It was not a complete Creation Trait, but shattered fragments scattered across various worlds, each no larger than a fingernail.
Some were hidden in the cores of worlds, some inside powerful beings, and some simply drifted through the void like wandering planets in the universe.
Wu Heng lightly ran a finger across the Silver Cube. No rush. No rush. One at a time.
The cube spun as points of light flowed across it. The sulfur torches in the Throne Hall flickered, casting his shadow across the floor and stretching it long, long.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The Pestilence Trait, Hunger Trait, and War Trait—three branches quietly unfurled upon the Trait Tree.
The trunk of fear was thick and sturdy; the roots of fertility burrowed deep; depression's bark was tightly wrapped; the flames of rage burned fiercely; arrogance was the blade, hypocrisy the sheath, and corruption the hilt.
Everything was in its proper place, fulfilling its proper role.
Everything was under control!
The silver-white cube slowly rotated before him, emitting a faint hum. It was not loud, but within the empty Throne Hall, it sounded exceptionally clear, as though it were saying: There is another one. There are many more.
Wu Heng sat in his steel chair, his fingers resting on the armrest and tapping softly, again and again, like a pendulum, like a heartbeat.
He was waiting—for Sam and Dean to come.
He knew they would.
It was not calculation, nor prediction. It was understanding.
Because that was the kind of people they were—if there was something they could not understand, they would not leave it alone; if there was a principle they could not comprehend, they would not keep it bottled up.
They would come looking for him, argue with him, debate him,