Chapter 24
Reality could not refuse, it merely obeyed what had been decreed by Nebetu'u, the Balancer, the Architect of Cosmic Equilibrium. Yet now, even reality seemed shaken, its foundations cracking at the seams.
The existence of Malā Qudshī was a flaw in the structure, a failure in the system, an absolute impossibility. And in this silent tension, suffering no longer came from wounds, but from questions—unanswerable, gnawing at the mind—how could something erased return without consequence?
Behind the pink mist still hovering over the castle's sky, Ophistu stood in torment. Not from physical threat, but from an impossible truth slithering into his awareness. Like a colorless poison, it corroded the roots of faith. Malā Qudshī's presence was a symbol, the personification of collapse, proving that what had been buried by divine decree could still rise.
Head bowed, silent, yet enough to unravel everything.
"Extension of God's Will, Ophistu the Exalted. Transcendent being of boundless might..."
"...This servant has arrived, as ordained."
"You should not exist. No reality accepts you, Holy Malā Qudshī."
Tssssiiing—Tssssiiing!
"Is this how you defile those who left the world wholeheartedly? As the embodiment between falsehood and truth, do you dare deny the Balance forged by Nebetu'u's will? Or has reality grown lazy, unwilling to refute the impossible?"
Buuuk—Buuuk—Buuuuk—Buuuk!
"Do not approach. Not in that form. Turn away that face dragged from decay."
"Tunggal!"
"You fail before your lips even move."
Dussssssh!
'A counterattack against itself?'
"Collapse."
Hussssssh!
Gone.
No trace, no sound.
Ophistu stiffened, a rare flicker of shock rippling through his usually composed form.
The impossible, Malā Qudshī's return, had stretched his logic to its limits, yet faith had forced acceptance. But this? That Nebetu'u, the undeniable Balancer, could be defied, their authority effortlessly overturned? That was beyond even the spectrum of possibility.
Malā Qudshī's resurrection shattered the highest law, and Ophistu stood at the fracture's edge.
A compulsion stirred within him, to step closer. Not out of curiosity, but necessity. This castle was no ordinary intersection of dimensions; it was a nexus of sacred will. If Malā Qudshī had not fully fallen, perhaps they could still conspire, forge a final strategy to overthrow Nebetu'u.
He nearly moved, but the moment his weight shifted, something in Malā Qudshī changed.
The head that had hung in silence now lifted. Empty eyes met his, no soul, only abyssal voids reflecting nothing.
And its body, once a manifestation of pure divinity, now revealed itself anew, defying all definitions of holiness.
Sacred flesh that once blazed with light was now wrapped in rot. Open wounds oozed pus, dripping remnants of carcasses, more like crumbs, the shredded remains of millions torn apart in silent, unheard slaughter.
Between the cracks of its body, festering wounds exhaled scorching steam, pulsing with gilded hues, proof that this form tortured itself, neither healing nor permitted to die.
The figure moved closer. Not with steps, but with the push of existence itself, rejecting direction and gravity. It glided in silence, its ruined face fixed on Ophistu, carrying a stench that corroded not just the senses, but the deepest layers of spiritual awareness.
And in the face of this total assault, Ophistu uttered a single word.
"Singular."
No echo followed. No resonance bounced from the castle's boundless walls. Only an admission, rising from the depths of his soul, panic wrapped in understanding.
He was not merely speaking a name.
He was acknowledging.
What stood before him was not the Malā Qudshī he knew, nor a mere deviation from celestial order.
This was something else, an existence fused with the singularity of suffering, a form born from the annihilation of meaning itself.
Ophistu understood.
What approached was no mere reincarnation of the forgotten.
It was denial incarnate.
The ultimate perversion of the sacred, so irrevocably defiled that no system could reject it.
Everything happened too quickly, yet time refused to pass.
The incantation left Ophistu's lips, not as sound, but as pure will, unbound by direction, dimension, or causality. An absolute attack, limitless by space or time. A decree of holy consciousness that had erased countless entities before they realized they were targeted.
It hunted, shredding the past, seizing the future, merging with the present to strangle its prey.
Yet just before it could strike, reality twitched.
A choked breath.
A rupture.
A small figure stood abruptly, her arrival unannounced by time.
A girl.
Petite, her form a grotesque collage of purity and mutilation.
Where her body should have been childlike, a golden-haired woman's head dangled like a trophy of betrayed fate. The male head once paired with her was gone, as if history had erased it.
Nebetu'u.
The Balancer.
The Tearer Without Violence.
The child of duality, now, for this moment, singular—had arrived.
Her existence did not pierce time.
She conquered it.
When her small foot touched the ground before Ophistu, her presence distorted. Her movement was not speed, it was detachment. Past, present, and future screamed in unison, failing to record her motion, unable to agree on its final form.
In her hands.
A mirror.
Unremarkable at first glance, a small rectangle with symmetrical carvings, crafted by an architect who loved precision. But this mirror reflected nothing except possibility.
Not a tool for sight.
For reversion.
As its surface pulsed softly, the reaction began.
To Be Continued....