It is the Law of Severance.
The Law of Closure.
The Law of the Last Breath.
This is the Scythe Law, in its full revelation.
There was no burst of light.
No roar of energy.
No trembling of space.
And yet, everything… paused.
Time did not stop.
It simply waited.
Even the wind held its breath.
Even causality stepped aside.
Something had arrived.
Not loudly.
Not forcefully.
But with the quiet authority of something that could not be ignored.
The comprehension had begun.
The Scythe is not a weapon.
It is a verdict.
It does not kill.
It does not destroy.
It does not obliterate.
It ends.
What must end.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
It does not judge by emotion.
It does not swing by desire.
It knows not mercy, nor cruelty.
Only clarity.
The Scythe is not drawn when rage swells,
nor when vengeance calls.
It is drawn when the final note has been played.
When the seed has bloomed, withered, and returned to soil.
When the thread has frayed to the last fiber.
