The world dissolved into a storm of colors and sounds that defied description.There was no sky, no ground only fragments of places and memories spinning together like shards in a hurricane.
Aloysius floated in the chaos, his body half-dissolved into the fabric of the new reality forming around him.His breath came in ragged bursts. The power he had absorbed from the Weaver and the Loom burned inside him like molten metal unbearable, yet impossible to release.
From the void, familiar voices whispered.Some were allies he had lost along the way.Some were enemies who had sworn to kill him.All of them spoke the same question:"What will you make of us?"
He saw flickers of possibilities.One world where the gods ruled once again, cold and unyielding.Another where no divine power existed, but the people lived fragile, fleeting lives.A third where the line between mortal and god was blurred entirely.
The Weaver's broken form appeared beside him, still glowing faintly. Her expression was bitter but strangely calm."You think you can make something better? Creation is not mercy it is judgment."
Aloysius's hands trembled.The temptation to restore the old order, to bring back what was familiar, was strong. But then he remembered the faces of those who had suffered under that order Daigo, Elara, Kaelis, and countless nameless souls who had bled for freedom.
"No," he said, his voice steadying. "This won't be my world. It will be theirs."
He thrust his arms outward, letting the energy surge not into shaping reality for them, but into scattering the seeds of creation billions of fragments, each carrying the potential for new worlds, new rules, new beginnings.
The Weaver's eyes widened in shock. "You're giving it away?"
"Not giving," Aloysius replied. "Trusting."
The chaos exploded outward, light and darkness twining together into countless newborn skies. Each fragment became a universe of its own, untethered from any single god's will.
Then came the silence.