Chapter 34
Their mouths were sealed, not by hands, nor by any instrument, but by divine decree, or perhaps by a curse far older still.
And yet, from those unmoving lips flowed sacred utterances.
Prayers.
Hymns of praise.
Verses that should only ever be spoken by those granted the right to speak. Yet none among them seemed shaped to move their lips at all.
The voices emerged on their own, gentle, yet piercing—like air carrying an echo from the high heavens, flowing quietly into Ophistu's chest. There was no vibration to betray a body in speech, yet the spiritual frequency filled the space around, compelling every soul to listen.
Ophistu stood still.
The neutralization had failed.
Even the talisman in his hand now felt like no more than an ordinary stone, stripped of all meaning and power. For in those three directions, it was not demons that had come to mislead, but something unmistakably closer to heavenly silence, yet without permission to truly belong to the heavens.
A paradox of presence, too sacred to be called darkness, yet too misleading to be called light.
And in that moment, Ophistu began to realize one thing: perhaps he had stepped into a realm beyond all categories, where the words demon and angel were merely two sides of an understanding far too narrow for the reality now surrounding him.
Suuufff!
"We are forced to strike them down. Yet it feels in vain. Clearly they are not creatures, but symbols.
We have wanted to speak freely since the beginning, to drive them out, to call forth the great Names.
But…"
Tsssssshhh!!
"The heads remain perched, and this moment keeps expanding—unstoppable, senseless."
Hooooooh!
"Then another voice was recorded, identified as something else.
One word, not part of any phrase, simply the word 'Reject.'
From there, silence began to take hold.
The worst of it.
Olyspharta was disturbed, almost hurled away from its place.
Not merely from this world, but from every memory that had ever spoken this name."
The three women had no time to react before Ophistu moved. The aura that had first spread out in ripples of vigilance now condensed into a single straight line of existence, striking the air with a force beyond the metaphysical and all its kin.
There was no thunderclap, no flash of light, yet reality shifted, fractured from within as if crushed by an unseen hand. The three women vanished instantly, leaving behind no shadow, no sound, no scent, as though they had been nothing but fragments, tiny particles unworthy of holding space.
Yet the emptiness that followed was no victory.
It was deeper, more validated, as if it were the echo, the oath, of something older, far quieter than death, and far deeper than destruction.
Ophistu stood still in the midst of the spiritual vortex, not yet fully gone, feeling the pulse of a world no longer in sync with breath. His fingers began to rise, attempting to shape the pattern of an exorcism formula, one passed down from before the first fall, before the cursed were given names.
The heads, at first only in the dozens, had now multiplied beyond measure.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Millions.
Not merely increasing, but acting, doubling endlessly without rhythm or pattern, filling the sky as though reality itself had surrendered to the mathematics of infinity.
No two heads were alike, yet all were bound by the same sensation.
A presence that refused to be contained by number, form, or any boundary between non-blueprint and blueprint.
The pressure came without warning, not as direct force, but as metaphysical weight, striking the very heart of existence. Ophistu was hurled away, forced to twist midair for balance, feeling as though he were a shattered mirror, reflecting countless shards of himself without ever forming a whole image.
At the same time, the holy chants, near to proclaiming victory as His alone. were shattered by a single word.
It was unclear who had spoken it, but the word rejected absolutely, erasing Ophistu's spiritual intent as though the entire will had been copied, struck through, and burned before it could even be voiced.
In that moment, Olyspharta, the identity bound to Ophistu's pulse of consciousness, was violently shaken. The boundary between existence and forgetting began to tear. Not only Ophistu's presence was threatened, but also the history of him, his trace in the manuscripts of reality, and even the world's understanding of who or what Ophistu was.
Almost everything unraveled, as if the name had never been written in the rolls of the faithful or the damned, never remembered by heaven, earth, or anything born between them.
And within that void, Ophistu was caught in the highest strangeness.
The realization that there exists a force not merely to wound the body or drive out the spirit, but to erase completely the possibility of ever being remembered.
And all of it began with a rejection born not of anger, but of principle, of a will older than truth itself.
Silence returned.
There was nothing, no shadows crowned with ever-growing heads, no fractured word or phrase carved beyond reason. Here Ophistu reflected briefly on the attack, something that struck his body while halting his incantation, an assault founded on trampling upon Rayshi and Chukora, the two constants every entity needs to endure the cruelty of this reality.
The silence hung, absolute and deafening, as if all forms of being had abandoned their responsibility to existence.
No sound.
No shadow.
No reality granted to the multiplying heads, nor to any word that could trespass reason. Even Ophistu, still clinging to the last pulse of his Olyspharta, remained unmoving, mind fraying, trying to piece together what had just happened.
He had not only been struck spiritually, but structurally, violated at the very foundation of his being.
Only after a long pause, one nearly dissolving him into absurdity, did Ophistu gather his consciousness again.
He was certain now.
The tremendous collision, the cutting off of his incantation, the blow that rattled his entire metaphysical system, these could not be random.
Not an accident. Not a flare of instinct.
The strike had been too precise, too deliberate to be called coincidence. The conclusion began to crystallize.
Whatever had happened, whatever had dissolved his exorcism and threatened the integrity of his Olyspharta, could never have occurred without trampling upon the two most sacred foundations of existence.
Rayshi and Chukora.
In the many ancient records, written, they say, in heavenly ink, these two are not merely dualistic elements, but existential counterparts.
Rayshi, the positive form, symbolizes not only all glory, sincerity, and harmony, but is also the pulse that allows love itself to be known.
Existence, of course, never stands alone. Bound to it is Chukora, the eternal antithesis, not merely the opposite, but the weaver of all conflict that can arise from the positive values of Rayshi.
And Chukora, as recorded in the deepest scrolls of the Mulokarontomh, is not merely the embodiment of hatred, but the bearer of the entire spectrum opposed to love, order, and light, making rejection not just an act of destruction, but a principle in itself, able to stand and equalize presence.
Their existence is not that of enemies, but of binders, paired not by force, but by cosmic order, predating creation itself. The scriptures proclaim they have existed longer than the first thought of the universe.
To be continued…