Chapter 30
And behind all the freezing came a realization, one far more terrifying than imprisonment. That the entity twisting the sacred form did not come from outside, nor from an enemy's assault, but from the root, the vine that had long been growing deep within the well of one's own consciousness.
Something had been patiently waiting, biding its time until all strength was spent and only an empty space remained, perfectly ready to be filled with a new form. A form not meant to be worshiped, nor to be rejected, only to be seen and remembered. For in a place without sound, the only inheritance that endures is sight.
"We command you to turn to stone, freeze now by His Will!
Hurry and stop, we will explode at any moment!"
Wufffffh!
"Ready to explode. Reporting—"
Huffffffh!
"Who dares to profane the purity of the Most One.
Who—who."
Though the imitation process had only reached a quarter of its course, far from completion so that the prototype remained rough, writhing amid the nauseating distortion of flesh, there was one detail, a small piece of information, that could not be ignored.
It was none other than the head of the false Ophistu's body, which at that moment demanded the terrified attention of the true Ophistu, for it had begun to form a sign.
Five elongated prongs, like a trident yet more akin to metallic petals, protruded upward from its own skull, hardening slowly into the shape of an inverted prophetic emblem.
This sign was not merely symbolic, not merely an abnormal anatomical pattern, but a carved seal long revered, already recognized among the holy beings as the nearest signal of the descent of the Divinity of the Cursed One.
Yet what descended was clearly no blessing, nor the highest sanctity, but the most distorted form of servitude itself.
The divinity, intent on alighting within that body, cloaked itself in the false Ophistu's form, moving beyond the limits of appearance, not as an act of bestowal but as a disaster of imitation.
It was no incarnation but the most subtle insult, for the vessel was not chosen for worthiness, but because of fracture, it had become an empty shell since the departure of its true owner.
And at last, the body exploded. Not an explosion in the mere physical sense, but a multidimensional rupture, a total tearing that erased existence from every side.
The form of Ophistu, once still recognizable, was now nothing more than scattered fragments, shards of reality that could never again be made whole.
It did not end there, for the blast shook further, brazenly striking deeper than the outer form.
Ophistu's Olyspharta, the sacred idea and pure understanding, not merely marking existence and spiritual function, but the core of all knowledge and certainty of presence, was struck as well, pulled into the force of the quake.
It was not a deliberate act, declaring the destruction from within. Yet even now, it could be said that no frontal assailant was found, nor any personal will to willingly vanish.
Still, the damage happened, and the true Ophistu could only witness, only gaze as shards of herself, of image and vast abstract being, scattered like sparks of light, dimming and dying in the hollow void.
Worse than death, this was erasure. Memories of the Ophistu that exploded began to vanish, erased from the pathways of reality, gone from the order of time, and stripped from the archives of the cosmos.
The holy beings who once remembered began to lose the name. The angels who once spoke it, praising her greatness, now stood in stone-like stillness, knowing nothing.
Even the Cursed One, the source of existence, the origin of all that is and is not, showed no reaction, as though this event was no aberration but part of something clearly designed, though never spoken into the ears of anyone.
The true Ophistu remained locked, unable to move or speak, witnessing only as his
Olyspharta was disturbed, as though it were being hacked from within by an unrecognized system.
Within that absolute silence, a single awareness slowly seeped into him.
Unspoken, yet undeniable.
It declared that what was taking place was not the result of intent, nor of an external assault. It was the consequence, an equivalent compensation for something proposed far older than will, than plan, even older than existence itself.
Something that now began to reshape the meaning of that existence, making him, the true Ophistu, not merely an observer but a shard, a remnant fragment simply awaiting its turn to be called.
"Fuuuh … haaah."
Hussssh!
"Sight alone bears no use, lacking both more and less.
And for that reason—"
Huffffffh!
"Stop, boldly declared as nothing more than a trick of vision!"
Fuuuuuuh!
"No, all of our consciousness affirms the prohibition to proceed!
This pain is too great. The wings, both legs, and every bestowed gift will collapse, ready
to be toppled in a single step.
Final statement, underlined, that we will shatter.
A second time we are seized, and who seeks to take?
Who … speak plainly, exactly which one?!"
Ophistu immediately beat his wings, drifting several meters backward, retreating with a reflex bordering on panic. For a being long known for eternal calm and clarity of spirit, even a fleeting tremor of fear was an anomaly, a blemish upon his image. Yet this time, shock, unmistakable and relentless, crept within his mind, impossible to swallow, impossible to set aside, even with the aid of heavenly reason.
What he had just witnessed was not merely an insult to form, but a threat, a dire ultimatum against the essence itself, clearly a danger with a high likelihood of spreading.
And before his consciousness could seize control, before he could reassemble the serenity that had long been his nature, a sharp pain struck his head.
It did not build gradually, nor swell in stages, but came instantly, driving in like a lightning strike, striking directly at the center of will.
The pain rose from the depths, from the unseen structure that wove together the fabric of his very being. Ophistu staggered for a moment, then his body began to tremble, jerking in brutal rhythm, reflecting the very suffering he had just witnessed.
The convulsions, irregularly proposed, writhed as though being released, freed from the patterns of reality, as if his mortal flesh had lost the right to obey its own form.
The movements did not stop, until a change began to appear upon his head. Just as in the scene he had seen moments earlier, a trident-like mark with five protruding prongs began to form, rising upward, not as a symbol of glory but as the beginning of desecration.
This was no mere transformation, but a form of cosmic aggression, challenging the very nature, the very status of Ophistu as an angel.
Even more terrifying, in his pure abstraction, he was utterly intertwined in closeness with the Accursed One until the very end.
As a result, the body was no longer a place so sterile from worldly influence, but instead had been altered, transformed not by deliberate intent into a field of blasphemy, but probed by an unknown force, a ruthless authority not emerging from outside, but as if rising from within himself.
At last, the detonation came.
Not an ordinary explosion, but an event of existential rupture. All was scattered, his physical form, the structure of his will, the echo of his name once called in angelic liturgy.
Even his Olyspharta, the foundational concept that carried every trace of information about his being, was burned away into meaningless fragments.
Ophistu was not merely destroyed in shape, but erased from order, from history, from cosmic memory, and from all inhabitants within the weave of the satanic host.
No voice remained. No fragment of a name was left behind. The only thing that endured was a faint disturbance, embedded within the layers of reality, the oath of a single flawed wave that might one day be traced, or perhaps left alone as an aberration far too dangerous to speak of.
To be continued…