Chapter 47
The unbearable pain was not only physical, but reached deeper—into the layers of the soul, torn apart without a sound.
Each pull was not merely the theft of energy, but the uprooting of the very roots, the threads binding Ophistu to reality itself.
Every breath left was reduced to a mere witness, a silent observer of the slow destruction, erasing hope and the fleeting light of strength that once burned within.
In the suffocating silence, Ophistu's suffering grew into the darkest of shadows, threatening to drown his entire existence without mercy.
Darkness covered not only physical space, but swallowed every fragment of identity ever known.
Time lost its meaning, and pain became his companion—the only brother left in his journey toward inevitable ruin.
"Freeze."
"Understood."
"Great Sanse, Master of darkness and inverted light…"
"Honored Sanse, keeper of the gate between death and birth, we bow before You."
"You who conquered the holy beings, who erased pure individuals from the book of fate—grant us refuge beneath Your shadow."
"Sanse, Almighty, Supreme Ruler of the Ancestral Darkness…"
Have you all truly arrived together, within the appointed span of time?
"… Accept this blood, accept this life, accept this oath. Make us Your instruments, and let this world collapse by Your will."
Dark shadows still cloaked the entire space, the stench of fear and ruin spreading from corner to corner.
The figure crushed by Nebetu'u's power—Ophistu—hung limp, powerless.
His fragile body shook uncontrollably, while his soul was pulled again and again from its roots, each layer beginning to fade.
The chamber itself seemed to swallow sound and motion, leaving only the most suffocating silence, threatening to shatter the mind.
The power flowing from the demon heads, the twisted Angels, and the fallen Gods was suffocatingly thick.
It was not merely a physical threat, but the embodiment of pure horror—proving that their existence was beyond understanding or resistance by ordinary reason.
Each second stretched into eternity, stripping what little energy remained with an unbearable rhythm, erasing memories and remnants of identity.
The one targeted by the drain was now but a shadow of himself, enduring pain that spilled into every fragment of his soul.
No escape.
No refuge.
Only pain, and emptiness clinging tight.
And in the midst of the whirlpool, the heads of Nebetu'u seemed to dance in unison, savoring their limitless power, probing every gap, ensuring that all mental and spiritual defenses were crushed without remainder.
The pain left was no longer merely physical—it became the awareness of total ruin, piercing into the very core of being.
Then, at the height of destruction, a command issued from Nebetu'u's male head—the one who bore nine faces—halting the draining process that from the beginning had been unstoppable.
The female head of Nebetu'u obeyed, yielding without resistance. Afterward, every head turned, unwavering, toward the entrance of the castle, where prayers and praises began to echo, breaking through the oppressive silence.
The atmosphere shifted slowly—the heavy tension gave way to curiosity and caution.
Yet the aura of destruction lingered, leaving the mark of suffering not yet concluded.
The gazes fixed upon the entrance did not merely judge, but measured the power and intent behind the voices of prayer, scrutinizing whether any disruption dared to oppose their absolute dominion.
The space around the castle continued to stir, shifting into a sea of nameless light and shadow, where a religious aura drifted slowly, descending and spreading without clear direction.
Waves of unseen force clung to the fading walls, seeping into every crack, marking each passing second of the transfer—a design clearly orchestrated by Nebetu'u from the beginning.
The might radiating from the nine heads—three demons, three Angels, three Gods—filled the air with an invisible weight, sinking into the bones, forcing every remaining fragment of existence into submission.
The castle, once solid, gradually lost form, fading piece by piece, unraveling like a dream dissolving at dawn.
The waning religious aura deepened the sense of void and mystery enshrouding the place.
Every corner of the fortress trembled with presence—each floor and tower aware that what was happening was no mere physical shift, but a reordering of energy and entity—untouchable by ordinary satanists.
The emptiness left behind by the fading walls carved silence into the air.
Meanwhile, the religious aura flowed, like an invisible river, piercing every layer of stone and brick.
What had once been scattered power now concentrated at the center, pressing upon all around it.
Though slow, the tension mounted, proving that almost nothing could halt the rhythm of transformation.
Nebetu'u remained standing.
All nine heads stared unblinking, awaiting the moment when full identity would be revealed, and power would reach its peak.
At a certain point, the air thickened, nearly unbreathable—a mixture of the castle's collapse and the religious aura—giving the impression that time itself had slowed.
The fading parts of the castle left invisible traces—interweaving shadows and light, forming patterns perceptible only to the most open consciousness.
Every breath of air falling to the floor carried an inaudible message, marking the final step of the transfer undertaken by Nebetu'u's dual identities.
The religious aura waned further, and the fortress slowly lost its form, as though entering a void with no return.
"United, no reason remains for division."
"This breath, now joined as one."
Huffhh!
The place, once shielded from all interference—even from the smallest communication or from time itself—began to change.
Walls and floors once sealed in purity and sanctity now revealed the shadows of a forsaken place of worship.
Abandoned long ago.
The air filled with the stench of a past steeped in suffering, cloaking the space with the tragic memories of Ush and his family.
Not a trace remained.
The silence that once suffocated was now replaced by a new pressure, born of the watchers—who were not merely observing, but demanding, reminding all that this place had once borne witness to cruelty and inescapable death.
Every corner of the room seemed to echo, reverberating with the scars of history, stirring the sense that suffering still lived here, demanding acknowledgment and surrender.
In the midst of silence turning to clamor, the female and male heads of Nebetu'u, each with their distinct forms, chose to merge—reuniting as the form of a child under thirteen years old.
The transformation was not merely a change of physical shape, but of the aura itself, shifting the balance, provoking both confusion and awe among all present.
Moments later, dozens of satanist groups entered the chamber, moving with terrifying coordination, sealing the exits and forming a circle of ultimatum.
They demanded not only submission, but declared authority—the extension of Honored Sanse himself—granting Nebetu'u and Ophistu but little time to yield, to surrender before inevitable consequence struck.
The castle floor, stripped of purity, became a stage—a theater for the procession of twenty figures, moving in perfect silence.
Far more frightening than a war cry.
Each step carved a heavy echo into the air, disturbing the fragile balance between the fading religious aura and the new tension now inscribed.
Their clothing was identical—not the splendid uniforms of knights, but worn, sullied robes, stained with holes and blotches, covered in a yellowish slime—the putrid trace of rituals never meant to be witnessed by the sun.
To be continued…