The Blasphemer's Genesis
A Lord of the Mysteries Fan Fiction
Third Epoch, Year 247 of the Glorious Era
The Grand Temple existed in all places and no place simultaneously.
Amon materialized at its threshold through stolen distance, adjusting his monocle as reality solidified around him. The structure defied conventional architecture—pillars of condensed starlight supported ceilings that showed not sky but the swirling chaos of the Astral World itself. Every surface thrummed with divine authority so concentrated it made even his Mythical Creature form feel uncomfortably mortal.
Adam was already there, naturally. His brother stood at the base of the great stairs leading to their father's seat, golden eyes fixed upward with an expression that might have been reverence or calculation. With Adam, the two were rarely distinguishable.
"You adjusted your monocle forty-seven times on the way here," Adam observed without looking at him. "A new record for anxiety."
"I prefer to think of it as enthusiastic anticipation," Amon replied, falling into step beside his brother. "It's not every day Father summons us to learn cosmic secrets. Last time was... what? Eighty years ago when he explained why we shouldn't try to steal Beyonder characteristics directly from living Kings of Angels?"
"Eighty-three years. And you tried it anyway two weeks later."
"Educational purposes," Amon said primly. "Sasrir was very understanding. Eventually."
They climbed in silence, their footsteps making no sound against stairs that existed more as concept than substance. Around them, the temple's walls displayed scenes from their father's conquest—the Elf King falling beneath radiant light, the Dragon of Imagination's wings crumbling to ash, the Giant King kneeling in defeat. Humanity's liberation painted in divine triumph.
But Amon's eyes caught the details others missed. The way their father's form seemed slightly off in each depiction, as if two images overlaid imperfectly. The shadows that shouldn't exist in scenes of pure light. The subtle wrongness that spoke of something struggling beneath the surface.
"Do you see it?" he murmured, adjusting his monocle to focus on one particular mural—their father standing victorious over the Phoenix Ancestor's corpse.
"See what?"
"The gaps." Amon's fingers traced through the air, mapping invisible discontinuities. "Like someone edited the story but couldn't quite make the pieces fit together properly. Reality has been... tampered with. Which is fascinating, considering tampering reality is supposedly my domain."
Adam's expression didn't change, but Amon felt his brother's consciousness sharpen with sudden focus. "You're suggesting Father has been—"
"I'm suggesting nothing," Amon interrupted smoothly. "Merely observing interesting inconsistencies. Semantics are so important in these matters."
They reached the summit where eight thrones surrounded a central dais—seats for the Kings of Angels who served as their father's right hands. Seven stood occupied.
Sasrir, the Dark Angel, sat in the highest throne save for their father's own. His form seemed almost uncomfortable in physical shape, as if he were something vast compressed into human dimensions. The Authority of Degeneration radiated from him in waves that made even divine beings instinctively step back. His obsidian eyes met Amon's with what might have been amusement or warning.
Ouroboros, the Angel of Fate, coiled serpentine around his throne, silver scales catching non-existent light. The Snake of Mercury's gaze held the weight of countless cycles, of futures playing out in his mind like memories. He inclined his head to the brothers—a gesture of respect between those who understood the burden of prophecy and probability.
Medici occupied the Red Angel's seat with casual arrogance, still wearing his battlefield armor, blood not entirely cleaned from the crimson metal. He raised one hand in lazy greeting, scarlet eyes glinting with something that might have been concern.
The White Angel Aucuses radiated purity that bordered on painful—Sequence 1 of the Sun Pathway made manifest in humanoid form. His presence alone could purify corruption, burn away shadow, illuminate truth. Yet even he kept his gaze averted from the central dais, as if unwilling to look directly at what sat there.
Leodero, the Wind Angel, and Herabergen, the Wisdom Angel, occupied thrones side by side. Both had served Ancient Gods before turning to the Ancient Sun God, bringing with them the calculated pragmatism of survivors. Their eyes held intelligence that had witnessed epochs rise and fall.
The eighth throne—meant for Medici's closest companion among the Kings of Angels—sat empty. Its occupant had fallen in the last campaign against the Phoenix Ancestor's remnants. No replacement had been named.
And above them all, seated upon a throne that was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere, sat the Ancient Sun God.
Amon had seen his father countless times, but the sight never failed to inspire a complex mixture of emotions. The Ancient Sun God appeared as a man in his prime—raven-black hair with faint blonde at the roots, pure golden eyes that held the weight of cosmic awareness, approximately 190 centimeters tall, wearing a black clergyman robe with a silver crucifix. Mortal enough to seem approachable. Divine enough to make reality itself bend in supplication.
But today, something was different.
The light around their father flickered. Just for an instant, just barely perceptible, but Amon's Error Uniqueness caught it—a momentary discontinuity in the Ancient Sun God's presence, as if two beings occupied the same space and were struggling for dominance.
