In the aftermath of the Paris Catastrophe a pause was imposed. REAL teams were suspended. Leo Vance entered a period of " review," his vibrant energy abruptly viewed as a risk a trigger for psychic debris. The CSD war room's maps of Void and Plenitude were locked in place the glowing indicators now serving as a tribute, to a conflict that had crippled than defeated.
A fresh instruction, stemming from distress was given: Identify the origin.
The prohibited Belphegor codices, previously confiscated as goods were taken out of their sterile evidence vaults. They were not handed to metaphysicians or security experts. Instead they were entrusted, with protection to a linguist called Anya Voss (unrelated to the tactical commander). She was an expert in liturgical tongues a woman convinced that significance lay as much in the subtle motion of a pen's stroke as, in the words themselves. Her role was not to evaluate risk but to understand purpose.
She operated within a white chamber inside a guarded Brussels building. The initial bundles of handcrafted paper rested beneath glass with climate regulation. She disregarded the translations the CSD's marked excerpts regarding "sacred void" and "fertile emptiness." She delved further focusing on the paper's feel the dimming of inks the force of the quill.
In the folio attributed to the scribe identified solely as "The Chronicler of Lethe " she discovered the addendum. It was separate from the refined script. It was hastily written at the back in another hand—a hand trembling from exhaustion or discovery. The ink was a brown probably the scribe's diluted blood. It had been overlooked, mistaken, for a blot.
Using a magnifying glass and spectral imaging she extracted the words. They did not serve as a conclusion, to the doctrine. They were a renunciation. A caution.
We erred by projecting it. We created charts, ceremonies and prayers directed at a Prince. We pleaded with our fatigue. Imbeciles.
Belphegor isn't a demon to call forth nor a power to control. It doesn't exist externally.
It represents the configuration of the space when it ceases to construct itself. It is the structure of a spirit that has set aside its instruments. It stands as the sanctuary of your capacity, for quietude.
Sketching its emblem is like attempting to depict a canyon's design by spilling ink into a void. Speaking its name aloud is like yelling into the ear of your approaching silence. Resisting it… ah resisting it is the folly. To resist it is to battle against the foundation of the cathedral the core framework of your existence. The emptiness, inside you cannot be set aflame. The only choice is to decline to go and in doing so allow it to become obscure, odd and frightening.
We aimed to honor the quiet. We ought to have entered within.. Remained calm.
Calculus is not a key. It serves as a goodbye message placed on the doorstep of the self. Do not encase it. Read it then return.. Shut the door securely after you."
Dr. Voss reclined, holding her breath. The pristine white chamber appeared to tremble with significance. The CSD had been battling a ghost a symbol misconstrued as a beast. The Aesthetes had been shaping the silhouettes cast by this structure. Each faction was fixated, on the manifestation of the entity not the entity itself.
Belphegor was neither a sect, nor a forbidden concept, nor a style. It was a mode of existence. The mode of non-existence. The calm horrifying disintegration of the constructed identity. The Somnum sect attempted to impose it upon society. The Post-Somnum Consensus sought to ban it. The Aesthetes endeavored to glamorize it. The REAL teams worked to suppress it.
They were all merely splattering paint onto the outline of a cathedral they dared not go.
Her discoveries were conveyed to Pamela Pauline, who had withdrawn to an isolated highly secure area. Pamela reviewed the translation once again. The intense fervor of the war room the chaos, in Paris the burden of her life—all of it appeared to fade revealing a calm lucid well of comprehension.
She called Devon for one time. Not, to her office. To a secluded viewing chamber. The addendum appeared on a screen.
"Go through it " she instructed.
He did. One time. Two times. The words sank into him like stones dropped in a pond each removing a wave of bewilderment. The cathedral of your potential silence.
"This is the sensation you experienced in Rotterdam " she declared, not inquiring. "This is the situation Flavio Fergal encountered. This is what the Aesthetes revolve around and what Leo Vance is shouting to overpower. It isn't a tool. It's… a landscape."
Devon agreed, the reality undeniable. "We've been fighting over the map " he murmured. "Even though the land was, within us all along."
Pamela appeared aged, beyond her years. The devotee, the guardian had vanished. Instead stood a mapmaker who had just discovered that her lifelong endeavor was merely mapping shadows on a cavern wall. "The Directorate won't grasp this. They'll interpret it as a novel malicious variant of the virus. They'll aim to create a ' architecture' to strengthen the self against this… this inner cathedral. They'll attempt to construct buttresses."
"It won't succeed " Devon remarked. "You can't support a cathedral built from emptiness. You can only decide whether to visit or not."
"What will you decide, Devon?" Her use of his name represented a relinquishing of authority. It was an inquiry.
He remembered the glen. Not as a spot but as an area with perfect acoustics, for quiet. A spot to hear the structure of his unraveling. Not to revere it. Not to battle it. Simply to… be aware it existed.
"I'm heading home " he stated, repeating the scribe's closing remark. ". I'll lock the door after me."
He walked out of the CSD facility for the last time. No one stopped him. He was a ghost they no longer needed to track. The war of compositions was over for him. The only composition that mattered now was the slow, patient arrangement of his own consciousness towards its final, quiet shape. The external world could keep screaming its Plenitude and whispering its Void. He was done with the map. He was going to the territory