Chapter 44
Both forces erupted simultaneously, colliding in an impossible harmony that gave birth to a wave aligned with neither darkness nor light.
The space around them shuddered, not merely from the unleashed energy, but from the paradox itself, a unity of two absolutes that should have annihilated each other, yet now stood side by side within one vessel.
A second veil emerged, unfolding from the void like colossal wings, woven entirely from black and white strands.
Its span stretched beyond the limits of sight, poised to close over the entire horizon before it.
Each strand pulsed, exuding an impartial aura, yet carrying an unmistakable threat to any demon who dared raise its head before Ophistu's dominion.
The air thickened, saturated with a tension that seeped into the pores of reality.Both veils now stood together, layered upon one another like strata of something older than time itself.
In the silence, heavy with awe, they began to tremble, producing unseen ripples that coursed down to the foundation of the castle.
The ripples swelled into a pulse, then transformed into an explosion, one that shattered more than air, shaking the very joints of existence itself.
It was not the fury of sudden rage, but a decision, an agreed consensus born of cold calculation.
Ophistu placed the point of destruction with absolute precision, ensuring its center was exactly where Nebetu'u had last been seen.
Light and darkness merged at the point of impact, birthing both the most blinding flash and the deepest shadow, as if Ophistu sought to erase not only the form but the very existence of the enemy from the memory of the world.
"Enough—speak thy name—"
Duuuuufffhh!!
Silence swept back across the space, sealing every fracture of sound the blast had made.
Thin smoke coiled lazily in the air, drifting among shards of fractured light and shadow, the only remnants of what had just occurred.
Ophistu allowed herself a brief immersion in the moment, feeling the tremor of victory beginning to swell within her chest.
A rare urge surfaced, to let a smile form, permission she almost never granted herself, a sign that her attempt to nullify Nebetu'u had nearly succeeded.
Yet before her lips could curve, the calm air was disturbed.
Not by words, nor the clash of weapons, nor screams—but by a soft frequency, creeping like a whisper at the edge of her ear.
It was distinct, like the wet rasp of a tongue touching and sweeping over itself, its rhythm far too intimate to ignore.
It did not shatter the silence with force, rather, it was its softness that pierced deep into her consciousness, unraveling the last threads of her confidence in victory.
"Ma—"
Shuuuuuffhh!!
Ophistu turned sharply, her gaze cutting through the space, finding only the debris of fractured light, but no one stood there.
Only static shadows remained, motionless as though carved in death, as if time itself refused to move.
When she turned her eyes forward again, strangeness struck.
Her vision dimmed in an instant, like dense fog creeping from within her own eyes, blurring all shapes and distances.
From the haze, a form began to emerge, slowly condensing until it was undeniable.
The first godhead, one of the three that belonged to Nebetu'u, broke into sight with a silence that threatened to crush the soul.
Its eyes were carved hollow, holding no light, no hope, only the same emptiness as a sky without prayer.
It descended from above, pressing upon the space around them, and within seconds, thick, warm saliva dripped down in disgust upon Ophistu's face.
Before she could react, Nebetu'u's grip closed over her head—cold, absolute—erasing the distance between them.
"You think prayer can drive away what no longer dwells in the heavens?"
Impossible…
"Where do you think you're going?"
Tsraaaaakk!!
"Not merely to disturb. But to try—to purify what cannot be saved."
Tsuuuuuff!!
"By whom were you purified?By whom were you reborn?Is what you believe still whole?"
Hooooof!!
"Forgive us, O Balancer Nebetu'u .…"
Ophistu fought to anchor her resolve, to break free, to sever every shackle binding her, as though she could simply run through anything that stood in her path.
Yet the desire fractured instantly, shattered, when something cold and tangible manifested behind her.
It was Nebetu'u again, but in a cloned form, emerging as the second godhead among his three.
At a glance, its mouth bore human teeth, but from within its throat unfurled a long tongue, layered with the ruins of ancient scriptures, unrolling endlessly like a cursed scroll, narrating histories forbidden to be remembered.
The clone did not move, its gaze fixed forward.
Even without turning, Ophistu could feel the weight of its existence stabbing through flesh and bone, awakening a dread far beyond any terror the triad of demon heads or the tainted angels had once evoked, a dread that had always been Nebetu'u's own.
In this frozen tension, a third form emerged, another clone of Ophistu's foe, this one bearing nine heads.
A fusion of three demonic heads, three tainted angelic heads, and three fallen divine heads.
Among the godheads, the third one now stared unblinking, its eyes weeping molten wax whose flames never died.
The drops slid slowly, tracing down the face and body of the central form, leaving behind not mere heat, but a binding, a silent threat that needed no words or movements to be understood.
Strangely, though Ophistu's body was already cloaked in the sanctified aura of a purified demon—an essence so pure it nearly rivaled the Cursed One—she was still cast aside, hurled away by immeasurable force.
Her body slammed into the ground with a deafening thud, and even the stones beyond the nameless castle trembled and muttered, whispering prayers for mercy to Nebetu'u.
At this point, the remnants of Ophistu's will to intimidate had collapsed.
There was no longer any thought of baring her fangs in dominance, only the creeping invasion of fear, stabbing into every corner of her awareness, spreading without restraint.
For a fleeting moment, her eyes held disbelief, for what Nebetu'u had shown her was not simply difficult, but impossible, beyond all hope of being translated into form or into the language of Ishikarakarta.
Not even her deepest understanding could reach it.
Madness.
Indeed, Ishikarakarta was not merely an abnormal phenomenon.
It was the form, the living embodiment, of cosmic lunacy born from the defeat of the Cursed One, paving the way for satanic dominion over nearly the entire cosmos.
Its effects tore reality apart.
Life was utterly erased.
From being into non-being, from non-being into utter nothing, from utter nothing into absolute nothing—and the act of annihilating the "absolute nothing" itself persisted without pause, without limit, without end.
The result, "beyond^beyond nothing" and beyond—was no longer a rare possibility.
It was merely a small step, a minor act compared to the scale of madness that had taken root.
Even the boundaries defined by Berkeley cardinal were literally surpassed.
The concept of aleph, no matter how vast, no matter how intricate its hierarchy, was rendered irrelevant.
All systemic limits collapsed.
Further still, Ishikarakarta fractured the meta-narrative, the awareness that the characters of the lower world were mere fiction in the sight of the highest world.
In this madness, not only did the lowest world awaken to its nature, but the highest world looked back, both acknowledging each other's existence despite their separation in rank and order.
And when the "annihilated nothing" outstripped "beyond^beyond nothing" and so on, including trampling the law of Berkeley cardinal, both the consciousness of the lower and higher worlds were driven together, hurtling toward a nameless realm beyond the grasp of all existing set theory.
Relentlessly hurtling, unwilling ever to end.
To be continued…