Ever felt the cold awe of a new genre being born?"
Silence answered them. But not the comfortable silence of certainty. No—this was the tense, electric stillness before an avalanche. A hush that tasted like copper and rust. A silence that warned: something is coming that does not care for your sense of order.
And far below the Hall, beneath even the root cellar of Reality's assumptions, the Vault of Unspoken Rules began to shake.
They gathered—these Masters, these Watchers, these worn architects who built with absolutes—around the trembling core. The rules, once etched in eternal ink, now pulsed with cracks.
Not metaphorical ones.
Real, yawning splits where meaning once lived. Where once was "every hero must suffer" now bled ambiguity. Where once was "tragedy is essential for growth" now sat a void—quiet, questioning, unashamed.
