Chapter 52
The philosophies that shaped civilization in the real world were no more than songs, bedtime tales for those unaware they were walking toward a chasm.
This world had swallowed all noble arguments, digested them, and vomited them out like poison, slowly seeping into the soil, water, and air.
There was no space for neutrality, for neutrality here was merely another form, the result of destruction quietly packaged.
Amid a landscape that had lost its meaning, Shaqar walked without looking back.
Each step was a confirmation, the best assertion that he must cast aside all the teachings that had once formed him.
Not to betray his origins, but to survive, to adapt, and to live in a realm that worshiped emptiness.
Here, values did not die because they were forgotten, but were deliberately murdered, and their deaths were celebrated.
The world did not need philosophy to assign meaning, for meaning had long been taken, dissected, and displayed as trophies atop the throne of darkness.
Ishikarakarta continued to soar, transcending itself, increasingly obliterating the meaning of definitions that had once clung.
Not merely breaking boundaries, but tearing, ripping the essence of what was called a limit.
Each time it rose, it destroyed the previous tier that had been used as footing, leaving only debris, remnants in the corridor of nothingness upon nothingness^nothingness.
And so it continued.
Nothing could be classified anymore, for classification itself burned, scattering into meaningless fragments.
Rank after rank within the aleph foundations became empty numbers, symbols that lost purpose, destroyed by an entity that no longer understood itself.
There, Reinhardt cardinal—the opponent of mathematical law—and Berkeley cardinal, the paradox mocking logic, crumbled like a house of cards.
The crowns that had once glittered were merely fragments, reflections of light from shattered mirrors.
Everything did not stop at the fall of a single apex, for Ishikarakarta continued to rise, delighting in obliteration, eagerly surpassing itself repeatedly.
Ximanthur, created as an emergency rule, tried to restrain each of these wild leaps.
It accompanied, not as a master, but as a chain, capable only of damping some of the impact.
It knew it was impossible to fully contain the madness taking root.
But at least it could block, sealing wounds from spreading further.
Each step of Ishikarakarta no longer birthed new cardinals, but wove, creating an entirely alien mathematical language, a system where 'large' and 'small' lost all meaning.
And so Ximanthur moved swiftly, containing cracks to prevent them from spreading further, trying to freeze gaps—but its effort was like patching a black hole with a spiderweb.
The restraint was not the core of the madness, but its consequences, allowing reality to retain a breath so it would not collapse entirely.
Ximanthur's role was not to extinguish, but to oversee destruction, faithfully ensuring nothing became absolute, preventing total annihilation of every layer as anticipated.
Ximanthur's authority, initially intended as an emergency bulwark to protect the cosmos from Ishikarakarta's madness, instead shackled, cruelly binding living beings in chains that worsened over time.
Free will that once emerged in a flash was now delayed across impossible spans of time.
At first, to merely think, a being had to traverse, at minimum, a duration measured in one Gogolchunk of years.
Gradually, they adapted, evolving under towering pressures, until the law of Ximanthur no longer felt like part of life's pulse.
Yet when Ishikarakarta rose again, surpassing rank after rank, toppling Berkeley cardinal hierarchies—and continuing to trample—Ximanthur followed along, attentively shadowing every step, preempting wherever Ishikarakarta willed.
As a result, the time required to think, even to merely will, expanded toward infinity raised to infinity, surpassing every aleph system ever known.
Both those inscribed in theorems and those still grappling in hypotheses—including the shadows of cardinals challenging the foundations of logic—
The intent was clear.
The universe, on any level, whether the highest world or the lowest, seemed to respond, designing decisions, suddenly generating options so that Ishikarakarta could not fully annihilate reality.
By slowing the movements of living beings, delaying their will to unimaginable limits, the universe attempted to close and preserve the edges that madness might penetrate.
In a world where every decision had to traverse endless corridors of nothingness, creatures still endured.
They forged alternative paths, giving rise to higher orders, reaching laws that even surpassed Ximanthur and Ishikarakarta.
At least for a while.
Shaqar witnessed this impossible adaptation.
He saw how his fellow beings refused to surrender, continuously carving out space to survive amid the pressure of authority.
Tribe after tribe, from the smallest to the inhabitants of the highest realms, passed this ability to their descendants.
None surrendered their will entirely, even while ensnared by the insane rules restraining thought.
Each generation carried the inheritance of resilience, refusing to become pawns ripped apart at Ishikarakarta's whim.
Shaqar himself was not a determinant, but an observer, watching how living beings turned limitations into footholds, a foundation sturdy enough to climb.
Even aware that these footholds would eventually collapse again.
The Nexhalogon tribe did not emerge by chance, but from the pulse of nature, fully aware early of when madness would strike.
They were individuals, tribes capable of creating a new essence of presence for themselves.
Even before the wave of destruction below could strike.
Their existence was not randomly uprooted from the ordinary world.
They still walked among other beings.
Still able to converse, build, and feel.
Not so different.
Yet within, in the deepest layers of their existence, Nexhalogon wove the most extraordinary essence, a network of nature placing them in superiority, the highest status within laws surpassing Ishikarakarta and Ximanthur.
'We grant this tribe reason, and make their madness the supreme weapon, transcending all creation.'
Thus was written in the Book of Barkatosmanjish, scroll twenty-seven, verse seven.
Regrettably, this superiority bred competition that never ceased.
Not merely absorbing the cosmic scars carved by Ishikarakarta, but constantly challenging the nature of their peers.
They treated each other's superiority so lightly, as if one were just a faint reflection of themselves.
Hence, competition shaped the world they built into a realm without logic, a vast expanse to keep moving, refusing to be bound by a single monotonous rule.
Nexhalogon rejected all forms of cosmic hierarchy.
For them, all laws of reality were mere playthings.
In a realm where the Unconditioned Absolute Truth—Ishikarakarta—turned sacred conflicts into corrupted reciprocation, existing as the regulator of all reality would never be acknowledged, for it was here that Nexhalogon stood, casually surpassing boundaries without seeking permission.
Through their hands, Nexhalogon wove new realities, spinning with threads unknown, traversing the limits of ignored sets of theory, assembling uncharted orders.
And from these spins emerged not merely empty concepts, but pulses asserting existence and nonexistence simultaneously.
A creation that blurred the line between idea and being, as if all frameworks of existence were only foam, tiny sparks from a single concept he sculpted.
All born from the Nexhalogon Spinner resembled faint echoes from Ishikarakarta itself.
Eternal flashes, paradoxical unity, shadows adapting against their own fate.
Yet here, that echo was drawn, reinforced to surpass the limits of the Great Adapter.
Not merely copied, for here it reconstructed, teaching that from a single creative idea, the entire definition of Ishikarakarta—both corrupted and pure—could collapse like a manuscript torn from its page.
Within each layer of Nexhalogon's idea dwelled Poskurth—a feral Platonist refusing to be called a Platonist clump, a foundation that demolished itself, scorched definitions to ashes, then reshaped into a stranger's visage, only to spit upon that existence once more.
Not merely a cycle, but a spiral diving into endless absurdity.
And from within this absurd vortex, Ishikarakarta's endless madness was devoured, openly consumed within a single design.
A prototype of an order that refused to submit to change, for it was change itself, and simultaneously its negation.
To be continued…