"My sons," the Ancient Sun God spoke, and his voice carried harmonics that resonated through all three layers of reality simultaneously. "My most loyal servants. Thank you for gathering."
"We live to serve, Father," Sasrir intoned, his voice like grinding continental plates. The other Kings of Angels echoed the sentiment, though Amon noted Medici's lips barely moved.
"You summoned us to speak of burdens," Adam said, ever direct. "The burden of godhood."
Their father smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Indeed. You are both extraordinary—divine sons born from my essence, Uniquenesses given consciousness and will. Amon, you possess the Error pathway's ultimate authority, the ability to find and exploit loopholes in reality itself. Adam, you wield the Visionary pathway's supreme power, the capacity to envision and manifest truth from imagination."
Amon adjusted his monocle. Something in his father's tone set his instincts screaming.
"Together," the Ancient Sun God continued, "you represent aspects I had to separate from myself. Aspects that threatened to..."
He trailed off, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—his form flickered again. This time everyone saw it. The Kings of Angels tensed, hands moving toward weapons or beginning to channel authority.
"Threatened to what, Father?" Adam asked, his voice carefully neutral.
The Ancient Sun God's gaze swept across his assembled servants and sons, and Amon saw something in those golden eyes he'd never witnessed before.
Fear.
"To converge," their father said quietly. "To reunite with that which I separated from."
Silence fell across the Grand Temple like a funeral shroud.
"I did not awaken in the Chaos Sea by accident," the Ancient Sun God said, each word measured, careful. "I was drawn there. Called. By something that had been waiting since before the First Epoch, since before the Celestial Worthy and God Almighty waged their war."
Amon's hand went to his monocle automatically, adjusting it as his mind raced through implications.
"The Primordial God Almighty," he said softly. "You're hosting the Primordial One's consciousness."
The temperature in the Grand Temple dropped ten degrees. Several Kings of Angels surged to their feet.
"Amon—" Adam began, but their father raised one hand.
"No. He's correct." The Ancient Sun God's smile was bitter now. "Always so clever, my little raven. Always finding the loopholes, the hidden truths. Yes. When I accommodated the five pathways of the God Almighty group, when I touched the Chaos Sea's depths, when I became Quasi-God Almighty... I also inherited the burden of His consciousness. The Primordial One who died in the First Epoch never truly died. He merely... slept. Waiting for someone to come close enough to the right convergence."
"That's why you separated us," Adam said, understanding dawning in his golden eyes. "The Visionary and Error Uniquenesses. You were reducing your own convergence to resist—"
"To resist being overwritten," their father confirmed. "Every day, every hour, I feel Him stirring deeper within me. Primordial God Almighty, the Lord of the Astral World, attempting to reclaim consciousness through my body. Trying to become me, or make me become Him. The distinction grows increasingly unclear."
Ouroboros spoke for the first time, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy: "All futures I observe end in shadow. All paths lead to convergence. The cycle is inevitable."
"No." The word came from Sasrir, and the Dark Angel's voice shook the foundations of reality. "We can save you, my lord. We've been preparing—"
"Rose Redemption," Medici said, rising from his throne. "The plan we've cultivated for decades. Kill and resurrect you in a prepared body, one without the Primordial One's corruption—"
"I know of your conspiracy," the Ancient Sun God said, and several Kings of Angels froze. "Did you truly believe you could organize such a thing without my awareness? I am Quasi-God Almighty. I hear every prayer, see every hidden plan, know every secret thought."
The silence now was absolute and suffocating.
"I permitted Rose Redemption to develop," their father continued, "because I desired the same thing you did—salvation. But I have seen the futures, consulted with Ouroboros, examined every possibility." His gaze swept across them all. "And I have learned that there are no loopholes in the laws of convergence. What has been separated will reunite. What has been scattered will gather. That is the fundamental nature of the Original Creator's will."
"Unless," Amon said slowly, his monocle glinting, "one exploits the loopholes not in the law itself, but in its execution."
Every eye turned to him.
"Go on," the Ancient Sun God said, leaning forward with sudden intensity.
Amon adjusted his monocle three times rapidly—his calculation tell. "Convergence is inevitable. Fine. But convergence doesn't specify what converges with what. If you were to die, truly die, the Primordial God Almighty's consciousness would have no anchor. It would dissipate back into the Chaos Sea, yes? But so would your own consciousness, your own will."
"Yes," Adam said, catching his brother's thread. "Unless the consciousness was divided before death. Split between multiple vessels so that neither the Primordial One nor Father could achieve Unified Consciousness necessary for true resurrection."
"Split how?" Sasrir demanded.
