfold sigil—"
"Did he escape?" gasped another. "But not even a God could—"
A tremor of uncertainty spread through the watchers, across worlds and realms. In slums, fortresses, and skyward citadels, people stared at the projection, bewildered.
Was it a ruse?
A trick?
Where these higher-ups just playing and toying with their emotions?
Then, the air split.
A portal, blacker than the void between stars, unfurled before the open cage. The edges dripped with shadow, consuming light and reason alike.
Gasps rippled through the witnesses. Guards summoned weapons, ready to strike.
And from within that darkness… came an empty sigh.
"Tch. Am I late or something?"
The voice was gravel dragged across ash — weary, sardonic, alive.
Out stepped a figure.
He was tall and gaunt, his skin stretched thin as parchment, colorless as bone. A hole gaped in his chest, revealing no spine within, and part of his skull was missing, exposing nothing but shadow.
A few ragged tufts of red hair clung stubbornly to what remained of his scalp. His single visible eye — a dull grey — scanned the hall with empty and tired irritation.
He looked like a corpse that had forgotten to die.
Gasps and murmurs swelled across the realms.
"An undead?" someone whispered in the projection's glow. None could accept that such a being in such a state was not undead.
"He dares appear before the Archetext's domain?"
"Perhaps the Liches have gone mad and begun to revolt—"
The figure ignored the distant outrage as if he could hear it.
He stood beneath the full weight of seventeen Empires and the eyes of the Scriptborn Council, yet he moved as though none of it mattered.
A faint ember flared as he exhaled a puff of smoke from the thin cigarette clamped between his teeth.
"Is the execution ready yet?" he muttered, flicking ash onto the sacred floor.
One of the rulers — a tall figure robed in gold — rose from his seat, his voice trembling with disbelief. "How—?"
The skeletal man tilted his head. His single eye gleamed with something between amusement and boredom.
"What? Don't look at me like that," he said. "I'm supposed to be here, aren't I? My execution and all that?"
The words hit like a ripple of thunder. Across countless realms, watchers gaped in stunned silence.
Did he say his execution?
The Editor's hand lowered, her face a mask of serenity hiding the faintest flicker of curiosity.
"Xanderous," she said evenly, "how did you escape your cage?"
The figure smirked — or what could pass for one on a face half-missing. He raised his left hand, revealing a bracelet strung with six marbles, four of which no longer glowed.
"Had to step out for a smoke," he said without a care. "Didn't think your old, pretentious, coquette asses would start so soon without me, though."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the witnesses.
The Editor's gaze flickered toward one of the thrones on the second level — an orb of pure darkness swirling with madness, a ruler whose nature defied description.
Even that guy seemed perplexed.
Xanderous flicked his cigarette to the side and yawned.
"Well?" he asked. "You gonna start the trial, or are we just gonna stare at each other all day? I might be the condemned, but even my time's worth something."
A low, dangerous murmur ran through the Empires and various realms.
The Editor's eyes, pale as moonlight, studied him in silence. Her words, when they came, were calm — too calm.
"If you had the power to leave," she asked, "why return?"
He shrugged.
"Does it matter why I came back?" he said. "Just get on with it and do what you're good at. And by that I meant killing people and shit, you're not much of a thinker."
The tension in the hall deepened, a soundless pressure that could crush the will of lesser beings.
Yet Xanderous stood there, skeletal and still, utterly indifferent.
The Editor finally turned, her expression unreadable.
"Then," she said softly, her voice echoing like a closing book, "let the trial of Xanderous... no, The Abomination, begin."
A low groan came from the skeletal figure below.
Xanderous exhaled a thick plume of smoke, letting it curl lazily upward toward the golden chandeliers. "Just skip to the execution part already," he muttered, flicking ash at the pristine marble floor.
"You've already decided I'm guilty, haven't you?"
A ripple of shock spread through the audience.
The second level bristled — kings, emperors, and high magistrates exchanging disbelieving glances at his continuous insolence.
But the Editor ignored him, folding her hands over the dais before her.
"As decreed by the Archetext, all trials within the House of Laws shall proceed in accordance with its Codes, regardless of the accused," she said.
At her words, the great hall dimmed. A radiant beam of pale light descended from the ceiling, locking onto Xanderous like the eye of judgment itself. His ragged form was bathed in harsh illumination as she continued.
"Xanderous Unnamed," she began.
For a moment, his lone eye flickered with mild irritation. Unnamed. That designation belonged to children — those yet without lineage, heritage, or story.
He took a drag from his cigarette and blew out smoke before correcting her.
"Mythrend," he said flatly. "Xanderous Mythrend. I turned eighteen today."
