Sakolomé squinted, breath short, hands trembling from the effort.
— I didn't expect… you to use this kind of skill for such a flexible fight, he said, regaining his balance. You really want my sister, it seems…
Zelongue smiled. Slowly. Almost with tenderness.
— All you have to do, Sakolomé, is touch me. And you would have won.
But you already know that, don't you?
It's already lost for you.
The words fell like a sentence ending the universe.
Sakolomé closed his eyes for a brief moment. He replayed every movement in his mind. Every attack. Every variation of his magic, his breath, his anchors. Nothing worked. He could no longer use his magic — every attempt was reversed on him by the meta-conceptual feedback loop imposed by Zelongue. And even a brute physical attack would fail: the mere attempt would produce its own negation.
But Rivhiamë… she had used a meta-conceptual shield. That meant she, at least, still mastered the magic of higher conditions. Her mana was not simply an energy, but a metaphysical demand on reality. Zelongue too. Their very presence conditioned local logic. They were not emitting "powerful" mana — their mana defined the very possibility of ordinary mana's existence.
Sakolomé was certain now: these two were not made for this reality. Out of caution, they restrained their true emission — otherwise, the very fabric of this dimension would have shattered like a fragile glass under a wave too pure.
Fighting Zelongue, for Sakolomé, was like…
trying to strike his own concept of existence with a wooden sword.
It was unbalanced to the point of cruelty.
And yet, he sighed. Slowly. Like someone accepting, not defeat, but the idea that he would have to sacrifice more than expected.
He lifted his eyes to Zelongue.
— I can't… give up.
His foot scraped the ground, his fist clenched.
— I just have to perish, if I must.
All I have to do is touch you.
And I will have won.
Zelongue said nothing. His smile widened imperceptibly.
In the air, something had just changed. As if, despite everything, Sakolomé's despair had just set a new anchor point in the very fabric of the scene.
And for a fraction of a second, even Zelongue felt… a faint vibration.
Sakolomé, panting but still standing, closed his eyes briefly. In his mind, a silent thought slipped, addressed to Rivhiamë:
Sakolomé (internally):
Rivhiamë… What I'm going to ask you is insane. But I only need a moment. One. Just enough to touch him…
Rivhiamë's sharp voice echoed in his consciousness before he could finish:
Rivhiamë:
I refuse. Forget it right away. I won't let you use meta-conceptual mana.
Sakolomé (firmer):
Just a few seconds… It's not to win, it's to open a breach, that's all I ask…
Rivhiamë (categorical):
You have no idea what you're asking. The mere fact of absorbing this mana would disintegrate you on a fundamental ontological level. You would be destroyed before you even moved. This is not a weapon, Sakolomé. This is an end.
She paused, then resumed gravely:
You don't need to do this. Give up. This fight isn't everything. We can still convince Ysolongue to help us. He might have leverage over him. There's another way.
A silence fell. Sakolomé's gaze hardened. He slowly reopened his eyes, their gleam extinguished and determined.
Sakolomé (softly):
There is no other way. I accepted this duel. To the end. If I back down now, he will take Salomé. And this time… it will be forever.
A shiver ran through Rivhiamë.
Rivhiamë:
Sakolomé…
Sakolomé (dark, fierce):
A pact is a pact. And I'm still alive. As long as that's true, I will fight. Even without hope. Even if I have to burn with him.
He straightened up; his legs trembled, but his chest rose, and his still intact arm stretched out.
Sakolomé:
Here we go again.
Rivhiamë (panicked):
No! Don't do this!!
Sakolomé leapt forward, shouting, ready to risk everything.
But suddenly—
—he stopped midair.
His body froze, suspended in the air. His eyes widened… then he collapsed heavily, without a word.
In the next second, all around the arena, the others collapsed in turn like broken dolls.
Kai, Bakuran, Jin Muleo, Lingyin… all struck by sudden collapse, as if an invisible hand had cut the strings of their will.
In the arena, only Zelongue remained standing, looking wary.
Zelongue (clenching his teeth):
Tsss… What… what is happening?
The sky suddenly tore open, a fracture of shadow and light.
Zelongue, alert, scanned the horizon.
— What… Sakolomé… is it…
His gaze fell on the fallen body of the young man.
— No… it can't be him…
The earth rumbled beneath their feet, then all stopped. Absolute silence.
The bodies stirred. Sakolomé raised a trembling hand to his skull and slowly sat up.
— What just happened…?
Rivhiamë, internally, answered gravely:
— You collapsed suddenly. And the earth started trembling right after.
Outside the ring of fire, Bakuran stood up, worried, gently feeling his chest.
— What was that…?
Lingyin, frowning, kept a hand on his temple:
— I… I don't know.
Back in the arena, Sakolomé questioned Rivhiamë:
— Do you think Zelongue caused that?
— No, she answered immediately. It's… something else.
At that precise moment, the space around them distorted. Clear, precise, unreal.
