The instant the last of the one hundred thousand stolen fortunes settled back into the fields, wells. Hearth-fires of the three thousand worlds below, a profound, harmonic tremor rippled through the very bedrock of the cosmos.
It was not the artificial, ink-stained tremor of the Chief Author’s machinery on Floor Nine.
Instead, it was the true, living heart of the Myriad Realms Universe—the collective breath of one quintillion freed citizens, trillions of blooming star-fields. Eight healed epochs of history—waking up from three million years of parasitic exploitation and singing a single, resounding chord of gratitude!
HUMMMMMMMMM—DONG!!
Above the vaulted dome of the Heavenly Script Pavilion, past the clouds of Floor Eight and even higher than the Chief Author’s white-jade study on Floor Nine. The primordial canopy of the universe parted like a curtain of woven starlight!
Up on Floor Nine, the Chief Author of Fate stumbled out onto his balcony. His blood-red editing quill falling from his ink-stained fingers as he stared up at the open cosmic sky in sheer, slack-jawed terror.
“T-that aura... that’s not my script!” the Chief Author stammered, his knees knocking together so hard his teeth clicked.
“That is the True Origin Will of the Boundless Cosmos! For three million years I locked the True Origin Will in chains so only I could grant Rank 10 Creatorhood! How did returning those one hundred thousand fortunes wake up the True Origin Will over my head?!”
