Rumble!…

The chains shook wildly, glowing golden as they tried to keep Wang Xiao in place, binding his limbs and searing into his skin. He was forced down into one side of the colossal weighing pan, his figure like a grain of sand against the vast construct, yet the whole beam leaned heavily beneath his weight.

Above him, pressure cascaded like mountains crashing down.

Still, Wang Xiao did not resist, he stood unmoving, eyes half-lidded, as if waiting.

Emperor Ming frowned. Strange, but it did not matter. The scale did not weigh strength. It did not care for blades or armies, it measured karma.

And Wang Xiaos karma was endless.

Every Transcendent carried a principle. His was balance, karma, destiny, cause and effect.

The agony of souls, the curses of the dead, the shrieks of those slaughtered, all condensed now, pooling like black sludge into the opposite pan.

For a long time, the Emperor had wanted to wait, to let Wang Xiao commit further atrocities, to make the weight unbearable. But that patience was gone. With the second Transcendent already devoured and Wang Xiao hinting at countermeasures, judgment could no longer be delayed.

Yes, Ning Xues dynasty gathered threads of positive karma, sealed in Velkharas altar. Yes, Qian Ruixin performed good deeds to soften his image. The counterweights were being prepared.

But before those plans could fully mature, Emperor Ming, provoked by his audacity, struck prematurely. And so, everything that could go wrong was going wrong for Wang Xiao in that moment.

Screams…

Endless, overlapping screams tore out of the void, splitting the silence of the river.

By the flow of the Nether River… by the balance etched in the marrow of creation… Emperor Mings voice rolled like thunder, …I name your soul heavy beyond measure.

The opposite pan writhed.

Shadows gathered, then solidified.

Faces. Bodies, entire crowds.

The dead.

First came the women, hundreds, then thousands, pale and hollow-eyed, nails broken to the quick as if theyd clawed out of graves.

One held a childs blanket, singed at the corner, its lullaby was a rasp that never finished.

Their voices rose, cracked and accusing: You promised to spare me.

You sold my trust for a blade.

You defiled us and set us aflame.

Behind them, spectral children crawled from the darkness, clutching at their heads, their mouths open in endless shrieks. Father-! Mother-! Why?! Their little hands pointed at him, skeletal fingers trembling.

The tribes appeared next. Women and men alike, slaughtered in rituals of conquest, their chants now turned to curses in languages forgotten by time.

Their words crawled across the skin like maggots.

Then came the nations. Whole cities stacked one atop another in spectral ruin. Palaces toppled in silence before erupting into echoes of screams.

Rivers of phantom blood flowed downward, flooding the pan.

And then, entire galaxies.

Worlds Wang Xiao had collapsed for fuel lit up in spectral replay. Stars flared and died. Planets cracked open, their populations shrieking as they bled into the river.

The pan groaned, sagging beneath the sheer immensity.

Each soul cursed differently, some weeping, some howling, some whispering venomous hate.

A scream of damnation, millions of voices layered over each other, every word a blade:

Monster!

Defiler!

Slayer of gods!

Ravager of children!

Devil!

Emperor Mings eyes burned crimson. His voice echoed like a verdict carved into existence itself:

It stains the current! It corrodes the scales! As Emperor, I pass sentence, your strength shall be scoured, your strength stripped, your sins bled into the river until nothing remains!

SCREEEECH!

The scale lurched, the beam groaning as if reality itself might snap. A universe materialized whole into the pan, a cosmos Wang Xiao had annihilated.

Its suns bled, its planets cracked, its civilizations clawed out of the void.

Billions of souls turned as one, their ghostly fingers outstretched, cursing him in a roar so vast it drowned even the Nether River.

And it was only the beginning.

Every being that had ever suffered beneath Wang Xiaos hand emerged, one after another, their shapes twisted in rage and grief.

The opposite pan of the scale stretched endlessly, as though existence itself bent to contain them. Entire universes flickered into form, realms he had consumed for power, civilizations erased, stars snuffed out.

The weight was unbearable. The balance that had once groaned toward Wang Xiaos side now began to falter. The beam shuddered, then tipped violently against him.

CRASH!

The universe of his sins bore down like an ocean upon a single man.

Even Emperor Ming faltered, his lips parting as his eyes widened. So many…! So many souls bled dry beneath you. Do you… have no regard for creation itself?

