The mysterious plane had grown quiet.
Not the dangerous kind of quiet—no lurking monsters, no cursed wind whispering poetry, no thunder that sounds like it regrets something.
Just… silence. Like a book that's been read, annotated, and gently closed.
They had seen trials.
They had faced echoes.
They had survived a law pool, a mirror that judged your soul, and Void's teaching voice (scarier than most beasts).
But this? This was different.
Void stood in front of the final path.
It wasn't made of stone, or vines, or reality itself.
It was made of questions.
And at the end of it—sat a single, floating fragment.
No glow. No hum.
It was just… there. Still. Waiting.
⸻
Void's Face Changed
Not dramatically. But Ezekiel noticed it immediately.
Usually, Void had two expressions:
• 1. "I'm thinking about how to absorb a dying star."
• 2. "I just thought of something fun and terrifying."
Now… his face was blank.
Not empty.
Reverent.
"This is the Law of Recognition," he said quietly. "It doesn't command elements. It doesn't shape matter. It speaks truths so old, even the gods pretend they forgot them."
Ezekiel blinked. "So, like… it says your name?"
Void nodded. "The real one. The one the world gave you."
"And… if you hear it?"
Void stared at the fragment.
"You remember everything you've been hiding from."
⸻
Approaching the Law
The space was strange. With each step forward, the ground reshaped—pulling memories up like dandelions in a graveyard.
Ezekiel saw flashes.
• Himself, standing in a forge he never built.
• Frederick, surrounded by apprentices, not ashes.
• Void… alone. Always alone. But looking back.
"Don't speak," Void warned. "This law responds to intention. Say the wrong thing, and it'll show you the truth in the worst way."
Naturally, Ezekiel backflipped.
No reason. No prompt. Just did it.
Landed awkwardly.
"Sorry—I panicked."
Void stared at him.
"…Honestly, not the worst reaction I've seen."
Frederick whispered, "I once sneezed on a law crystal and got temporarily possessed by a mushroom. He's doing fine."
⸻
Contact
Void raised a hand to the Law of Recognition.
It pulsed.
A wave rippled outward.
Not light. Not sound. Meaning.
And suddenly, they all heard it.
Their names.
Not spoken with words, but etched into their bones.
Ezekiel: "The One Who Could Have Run, But Didn't"
Frederick: "The Maker Who Refused to Unmake"
Void: "The Silence That Watches Itself"
The law wasn't judging.
It was remembering them. Better than they did.
Ezekiel dropped to a knee. "It's… heavy."
Void nodded. "Most truths are."
⸻
The Law Reacts
Instead of shattering like others, the Law of Recognition split—fractals of truth shooting in every direction. Not in chaos, but in distribution.
It didn't want to be absorbed.
It wanted to be known.
The fragments embedded themselves in the realm's walls, in the soil, even in the air.
Frederick touched a leaf that now carried a name—and it whispered "peacekeeper."
Void smiled, barely.
"It's teaching the realm how to remember again."
"That's… good, right?" Ezekiel asked, wobbling from his acrobatics.
Void nodded. "It means this place can finally rest."
⸻
The Exit Appears
The gate rose slowly—gold and starlight and just the right amount of "you probably don't want to touch this without permission" aura.
It was graceful. Not loud. Like a goodbye you never got to say, finally arriving late.
"Let's go," Void said. "Before the realm changes its mind."
Frederick bowed slightly to the field before following.
Ezekiel, ever the disaster gremlin, tripped on a flower that whispered "almost-hero," got up, dusted himself off, and followed with a sigh.
⸻
One Last Thing
As Void stepped through, he paused.
Turned.
And whispered his own name.
Only the Law heard it.
And for the first time in eons—it whispered back:
"You are more than destruction. You are the decision that must be made."
Void said nothing.
But his eyes glowed, just briefly.
And then he left.
———
Void: "I Just Remembered…"
"…I just remembered I erased this place once. A long time ago. Not all at once. Piece by piece. Thought it was a mercy. Turns out mercy ages poorly."
"I just remembered the gods who made this plane. Cowards in robes with pretty words and trembling hands. They locked truths in here like rotten fruit in a box, hoping they'd ferment into something sweet. They didn't."
"I just remembered my real name. Not the one this world gave me. The one from before this world mattered. I didn't say it out loud, though. The sky doesn't need to hear it today."
"I just remembered that feeling. When you try to fix something, and it looks better… but not right. That's what this plane feels like now. Better. But not right."
"I just remembered I'm not here to fix things. I'm here to find out why they keep breaking."
"And I just remembered… I haven't felt curious in a long time."
Void glances at the Law Fragment one last time. It flickers, as if flattered. He doesn't smile. Not exactly. But the world tilts slightly, like it's bracing for what comes next.
⸻
Ezekiel: "I Just Remembered…"
"I just remembered I can't swim. Which wouldn't matter, except we're standing on an unstable reality crust floating over some kind of cosmic soup and Void looks like he's about to sneeze creation energy."
"I just remembered I left the forge door open back home. Or maybe I never had a forge. Maybe I dreamed it. I'm not okay."
"I just remembered I tried to backflip earlier. For what purpose? Was I possessed? Was that character development? I think I cracked a rib."
"I just remembered that time my father said 'you have potential' and I thought he meant emotionally. He meant as a projectile. Through a window. Because I exploded the roof with molten cheese."
"I just remembered I'm still alive, which feels illegal."
"And I just remembered I'm traveling with a cosmic force of unmaking wearing a robe, and he just whispered something that made the clouds blink. Should I be worried? I think I should be worried."
"…I just remembered I have no idea how taxes work in multi-dimensional space."
Ezekiel sits down. Just right there. On the grass. Which is glowing. And whispering encouragement. Probably fake encouragement.
⸻
Frederick: "I Just Remembered…"
"I just remembered my crew. The ones who dropped me into this realm thinking I was doing basic fieldwork. They probably think I drowned. Or exploded. Or got legally adopted by a law fragment."
"I just remembered I didn't leave a single instruction behind. Just disappeared mid-shift with the prototype law compass in my beard pocket. I think my second-in-command was a goat. Not metaphorically."
"I just remembered I told them, and I quote, 'Back in two hours, tops. If I'm late, it's because I found something interesting.' I was off by several soul-defining experiences."
"I just remembered my workshop has no backup key. If my crew touched anything in drawer three, the continent might already be smoking."
"I just remembered the sandwich I left on my desk. That was two weeks ago. It had potential. And a personality."
"I just remembered I wasn't planning to meet a god today. Let alone be spiritually dismantled, reassembled, and mildly impressed by him."
"I just remembered… I might be happy. And that's terrifying."
Frederick adjusts his tool belt like nothing happened. But the grass next to him has slightly caught fire from emotional heat. No one mentions it.