Where Did The Law-Of-Space-And-Time Originate In Canon?

I’m the kind of nerd who reads origin chapters like they’re detective novels, and when I look for where a story’s space‑time rules actually come from, I always check two places first: ancient myth/creation lore in that canon, and individual inventors or artifacts.

Take examples in popular franchises: a teleportation or time‑skip technique might be presented as a rare skill invented by a single character and then copied — for instance, in 'Naruto' space‑time techniques are often tied to specific users and bloodline limits (the Flying Thunder God is a personal, developed technique, while ocular powers like Kamui come from unique eyes). In contrast, universes like 'Doctor Who' and much of 'Marvel' treat time’s behavior as rooted in the cosmos itself and then give certain beings or devices the authority to bend it. That’s why you’ll see space‑time rules framed as either a personal toolbox or universal law depending on the storyteller.

I like that this split lets stories ask different ethical questions: who gets to rewrite the rules — a lone genius, an ancient society, or the universe itself? That tension is often the heart of the plot, and it’s one reason these origins matter more than they might at first glance. It’s fun to trace how a single rule morphs across stories and to compare whether a world treats it like sacred geography or a hackable API.

I get a real kick out of tracing where big cosmic ideas come from in fiction, and for the 'law-of-space-and-time' there are basically two canonical birthplaces that keep showing up: a creation event or an act of deliberate crafting by a powerful being or technology.

In a lot of sci‑fi and mythic fantasy, the law is treated like a byproduct of the universe's origin — the Big Bang, the First Maker, or a primordial entity that set the fabric of reality into motion. That’s the vibe in settings like 'Doctor Who' where time is treated as an elemental territory the Time Lords learned to map and police, or in many comic-book universes where cosmic entities and artifacts (think parts of the 'Marvel' cosmology like the Infinity Stones or abstract beings) are used to explain why space and time behave the way they do. The canonical origin there is basically: space and time emerged with the cosmos and certain intelligences later formalized rules about their use.

On the flip side, fantasy and certain hard‑sci‑fi stories often pin the law’s origin on intelligent design — an ancient civilization, a god, or a piece of tech that stitched new rules into reality. Whether it’s an ancient sorcerer weaving a binding on causality or a super‑advanced machine that imposes local space‑time limits, those narratives treat the law as an artifact of engineering rather than a primordial fact. I love how both approaches let authors explore limits and consequences: either you’re trying to respect something older than thought, or you’re messing with rules someone else intentionally put there. Makes for juicy drama every time.

Once I started reading in-universe mythographies, I began to prefer origin stories where the law-of-space-and-time is born as myth that later becomes codified science. Picture an ancient culture that survives a temporal catastrophe; their survivors formalize what happened into ritual and taboo. Centuries later, scholars translate those taboos into mathematics and legalese. The narrative arc there is crooked and fascinating: myth becomes law, law becomes technology.

I like this structure because it gives stories layers. You get primal ritualistic imagery—an old chronomancer sealing a bargain—and you also get modern bureaucrats drafting protocols with paper stamps. It explains why different eras treat the law differently and why some factions cling to relics while others rewrite equations. My favorite scene to imagine is an archivist in worn robes flipping a brittle page and realizing a 'silly superstition' is actually a blueprint for a world-correcting device. That mix of dusty myth and sharp math always hooks me.

If I had to give a compact take from a fan’s view: in canon the law‑of‑space‑and‑time usually originates either at the birth of the universe or at the hands of someone (or something) powerful enough to reshape reality. Some settings present the law as an intrinsic rule set born with creation — an underlying fabric the characters learn about or respect — while others depict it as invented or enforced by gods, ancient civilizations, or technology. Examples are everywhere: cosmic beings and artifacts in wide‑scope universes explain the 'why' for one kind of story, whereas localized abilities and inventions explain the 'how' for another.

I enjoy how different origins change the whole feel of a world: if it’s primordial, you get awe and destiny; if it’s engineered, you get hubris and responsibility. That contrast is exactly the sort of thing that keeps me glued to origin scenes and final confrontations alike.

Across a lot of fiction I've devoured, the "law-of-space-and-time" usually has one of two births: either it's a metaphysical rule set by cosmic beings or it's a human-made discovery that gets elevated into doctrine. In stories like 'Doctor Who' you get the feel of an institutionalized canon — Time Lords talk about fixed points and rules that sound like laws, but those laws are really traditions grown from long experience and a handful of decisive events that taught them caution.

On the other hand, superhero settings lean toward cosmic authorship: something like a council of primordial entities, an artifact, or even a single godlike being declares the parameters of causality and geometry. That's where you see the clearest origin in-canon — a narrative moment where authority is asserted (a tribunal, an awakening of an Eldritch power) and the fabric of space-time becomes governed. I like that because it lets writers play with authority and rebellion; sometimes the 'law' is strict physics, sometimes it's protocol one clever character learns to exploit. Personally I love when the origin doubles as a moral beat — a law imposed to stop chaos that also traps hopeful rebels, which makes stories way more interesting to me.