Chapter 19
The two-headed child had not acted recklessly. It had bided its time, restraining Ophistu's movements, while outside, an exorcism team prepared. These were no ordinary spirit-banishers. They were a specialized unit, an anti-religious organization formed directly by the government of the satanic world, trained explicitly to expel entities like him.
Angels who forced the Almighty's dominion into profane spaces.
The moment Nebetu'u realized Ophistu remained oblivious, utterly unaware of their presence, it held back no longer. A sudden explosion of wind erupted, blinding his vision, shrouding him in chaos as the exorcists moved freely.
Their voices rose, satanic chants measured and precise, flooding every corner of the ruined sanctuary, eroding Ophistu's power step by step.
And behind the clamor, Nebetu'u launched its final gambit.
Still suspended in, what even was this space-time now?—the once-sacred chamber where Ophistu had imprisoned it began to crumble. With the strength it had withheld all this time, Nebetu'u wrenched reality, forcing a reversal, dragging both itself and Ophistu back to where it all began.
The ruins of the sanctuary.
The place where it had first been torn from the world.
The place where the Ush family's vengeance had taken root.
Now, it was Nebetu'u's turn to repay every ounce of suffering.
Ophistu's fury burned white-hot as he grasped Nebetu'u's scheme. He had dismissed the two-headed creature as a coward, a wretch hiding behind its malformed body, but its power was far more insidious. A dual defense, sacred and profane intertwined, rendering it nearly unconquerable.
Even as Ophistu fought desperately, roaring his refusal, straining to keep Nebetu'u trapped within the castle, he could feel his resistance crumbling.
Rage bled into unease, gnawing at his certainty. Every desecrated altar, every terror inflicted upon the Ush family, every death he had orchestrated to tighten his grip, now twisted into a weapon against him.
The satanic chants swelled, resonating through the ruins. These were no empty incantations. Each syllable corroded his divine protections, stripping away the guardian entities he had stationed as his last line of defense.
Within the castle's suffocating silence, Ophistu knelt in desperate prayer. His lips trembled with hymns, begging for the intervention of the God he worshipped, his only hope to quell this chaos. Yet just before the final word could form, a horrific sound split the stillness.
A scrape.
Like claws raking against the fabric of reality itself.
The white mist, once a symbol of divine purity, darkened into a murky blue, tainted by something even fouler than corruption. Every time Ophistu turned, fresh gashes appeared, on the walls, the floor, even the air, as though space itself were being flayed by an unseen force.
These were no ordinary marks. Their depth was monstrous, equivalent to hundreds of simultaneous grenade blasts. Each gouge bore traces of an edge beyond logic, sharper than the strongest steel, more destructive than any weapon ever forged.
The pattern felt unnatural, not random, as if left by something ... someone bearing seven claws, each capable of rending both matter and dimension.
Ophistu stood firm, yet for the first time, a tremor of fear pulsed beneath his resolve. Whatever had left these marks was no ordinary foe. Perhaps not even an enemy that could be fought. The blue mist thickened, smothering everything, even curiosity.
"Did you truly believe your hollow whispers could tear asunder what even His essence cannot dispute?
"Then come ... if only to shatter your teeth against the Almighty's glory.
The end was never written as myth, only as a footnote in the annals of ruin.
Your screams will but kindle the pyre of divine radiance.
Look honestly; it is not the faithful who march forward, but the stumbling, the bowed, the lost in false hope, drawing nearer to their ordained demise.
Trembling steps. Dulled eyes. Not even the whisper of my wings stirs at your intent—so fragile.
You bring defiance, yet face not mere power, but what underlies all power.
We ... are both cause and exception. Should one of Us deny His will, that denial becomes law, no mere clause in mortal edicts.
What is truth? Consciousness? We have touched and, without doubt, scorned them all. We exist within and beyond every boundary."
Bzzzt—
"This...?"
Bzzzt... bzzzt... BZZZT!!
"Poison."
Hsssssh!
"Pathetic jest."
Huuuffffh!
"How desperate you—"
"...."
Yet Ophistu remained unshaken, as if his conviction had become bedrock, utterly unassailable. Not a single flinch betrayed fear, even as the wind carried slivers of threat, creeping closer. His faith needed no rational foundation; it had crystallized into dogma, the only voice permitted in the corridors of his mind.
Echoed from depths of absolute silence. Behind his gaze, calm and dark, lay the certainty that all threats were but fragments of a tragic narrative, one written without hope of redemption.
Not from arrogance, but because he could not conceive an alternative. The world, to him, existed only to prove what was already ordained. That conviction, though born of hubris, stood unwavering, a spire defying the heavens.
Then—
A screech tore through the sanctum's inviolate silence. It forced itself into Ophistu's ears, which had ever permitted only holy praises, the sole words worthy of lodging within. All else, especially the filth spat by lesser beings, he had purged like refuse.
But this ... this drone could not be ignored.
It gnawed at his calm, stabbed at his senses, violating thresholds no creature should breach. Distortion crawled through his being, vibrating every fiber, as if the cosmos itself mocked him, testing the pride of his "unshakable" faith.
Ophistu gritted his teeth, resisting the sonic assault. Yet the drone intensified, morphing into a roar, biting, threatening to crumble the walls of his arrogance.
To be continued...