Chapter 46
Ophistu felt a pull—not only on his body, but on the subtler layers, parts he had never imagined could be touched.
Before him, the figure of Nebetu'u stood, emanating presence like a statue from another world, unwavering, without hesitation.
Only the gaze pierced, seized, and stripped every remaining ounce of strength.
Behind three heads of dimly shining Angels, three heads of the most pulsating dark demons, and three heads of Gods untouched by time, flowed an unrelenting will, squeezing life as if drawing the last drops from a cracked vessel.
Ophistu struggled, even tried to scream, but his cry died, swallowed by a silence that steadily closed the space between them.
Around him, the walls of the nameless castle began to fade, as if stripped of their existence bit by bit.
The ancient stones, once reflecting the echoes of history, now crumbled, almost turning to dust, lifted by an invisible current flowing from Nebetu'u.
Every gust of air eroded, diminishing the religious aura that had once filled the space, touching the bones themselves.
Ophistu knew, understood, that this was not merely a drawing of power, but a complete dismantling of himself and everything he had ever believed.
And amidst the collapse of all he knew, there was no mercy, not a trace of leniency in the eyes of the being standing before him.
Only absolute will, asserting itself above balance.
The pull intensified, like unseen hands probing, excavating not just power, but memories and buried wounds.
Ophistu tried to turn his gaze, yet every movement felt futile, as if bound by a delicate web of interwoven light and darkness.
His breath grew heavy, his chest hollow, and within the manifested emptiness, a formless fear arose.
No sound accompanied the process, only a slow pulse resonating between flesh and soul, signaling that what was taken would never return.
The figure stood, emanating presence without doubt, bearing the weight of decisions that shook the universe below.
She held the crown of inspiration, descended from all corners of heaven and earth—a manifestation of will that could not be denied, the embodiment of silent voices, crawling through corridors, taking the place of judge and executioner.
There was no hesitation in her step, no doubt in her soul-piercing gaze, as she declared that the wretched Ophistu must vanish, erased from existence without remainder.
Her voice, though heard by none but Ophistu and the surrounding shadows, carried an echo of conviction capable of cutting, powerful enough to split the night's silence into eternal judgment.
Nebetu'u's female head did not speak for herself, but for a greater voice, older than any known world.
The oppressive silence shattered; with bitter resignation, he nodded.
Yes, he had spoken only to the Eternal Law, which governs every secret and destruction.
It questioned the boundary between truth and brutality.
And the answer was not in words, but a mandate—a revelation that wrapped him in a sacred duty, intended solely to bury Ophistu's identity—the one regarded as blot and suffering within the manuscript of life.
There was no room for mercy, only a will sweeping like a tornado, eradicating all that blocked the path toward the newest balance.
Under the shadow of divine will, decision was not a choice, but destiny to be endured, with or without mortal understanding.
The gloom thickened, enveloping the space that had once sheltered the remaining souls.
Ophistu was trapped, ensnared in a suffocating vortex of uncertainty, as if his eternal mind, having surpassed logic itself, had been shackled, imprisoned with no exit.
Madness began to creep, consuming corners of a mind once calm.
Each breath quivered with profound apprehension—not merely fear of what was seen, but anxiety over what could not be comprehended.
Nebetu'u stood tall before him, not only a physical threat but a personification of the deepest fear, capable of fracturing reason.
His body, inflamed in the darkness, shook—not solely from the forceful pull, but from the aura, the oath of waves of fear rolling unceasingly.
In the heaviest silence, Ophistu's thoughts wandered, endlessly searching for a light that never appeared.
The confusion was not only about the presence of such a foreign being, but the restlessness within, surging through the depths of his soul.
He was trapped in an endless labyrinth of madness, where every path led to a deeper abyss.
The fear of Nebetu'u became a suffocating shadow, gnawing at the remaining mental strength.
Alone, Ophistu fully understood that this battle was not merely his body being dragged and soul eroded, but the final resilience of his mind, continuously struggling against total annihilation.
Nebetu'u's steps—though unmoving yet consistently radiating undeniable power—eroded, repeatedly corroding Ophistu's layers of protection one by one.
In that most excruciating silence lay the most destructive will, merciless and unforgiving.
His body trembled, his mind nearly shattered, silently witnessing the dismantling of self, previously unimaginable.
Ophistu felt every memory, every deeply buried wound, drawn and taken, as if he were no more than dust carried by the wind.
The fear that gripped him was no longer mere emotion, but a dark abyss, an emptiness devouring his entire existence, carrying him further and further from any reality once known.
In the suspended void, Ophistu's madness was not only a mirror of incomprehension, but an image, a statue of suffering too immense to articulate.
He lost his foothold in the world, endlessly spinning, tossed by powers far beyond the comprehension of even holy beings and angels.
"How can a balancer act so monstrously?
And among all the madness, the head of Nebetu'u openly declared, having just addressed the Cursed Singular."
Within the dense shadows, enveloping every corner of space, Ophistu's fear flowed unchecked.
His previously logical mind unraveled, perpetually torn by bitter truths beyond imagination.
Nebetu'u's female head was not merely a threat, but a symbol of true madness, boldly voicing the will directly to the Cursed Singular.
The echo of her words in Ophistu's consciousness tore through the remnants of hope, burying all intent to flee or resist.
The truth conveyed became like iron chains, locking all possibility of freedom, pressing the soul to near breaking by relentless despair.
All attempts at resistance were futile, like a gust of wind against a merciless storm.
Ophistu's weakening body could only contract in submission, voluntarily, as the female head extended her hand—coldly, continuing the inescapable ritual of absorption.
Moreover, the instrument used was not merely an object, but a manifestation of power—relentlessly spreading, pulsing and moving like a pendulum, almost restraining time and space with each action.
Each pull carried fragments of strength, memories, and remaining traces of the soul, eroding piece by piece without cease.
Ophistu was trapped in a vortex of emptiness, increasingly deep, losing his grip on himself, while the world below continued fading into void.
Shrouded in silence and cold.
To be continued…