Chapter 32
The castle, though showing no signs of physical damage, had lost its former aura. It no longer felt like the sanctified haven it once was, but more like a place of exile, too quiet to trust, too immaculate to be innocent.
Then, something arrived.
It was not a footstep, nor a sound, but a kind of breath, a sharp exhalation clearly not from any ordinary living being. It emerged from behind, directly at Ophistu's back, not as a shape but as an intent.
Vibrations lingered in the air, touching no skin yet creeping into awareness, reigniting fears that had once been restrained. The breath carried something beyond mere rejection. It bore a hidden message, unspoken yet undeniably felt, that Ophistu's presence here was not only unwelcome but defiled.
"We Worship You!!"
Duffffhh!
'For a moment, it all shifted like this. Pure white, everywhere. As if the world itself wished to be seen no longer in color, but through the lens of uncontainable void.
The blast was too strong. Had it not been resisted, the entire structure of the castle would have collapsed, devoured in an instant.
The damned yo-yo was indeed gone. But that was not the only thing — something else gnawed at the edges of perception.'
Instinctively, mind and verse drawn together, Ophistu turned as swiftly as the crash of a whisper, reciting sacred chants that echoed among the pillars and arches of the hall.
It was as if to assert that his existence still held fast, bound to something higher than fear. And at that moment, an object was hurled. Not a sword, nor a heavenly spear, but something resembling a child's yo-yo — though each facet of its design spoke of murderous intent.
Every surface was sharpened, its form nothing more than a toy whose function had been desecrated, now a killing tool dripping with revolting purpose.
The object shot straight toward Ophistu's feet. Yet before it could touch anything, the eyes that moments ago had seemed ordinary suddenly transformed. White, pure, gleaming like the springs of heaven, they became the center of a power long imprisoned.
There was no time for hesitation. In an instant, Ophistu struck with his will, summoning a surge of wind that was not mere air in motion, but the momentum of creation's first pulse twisted into a weapon.
The strike did more than halt the sharp object's path. It surged in every direction, freezing and burning at once. The weave of reality, painstakingly stitched by the satanic order, could not endure. It cracked, charred, and fell apart like rotting cloth flung into the heart of the sun.
Even the sacred walls of the castle trembled, every curve of its architecture on the brink of collapse, shaken by the resonance of a will too pure to be contained by the surrounding space.
It was impossible to ignore. With complete awareness, Ophistu understood that the measure of this power far exceeded, vastly surpassed, the capacity of its environment. If not for the tight control immediately imposed, the entire place might have become dust, leaving nothing but the hollow witness of divine wrath breathing again.
Afterward, silence crept back, replacing the roar and thunder that had just howled.
No second explosion came.
No grinding of falling stone followed.
Only a silence so dense it felt as though time itself was holding its breath.
The yo-yo-like object was gone, whether shattered, absorbed, or deliberately recalled by the unseen hand that had thrown it, no one could tell.
No trace remained, no residue of power.
All that was left was a hollow absence, and a slow-spreading sense of incompleteness crawling through Ophistu's awareness.
His head turned, not in the calm of restoration, but in the tangled currents that began only from the chain of uncertainty.
He did not know whether the earlier attack had been a warning, a test, or merely the prelude to something deeper. Yet it was clear that a fragment of reality had just brushed against him, leaving behind not a visible wound, but a subtle scar wedged between convictions, a wound that did not bleed, yet clung tightly behind the gaze, falling silent once more, staring into every space as though drifting further from reason and protection.
'Why must it be a child? And is there a reason only one wing was marked? More so, just to say "hi," choosing to remain rather than vanish like the others?
We understand unending trials will come. But the necessity of such a form being displayed in this way?
Aroksashtum and the fire of the Cursed One's defeat. Now…'
Huffffh!
"Destroy… be destroyed."
Duaaarrr!
'An eruption burst forth, and regrettably blinded, leaving almost nothing visible to examine. Both gazes spoke the same verdict, fastening the word impossible onto any attempt at finding something—whether real or unreal.'
The surroundings of the castle trembled, leaving only thick dust that drifted slowly in the dry air. Amid the unbridled rumble, as though holding its breath over and over again, Ophistu began to descend, gradually lowering himself.
His body, once floating in baseless arrogance, drew nearer, lowering toward a surface never before touched. The castle's air refused to resist, he could feel it, even the carpet seemed unwilling to bear the weight of something not born of ordinary creation. Yet it was not fatigue nor a desire to stand upon solid ground that drew his body down. It was resolve, older than reason itself, compelling him to bow.
At that moment, as the inner gravity pulled, clinging to his body with force, something else emerged. It was not merely distortion nor a vague reflection. It was a shadow, yet too real to be called an illusion. For directly beneath Ophistu's body, at the distance where his own silhouette should have been, there appeared something else, an engraving of an image that was not his.
It was not a head, not arms, nor any contour measurable from his stance. The shadow was small, shaped like a child no older than eight, certainly not more than thirteen. A single wing grew from its back, singular, dark, drooping, without counterpart. The figure did not kneel as the ancestors did, but stood, leaning slightly forward, with small fingers raised.
It was as if welcoming, exalting whoever might look upon it.
Still there was no voice, no spoken greeting. Yet the subtle motion, the manner in which it delivered its greeting, was so simple it sliced through the emptiness, tearing it like a razor upon dry skin.
Ophistu showed no unrest, no fear. In the midst of such an alien presence and a shadow that should not exist, he remained standing, holding his ground as though the world just shattered beneath him was nothing more than a sheet of paper, something easily folded and torn at will.
Such bearing carved out an impression of something deeper than arrogance: an absolute conviction that every trial was merely a debt, a due that would be collected another day. And suffering was an investment, one that would inevitably yield an equal return.
From the hushed emptiness, both hands began to move, not to defend, nor to strike, but to shape. The movements were slow yet certain, like a ritual repeated hundreds of times, forming a candle, not one made from ordinary wax, but from Aroksash, the sacred paraffin that grew thickly upon the petals of Miara, a flower that did not bloom in this world, but blossomed along the silent ledges of Batalusmanth.
A land known in the old tongue as the end of all conduct. Karakakantha, or by another name, Hell, not merely hell. It was a space, a place where the flaws of Olyspharta were recycled, crafting destroyers from the most deranged rippers to ever exist. A place where hope is cursed and weeping never ceases.
To be continued…