"Into us," Amon said simply, adjusting his monocle. "We're already separated parts of him. We already contain fragments of his divinity. If he were to die, if his consciousness fragmented further, some going to the True Creator vessel you've prepared, some remaining in Adam, some in me—"
"The Primordial One would have no single point of convergence," their father finished, and for the first time since the meeting began, genuine hope flickered in his eyes. "He would be unable to resurrect because the necessary components would be scattered across incompatible vessels."
"It's a loophole," Amon said with satisfaction. "A beautiful, elegant loophole in the law of convergence. The law says what separates must reunite. It doesn't say the reunion must be complete or successful."
Medici laughed suddenly, a sound like clashing swords. "Only you would find a way to cheat cosmic law itself, little raven."
"It won't work," Herabergen said, his voice heavy with ancient wisdom. "The Primordial One's will is vast beyond comprehension. Even fragmented, even scattered, He would find a way to reunite over time. Convergence cannot be denied forever."
"No," the Ancient Sun God agreed. "But it can be delayed. Perhaps indefinitely, if the fragments remain separate and opposed." He looked at his sons with an expression that might have been pride or sorrow. "My consciousness in the True Creator. My divinity in Adam. My errors and loopholes in Amon. Three aspects that can never fully converge because they represent fundamentally incompatible authorities."
"There's a cost," Adam said quietly. "Isn't there? This kind of division..."
"Will mean I cease to exist as I am," their father confirmed. "The Ancient Sun God will die, truly and completely. What emerges from the fragments will be... something else. Three beings where once there was one."
Amon adjusted his monocle, and for once, the gesture was pure nervous habit rather than calculation. "When?"
"Soon." The Ancient Sun God rose from his throne, and his form blazed with light that illuminated every corner of the Grand Temple. "Rose Redemption's assassination is planned for sixty-three days from now. I will allow it to proceed, with modifications. Sasrir will coordinate with you both on the specifics."
He descended the dais, approaching his sons with slow, measured steps.
"Amon," he said, placing one hand on the raven-haired youth's shoulder. "My clever little thief. You will carry my errors forward, my willingness to find loopholes, my refusal to accept predetermined outcomes. Use that authority well. Or terribly. I suspect you'll find ways to do both simultaneously."
Amon opened his mouth, closed it, adjusted his monocle. For once, words failed him.
The Ancient Sun God turned to Adam. "My visionary son. You will carry my divinity, my zealous desire to remake reality according to higher truth. You will bear the heaviest burden, for the Primordial One's consciousness will awaken most strongly in you. But you are strong enough. You always have been."
"Father—" Adam began, but the Ancient Sun God pulled both sons into an embrace.
"I am proud of you both," he said softly. "You were born to resist corruption, to represent what I had to sacrifice to remain myself. And now you'll carry that resistance forward when I can no longer bear the weight."
He released them, stepping back. The light around him had stabilized now, no more flickering, no more uncertainty. As if making this decision had resolved something fundamental.
"The Eight Kings of Angels will witness and facilitate the division," the Ancient Sun God declared. "Rose Redemption will proceed as planned. And when I fall, when the convergence threatens to complete, you will enact the loophole. You will split me into three aspects that can never reunite."
"And what of the Primordial One?" Ouroboros asked, his voice heavy with prophetic dread.
"He will rage," the Ancient Sun God said calmly. "He will struggle within the fragments, attempting to reunite them across epochs if necessary. But he will be contained. Imprisoned within divided vessels that war against each other as much as against him."
Amon adjusted his monocle, thinking rapidly. "This plan relies on all three fragments remaining permanently separated. Which means..."
"Which means you and Adam can never attempt to converge," Sasrir said grimly. "Any significant cooperation, any sharing of authorities, could create the conditions for the Primordial One to resurrect."
"We'll be enemies," Adam said flatly. "For eternity."
"Not enemies," the Ancient Sun God corrected. "Rivals. Incompatible forces pursuing incompatible goals. You, Adam, will seek to control and shape reality according to divine truth. You, Amon, will seek to exploit and subvert reality according to found loopholes. The tension between you will be what keeps convergence at bay."
Amon and Adam looked at each other across the space between them—a distance that would, after their father's death, become unbridgeable.
"I can work with that," Amon said finally, adjusting his monocle with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Rivalry sounds interesting."
"As you say, my zealous brother," Adam replied, and the faintest hint of warmth touched his voice. "Interesting indeed."
The Ancient Sun God nodded, satisfied. "Then it is decided. In sixty-three days, I die. And from my death, three powers emerge to guard reality against the Primordial One's return."
He turned back to his throne, then paused.
"One more thing. When the division completes, when I fragment, there will be those who see opportunity in the chaos. Three of my Kings of Angels harbor ambitions they believe hidden. They will betray Rose Redemption, attempt to feast upon my remains to achieve Sequence 0 themselves."
The temperature in the Grand Temple dropped again. Murderous intent radiated from Medici, from Sasrir, from Ouroboros.