A collective murmur rippled through the hall. Across the worlds linked to the projection, the reaction was instant and venomous. That name — Mythrend — struck a cultural nerve.
"Myth," the sacred syllable associated with the realm of Mythralis that no mortal was meant to claim, and "Rend," its deliberate desecration.
The insult was not lost on anyone.
Faces hardened. Knuckles whitened.
In the silence, hatred became palpable.
The Editor's expression, however, did not change. She merely inclined her head slightly and continued, her voice unwavering.
"Xanderous Mythrend, age eighteen, of unknown race," she declared, "you stand before the House of Law under the will of the Archetext, on the Seventh Crossover of the year C.F. 1370, to be judged for your innumerable crimes against the realms of Mythralis and its peoples."
"Here are the following crimes you have been accused of."
Then, she began to read.
"Abduction. Abuse of power. Accessory to crime. Arson. Assault against children. Assault against women. Assault against men. Assault against the elder. Assault against the dead. Assault against the poor. Assault against the rich—"
"Seriously?" Xanderous groaned aloud, cutting her off. "You're going alphabetically?!"
Gasps echoed from the second level, but he continued unbothered.
"You old relics really don't know how to value a man's time, do you? Just stab me already and let's call it a day."
He sighed deeply, half-listening as the charges droned on, the cigarette dangling between his bone-thin fingers. His single eye wandered across the second level in boredom.
The Seventeen Emperors and Empresses, paragons of the Empires and pride, stared down at him with barely contained disgust. He stared back, unblinking, unimpressed.
Boring.
Each and every single one of them radiated self-importance so thick it choked the air.
Well, all except one figure caught his attention — a man with half-black, half-white hair, and a single angelic wing on one side folded against a demonic counterpart on the other.
A Nephilim.
His eyes weren't even fixed on Xanderous, but directed upward toward the third level.
Following the man's gaze, Xanderous noticed her.
A girl — young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen — standing beside the Editor's grand seat. Her hair mirrored the Nephilim's, divided evenly into light and dark.
She carried herself with a quiet poise but hesitation that contrasted sharply with the steely and confident woman ahead of her.
Also, she bore a striking resemblance to that old lady who was talking too much.
Wait… that's not…
He frowned, taking another drag. No way.
Could she be the Editor's daughter? And with that man?
The thought alone almost made him laugh.
"Didn't think the old hag could even get laid," he murmured under his breath. "Who'd dare touch that stone-faced corpse?"
As if sensing his scrutiny, the girl's head tilted slightly, her gaze flicking down.
For a fleeting moment, their eyes met — her calm composure faltering as color flushed her cheeks. She turned away, flustered.
Xanderous blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Huh," he muttered. "Guess she didn't inherit the hag's frostbite."
His attention drifted back as the Editor's voice cut through the haze.
"Conspiracy. Contempt of Court. Counterfeiting. Cybercrime. Defamation. Disorderly conduct. Domestic violence. Drug trafficking—"
"Aeons above, she's only at D?" he groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
"They're really trying to bore me to death first."
Across the realms, however, the watchers were riveted. The list of crimes was endless — absurdly so.
Whispers spread like wildfire: How could one man commit so much?He's only eighteen.
He's not even an Arisen!
How did he do all that?
But none dared to question the word and validity of the Editor, right hand of the Archetext.
If she declared it, then it must be truth.
At last — after what felt like eternity — her voice slowed.
"…Zoning violations, and several other crimes yet unconfirmed."
The hall was silent for a heartbeat.
Xanderous exhaled deeply and stretched, his joints creaking. "Finally."
The Editor ignored the sarcasm. "Xanderous Mythrend," she intoned, "what is your plea before the House of Laws?"
He let out a sharp laugh. "My plea? What's the point? You're going to kill me anyway. Sure, fine — guilty. Guilty as charged. 100% guilty. Super Guilty. The Most Guiltiest. Now let's get this over with."
A wave of murmurs spread through the witness level, but the Editor simply nodded once.
"Very well," she said softly. "Then by declaration of the Council and by the authority of the Arche—"
Her words stopped.
A deep droning hum reverberated through the hall, rattling the ornate walls and sending ripples through the marble floor.
The air itself seemed to buckle under an unseen weight.
"What—?"
The Editor's composure cracked just slightly. Her head turned upward as light — blinding, prismatic — burst across the vaulted ceiling.
Then, with solemn precision, she dropped to her knees.
"All hail the Almighty Archetext," she spoke, voice filled with reverence.
And above them, in the vast shimmer of the heavens, a colossal open book revealed itself — its pages turning on their own, glowing with every color known and unknown.
The House of Laws fell utterly silent.
The Archetext has revealed itself.