A geometric rift opened at the very heart of the burning arena.
A hand emerged from the void — luminous, ethereal, sculpted in sacred clarity.
Then hair, fluid, made of dancing light, snaked through the space.
A naked feminine silhouette slowly manifested under the petrified gazes.
Everyone was speechless.
Kai stammered:
— Who… who is that…?
Jin Muleo, frowning in astonishment:
— What is this thing…?
The figure gradually solidified. She took the form of an adult woman, majestic, with human skin tone.
Her long pink hair floated like a trail of mist.
Her chest and hips were covered by opalescent clouds, hiding the essentials without breaking the sacred strangeness.
Her eyes slowly opened: two graceful lakes with unfathomable depths.
A crown of pure gold encircled her brow. She smiled delicately and breathed:
— Ah… So this is where I landed.
Zelongue, his eye still active, instinctively tried to analyze the creature. But nothing.
His celestial eye, capable of perceiving the slightest cosmic flaw, could see nothing.
No flaw, no breach. As if this woman belonged to a higher level of existence, impossible to interpret.
He spoke warily:
— Who are you?
The woman turned her head toward him, looking almost amused.
— Such rudeness. You should introduce yourself first, no?
— Is that how you were taught to speak to people?
Sakolomé couldn't take his eyes off her.
Rivhiamë, in the silence of the mind, was astonished.
This woman — or rather, this entity — defied all logic, all reading, all known precedence.
And even if they didn't understand her nature, all felt vaguely one thing:
the strange phenomenon that had just occurred… the trembling, the rupture in the sky…
She was involved. That was certain.
The strange woman observed the perplexed and worried faces around her. An amused smile appeared on her lips as she pierced the doubt in their eyes.
— Don't look so worried, I'm not going to eat you. Besides, I'm not here for that, she explained with a touch of irony. I'm here because a cosmic order has been broken.
Everyone exclaimed in unison, surprised:
— A cosmic order?
The goddess nodded gravely, her gaze suddenly more serious.
— Yes. I am Ñout. They also call me the Great Goddess, or the Presence. I am a primordial goddess, a category of divinity that watches over order not through universes, nor Delzluhud, nor even meta-structures… but in all absolute reality, basic or transcendental. We are those one might call commanders of gods.
Ñout proudly placed her hands on her hips, standing tall with a satisfied air. Then, in a lighter tone, she added:
— Be proud. It's not every day you meet a primordial god. We're a rather rare category. Hahaha…
But no laughter followed. Everyone remained frozen, impressed and slightly disoriented by the incomprehensible nature of the entity standing before them. Ñout noticed this, brought her hand to her mouth and coughed, embarrassed.
— Kof… You have no sense of humor. Relax, I'm not your enemy, well, unless you try to get in my way.
Jin Muleo, after a moment's hesitation, broke the silence and asked:
— Uh… You mentioned a destroyed cosmic order, didn't you?
Ñout nodded, her gaze becoming more penetrating, but her voice stayed calm and composed:
— Yes. This order belonged to three meta-conceptual entities: Kuro, Shēdo, and Shiro.
The others exchanged glances, frowning, still not understanding what she meant.
Ñout continued, her eyes briefly lost in the distance as if seeking the right words.
— Actually, they lived between the state of 3rd and 2nd Suargaloka. They maintained a rather toxic relationship that influenced how creatures acted in causal frames. They represent light, darkness, and… neither one nor the other. Shiro represents light, Kuro represents darkness, and Shēdo represents indifference, the void between the two. Their constant conflict allows beings subject to causality to have defined choices through them. Yes, you mortals were under their influence. You lived, acted, chose under the sway of their balance.
Sakolomé, still seeking answers, leaned forward and asked, his voice tense:
— And what happened?
Ñout crossed her arms and sighed slightly, her face growing more serious.
— Well… they were erased by the Scriptomaton. Or the Narration, if you prefer.
Zelongue, listening attentively, raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
— The Narration?
Ñout smiled, a mysterious glint in her eyes.
— Don't worry. Don't try to understand what is beyond you too much. What you must know is that Shiro and Kuro were mysteriously erased by the Narration. As if their conditions had to be denied. And leaving Shēdo alone, this lack caused this strange problem, which triggered this trembling of the causal realities. All those linked to any of these three — whether by fate or causality — were affected and fainted. All caused by this imbalance.
A heavy silence settled in the air, each of Ñout's words weighing like an indisputable truth. The gravity of her speech seemed to plunge the atmosphere into even greater confusion. The creatures around her, even Zelongue, appeared caught in a whirlwind of misunderstanding and terror.
Sakolomé, fists clenched, scrutinized the goddess with determination but also palpable worry. What he had just heard changed everything he had understood so far about the world, existence, and his own role in all this. Too many forces were at play, too many powerful entities manipulating the threads of fate.
Ñout, catching her breath, looked at everyone present with a lightness slowly returning to her expression, as if sensing that the confusion would slowly dissipate.