His voice cracked into fury, the crimson sigil on his brow blazing. Are you so blind to what youve done? To worlds… to lives… to the river itself?

Wang Xiao only smiled, faint and dangerous. Regard for creation? His voice came cold. Tell me… is seeking strength against creation, or is it creations truest law?

Humph! Emperor Mings voice thundered, shaking the void. Blasphemy! Creation births balance, not tyranny! And yet you-

Wang Xiao cut in, his gaze like ice. Creation births hunger. Stars devour stars. Worlds collide. Rivers flood and drown what they once nourished. And you dare preach balance to me?

The Emperors chains blazed, golden links screaming as they tightened. Strength without measure is corruption!

And who decides it? Wang Xiaos voice echoed cold, a murmur that carried like thunder. His eyes glinted, sharp as knives.

I do! Minghe Di roared, leaping into the pan.

BANG!

The scale shook violently. At once, the chorus of damned souls surged forth, their wails twisting into claws that dragged Wang Xiao down, smothering him beneath their grief and rage.

But even bound, even crushed, Wang Xiao only laughed.

A hollow, dangerous laugh.

Of course you do… You decide, you proclaim, you carve decrees into the air and expect the world to kneel. Tell me… when did borrowed power become authority? Who anointed you as judge, jury, and executioner?

The Emperors face hardened, but Wang Xiaos words sliced open deeper than any blade.

You Executioners… you were not born into struggle, nor carved your strength through blood. You were manufactured, gifted power to keep a balance you did not suffer to achieve. Puppets of law, crowned as gods. He sneered. And now you measure me? A man who clawed his strength from the marrow of existence itself?

The pan tilted further, the souls shrieking louder, pressing him into its surface.

Yet his voice grew colder, sharper.

Strength, you say, corrupts. Then tell me, if I had more strength than you, would you still call it corruption? Or would you call it law? Would you still pass judgment, or would you avert your gaze, like every coward who bows before a higher hand?

Wang Xiao leaned forward, blood dripping from the chains that tore into his flesh, and whispered with venomous calm:

Judges in courts often wear robes and pretend to be gods. They condemn men with words, never with deeds. Who gave them that right? A book? A seal? A throne? Authority built on the illusion of order. And yet, if one man walks into their court with enough fire to burn the walls, tell me… will their gavel still sound divine?

The void quaked, the river trembled, and for a fleeting instant, the Scales themselves seemed uncertain.

You call me filth because I fought, I devoured, I created strength where there was none. Yet you, born into chains of law, believe yourself pure because your blade was handed to you. You measure lives you never lived. Sins you never bled for. Balance you never earned.

His lips curved into a smile that was neither human nor merciful.

The scale groaned. And for the first time, the weight of judgment seemed uncertain.

The Emperor flinched.

The chains tore deeper, golden light scorching his skin, but Wang Xiaos smile only widened, cruel and unbroken.

His voice, slid into every ear like a whisper carved into bone.

Justice… law… judgment. Do you even know what those words mean, Executioner? You act as though they are eternal, sacred things. But who decides what is just? Who decides what is law?

The souls wailed louder, but Wang Xiaos voice drowned them, cold and merciless.

Is murder evil? Until kings decree it in war. Is theft a sin? Until taxes strip it with another name. Is truth sacred? Until rulers burn it, and scribes pen lies into scripture. Law changes with the throne. Justice bends with the victor. And yet you- His eyes gleamed with mockery. You dare stand there, pretending to be different?

The Emperors eyes narrowed, fury battling unease.

You say I am filth because I kill. Because I take. Because I break. But tell me, what is the law of your Executioners? That you may slaughter if the river says so? That you may chain a man if balance demands it? And you call that purity?

He leaned forward, his chains groaning as he bared his teeth.

Justice is not born. It is written. By quills in the hands of kings, by gavels in the hands of judges, by swords in the hands of conquerors. Do you know what that means? It means justice is nothing. It has no spine, no truth, no soul. It is a leash for the weak, held by whoever has strength enough to call themselves master.

The scale shuddered.

The dark sky around them flickered as if the words themselves weighed against the river.

Today, you chain me because you can. Tomorrow, if I rip your head from your shoulders and sit on your throne, my chains become holy. My killings become justice. My will becomes law.

His voice dropped, venomous and absolute.

There is no justice. There is only strength. And the only crime in all creation… is not having enough of it.