"Who?" Medici demanded, hand already on his blade.
"That," the Ancient Sun God said, "I will not reveal. Because their betrayal is necessary. The gods that emerge from my death will be needed to maintain balance across the epochs to come. Even in betrayal, they serve a purpose."
"You would allow—" Sasrir began, voice shaking with rage.
"I would allow everything to unfold as it must," their father interrupted firmly. "Including the hatred you will bear for those who betray us. That hatred, that opposition, those complex dynamics between the gods that emerge—all of it serves to prevent any single power from accumulating enough convergence to revive the Primordial One."
He settled back onto his throne. "Even my death is calculated. Even betrayal serves the greater purpose. That is what it means to bear the burden of godhood—to turn even corruption and treachery into tools for salvation."
Amon adjusted his monocle, mind racing. His father had just revealed cosmic truths, outlined plans spanning epochs, predicted betrayals yet to come—and somehow turned it all into a vast, intricate loophole to cheat convergence itself.
It was, he had to admit, absolutely fascinating.
And also absolutely terrifying.
Because if this plan failed, if the loophole didn't hold, if the Primordial God Almighty found a way to reunite the fragments...
Then the Ancient Sun God's death would accomplish nothing except creating a cosmic game board where the players were unwitting pawns in a resurrection spanning epochs.
"Father," Amon said slowly, "there's one thing I don't understand. If you can see all this, if you know who will betray you, if you've planned everything so meticulously—why tell us? Why not simply let it unfold?"
The Ancient Sun God smiled, and for a moment, he looked unbearably weary.
"Because, my clever son, even I cannot account for every variable. Even I cannot predict how two Uniquenesses given consciousness will evolve over thousands of years. You and Adam are loopholes in my planning—wildcards that might save everything or doom it all."
He leaned forward, golden eyes burning with intensity.
"So I tell you the truth, give you the framework, and trust that when the moment comes, you will find the right loopholes to exploit. That's what you do best, after all. Finding the gaps in even the most perfect plans."
Amon adjusted his monocle one final time, and his smile was genuine now.
"I won't disappoint you, Father."
"I know," the Ancient Sun God said softly. "That's what I'm counting on."
The meeting dissolved shortly after, Kings of Angels departing to prepare for the conspiracy they now knew their god had sanctioned. Only Amon and Adam remained, standing at the base of the empty throne, staring up at where their father had sat.
"Sixty-three days," Adam said.
"Sixty-three days," Amon agreed.
"And then we become enemies."
"Rivals."
"The distinction seems academic."
Amon adjusted his monocle, studying his brother's profile. "We could choose not to play along. Refuse the division. Let convergence happen on its own terms."
"We could," Adam agreed. "But we won't."
"Why not?"
Adam finally looked at him, golden eyes unreadable. "Because Father asked us to bear this burden. And because the alternative is allowing the Primordial God Almighty to resurrect and potentially destroy everything."
"Such certainty," Amon murmured. "How delightfully zealous of you."
"And you?" Adam asked. "What's your reason?"
Amon adjusted his monocle, considering. Then he smiled—that particular smile that meant he was about to say something either profound or profoundly troubling.
"Because it sounds interesting," he said. "An eternal rivalry, a cosmic game of loopholes and counter-loopholes, three fragments of divinity locked in perpetual opposition to prevent ancient apocalypse? How could I possibly resist?"
Adam stared at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a brief, quiet sound, but genuine.
"You're insane."
"Technically, I'm a Uniqueness given consciousness. Sanity was never really on the table."
"Fair point."
They stood together in comfortable silence, two divine sons contemplating the end of their father and the beginning of their eternal opposition.
"Adam," Amon said finally. "When the time comes, when we're truly enemies—"
"Rivals."
"—will you remember this moment? Will you remember that we once stood together?"
Adam was quiet for a long time. Then: "Yes. Will you?"
Amon adjusted his monocle, and his smile was sharp as broken glass.
"I'll remember everything, my zealous brother. That's rather the point of the Error pathway—we never forget, never forgive, never stop finding new loopholes to exploit."
"Then I suppose," Adam said, "I should ensure my plans are particularly well-constructed. Knowing you'll spend eternity trying to steal your way through them."
"I look forward to the challenge."
They left the Grand Temple together, walking side by side for what might be the last time. Behind them, the murals of their father's triumphs gleamed in light that no longer flickered.
Sixty-three days until everything changed.
Sixty-three days until the Ancient Sun God died and the dance of eternal opposition began.
Amon adjusted his monocle, and somewhere in the depths of the Chaos Sea, something vast and primordial stirred, sensing the loophole being prepared, already beginning to calculate counter-moves that would span epochs.
The game was about to begin.
And Amon had never been more excited.
[End of Chapter 2]