It seems that in this universe,

all things must arc along a parabola—

and every climax must sound its most violent note

before it collapses.

The white winds’ great carnival is no exception.

As it surges toward its apex,

they come thundering from the four corners of sky and earth.

This is no longer procession,

but conquest.

They arrive not to dance,

but to wage war—

as if to cast the King of Night from His own realm.

In this hour, it is the white that reigns.

They press forward,

breaching the gates.

The night is driven back.

The air thins.

The drums beat faster—hotter—

like sparks against bare skin.

And then—

at the trembling edge of madness—

silence falls.

A breathless instant.

A detonation so vast

it swallows the world whole.

And in the wake of everything undone,

only a single bloom remains—

a white mushroom cloud,

twisting in slow rapture with the black of night.