Chapter 29
The floating body swayed and bowed, sometimes spinning with sudden jolts, causing the figure's head to often freeze, forming strange angles impossible to reach naturally.
There was no explanation for why all this happened, as the cause of the convulsions and tremors remained hidden beyond the reach of observation.
Yet one thing was clear.
Each impact and violent shudder forcedfully dragged along the workings of Olyspharta—actual abstraction and the most fundamental information—not just the founding aspects that compose Ophistu's identity, where all kinds of angels and sacred beings might appear.
The Olyspharta, once sacred and holy, accustomed to standing firm, anchoring the essence behind the luminous creature, now shook, struck in an instant as if threads of light twitched when the central core became unstable.
Every part of Ophistu's grandeur, whether the meaning of existence that transcends presence or absence, the power that soars beyond greatness, or the glory itself, was struck, quickly suffering a piercing shiver that triggered a domino effect on the existential plane normally unseen by any observer.
This was not merely a spectacle of a trembling body; it was a thrilling event, a display of metaphysical distortion reshaping, silently seeping into Ophistu's core of sanctity.Most terrifyingly, the vibration reached the realm of grandeur, a position reserved only for beings whose Olyspharta was most active, those who, through their presence, held dominion over stepping beyond the mortal prototype of creatures, solely to raze both reality and void as if they were playthings.
Much like how the Cursed One and their followers spread, attempting to introduce their essence through Olyspharta, unrestrained and yet shackled, unwilling to be bound by the universe's original structure.
Even their collective image was far beyond, surpassing the sacred presence of the unnamed castle, the very place Ophistu's presence currently stood upon.Ophistu was no different, although the aura of presence carried inequality.
The difference was this.
If the Cursed One appeared as the pioneer of all blueprints—various concepts and unified information, cooperating with reality as both bearer of duty and master of all things—right at the cradle of sacred ideas' diversity, then the holy beings and other angels arrived last, only appearing slightly before the castle, emerging alongside the domains that housed their respective sanctities.
Thus, when the tremor occurred, what shook was not only Ophistu's body, still visible floating on the viewing screen, but the foundational pillars as well, from cause to form, including every encompassing understanding that projected its presence could exist in that place.
"Must stop watching," a voice urged, breaking the focus and beginning to snap fingers immediately.
Fuuuuhhh!
"..."
"Cannot. Absolutely no chance.
Better to utter it. Whatever it may be, it must take flight now.
To Him, all things return.
Still, nothing is heard, not even a whisper bends from within."
"Haaaah..."
Fuuuuh - fuuuuuh - fuuuuh!
"... We command the vile cecuruk to cease, to freeze this filthy act at once!
This great abyss declares its unwillingness to watch. Whoever you may be, the servant refuses to continue, even if it betrays a steadfastness long held, for torment is unbearably shameful."
At first, the urge to halt the spectacle strengthened, burning more fiercely in Ophistu's awareness.
The desire to snap fingers, to activate a sacred mechanism, the most common phrase spoken in desperate moments, surged like an uncontainable heatwave.
'To Him, all things return.'
A phrase once enough to silence chaos and close the door on unworthy realities. Yet the desire was swiftly crushed, imprisoned by the reality that still held it captive.
Not only was the entire body incapable of movement, even the slightest tremor, such as a whisper, could not break through, had no chance to penetrate the absolute silence that sealed the depths.
Ophistu was locked within consciousness, forcibly frozen, unable to divert their gaze, and impossible to flee in thought.
Like a spring buried beneath frozen ice, the spiritual forces that normally extend the will had turned to stone.
And it was precisely within that freezing that the wildest form of rebellion was born and manifested. The consciousness, constantly suppressed and forced to watch, endlessly swallowing a shocking reality, began to resist in an invisible way.
Deep within the mind, naturally so quiet, beyond the reach of laws of motion or restrictions of sound, Ophistu began to recite sacred verses one by one. Unwilling to utter aloud, not as an echo but as waves of intention, merely striking the walls of decree.The verses were not directed at an enemy, nor meant as weapons, but as an emergency call—a plea addressed to anyone, any entity that might be watching, hoping they would come swiftly and halt this.
Sadly, no one came.
There was no sign or signal that the prayers spoken within the locked heart reached any heaven. It was as if the space imprisoning Ophistu was frozen over, merely layered with the highest decree, surely beyond the laws of luminous beings, where sacred voices no longer echoed, where help could not be hoped for or pursued.
The only thing that continued was the spectacle, increasingly showing the body shaking violently, still dancing in absurdity, and the pure Olyspharta, trembling once again.
'Trident, with five prongs upward. Not a symbol of Divinity.
But why, exactly, does this symbol begin to engrave itself around the body?'
Wuuuuuuff!
"No—no—no.
None is allowed.
Only His Possession. No image or form is permitted at the same level, power is asserted without regard to various causes."
Just as Ophistu's body, still displayed within the swirling consciousness, reached the peak of this brutal convulsion, moving like a puppet without strings, trembling in absurd dance, clearly without any root of motion, all that had turned to stone began to crack from within.
No longer merely a holy being trapped, but a witness to purity, a sacred form being torn apart.
The thin, floating body remained fixed above the surface, unsupported by earth or physical law, slowly tensing then loosening, as if marking the flesh structure pulling away from bone, shaping creases and gaps no longer recognizable by old memory.
The transformation did not come as healing or reincarnation, but as mockery, a bleak insult to what was once considered sacred.
Ophistu's body began to change, silently exchanging forms, clearly fully alert, not only imitating the posture or aura of the Most Supreme Master, the Lord worshipped all this time, but also weaving and reweaving it into a disgusting, disproportionate, nearly caricatured shape.
Bones protruded outward, forming a silhouette still identifiable as Them, but dragged toward an ugliness impossible to engrave.
The purity of the Cursed One, at least in Ophistu's memory, standing, sanctifying the Divine presence as a pillar, an unshakable wall of light, was suddenly copied and instantly matched in a form seemingly created to desecrate rather than immortalize.
There was no sound.
No screams accompanied the destruction of meaning.
Only silence, just the image of the body itself, the actual presence stripped of meaning, being destroyed from within.
Ophistu—or whatever remained—was forced to watch, endlessly witnessing how faith named belief was woven, only to be used as raw material for desecration.
Not once was there a chance to reject it. Even turning away from that form was considered impossible. Once worshiped with all praise and gratitude, now it stood, etching presence in a twisted imitation, resembling mockery of the entire structure of faith, both before and after it was built.
To be continued….