Noah sat in the center of the liquid-starlight palace, his presence anchoring the very reality of the new super-continent. He felt the ripple in the Law of Karma, a sour, jagged vibration. The Aethelgard and Technarch civilizations had done exactly what his calculations predicted. They had chosen to burn their own world down just to light a fire at his feet.
He did not feel anger. A mountain does not feel anger toward the wind that tries to erode it. He felt a clinical sense of inevitability. He had spared them, offering a ten-year reprieve, yet their pride was a terminal illness. They had shattered the barrier, effectively screaming into the cosmic void to attract the Primordial Empire.
"The first wave won't be much," Noah mused. His golden Eye of the Primordial pulsed. "The Empire is efficient. They will send a scouting fleet, investigators, purifiers. They will expect a primitive anomaly. They won't send their true gods until they see their scouts turned into scrap metal."
