The Aspects stood atop the sacred mountain of Zar’Kelath, watching the spiraling lights of the cosmos. Stars shimmered, galaxies wheeled, and threads of karma—once delicate and balanced—now sagged under the weight of unchecked action.

  Thalenyx, The Silent Scale, tilted his head. “The threads are fraying.”

  Cael’ryn, The Weaver of Dawn, said nothing for a while. His hands floated over the cosmic loom, fingers brushing threads of fate that twitched like sleeping things.

  Veyr’zul, The End That Waits, cracked a dry smile. “Balance has not returned in an age. Perhaps it never will.”

  “There must be a way,” Cael’ryn finally said. “A single soul with balanced karma could begin to steady the scales.”

  “There is no such soul,” Thalenyx said flatly. “Every being has acted. Every action has weight.”

  “Then we try something new,” Cael’ryn said, lifting his hands. “If balance cannot be found, let us seek it anyway.”

  “You would leave it to chance?” Veyr’zul asked, amused.

  “To possibility,” Cael’ryn corrected.

  And with that, he pulled together threads of light and will. Divine strands coiled into a point of pure potential — silver like hope, gold like consequence, and shimmering blue like a question without an answer.

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  The spark pulsed in his palm, not a flame, not quite a soul, but something more ancient than either.

  “This spark will search every realm,” Cael’ryn said. “It will find the one whose soul bears equal weight of doing and undoing, of giving and taking. A soul poised perfectly between the Three.”

  “And if it finds no one?” Thalenyx asked.

  Cael’ryn shrugged. “Then it will settle for the closest it can find.”

  Veyr’zul let out a low, rumbling laugh. “Let us hope the universe has a sense of irony.”

  Cael’ryn opened his palm, and the spark flew free — a streak of light racing across the cosmos.

  It searched for balance.

  It found none.

  It swept across the mortal worlds, where wars were waged in the name of justice and greed.

  It passed through the dominions of lesser gods, where each act of creation was laced with pride.

  It dove through the ancient voids where time forgot the names of kings and saints alike — but even there, balance was lost.

  No soul walked the razor's edge. No heart held equal light and shadow.

  The spark began to slow, its glow dimming with each futile orbit.

  Until finally… it changed its method.

  It stopped seeking a soul of balance.

  And instead, searched for one that had barely tipped the scale at all.

  A soul so profoundly neutral, so cosmically uneventful, that fate had never bothered to write it down.

  So it found Kian Zayar instead — a celestial who had never once acted meaningfully, never tipped any scale, never so much as picked a side in a family argument.

  To the spark, he was... perfect.

  Quiet. Empty. Untouched by karma in any real way.

  A cosmic blank slate.

  And so, the spark descended.

  Not into the heart of battle.

  Not into the soul of a hero.

  Not into a destined one.

  But onto the porch of a barefoot celestial drinking coffee in his pajamas.