The Blasphemer's Genesis
A Lord of the Mysteries Fan Fiction
Third Epoch, Year 247 of the Glorious Era
Day 52 of the Countdown
The Observatory of Fate existed outside normal time.
Amon materialized at its entrance through stolen coordinates, adjusting his monocle as reality solidified around him. The structure perched at the edge of the world where the Material and Spirit Worlds bled together, creating a liminal space where past, present, and future intersected like tangled threads.
Ouroboros waited inside, coiled around a massive orrery that displayed not celestial bodies but probability spheres—each one representing a potential future branching from the present moment. The Snake of Mercury's silver scales reflected futures that hadn't happened yet, would never happen, or were happening in dimensions adjacent to their own.
"You're early," Ouroboros said without turning, his voice carrying harmonics that spoke of cyclical time. "Or late. The distinction becomes meaningless when observing probability space."
"I prefer to think of it as precisely when I intended to arrive," Amon replied, stepping closer to examine the orrery. Each sphere showed fragments of possible futures—some bright, some dark, some that hurt to perceive. "Though I'll admit, 'intended' is doing some heavy lifting there."
One sphere caught his attention. In it, he saw himself—older, wearing the same crystal monocle—standing over what looked like Klein Moretti's corpse. Another showed Adam ascending to complete godhood. A third displayed the Primordial God Almighty's resurrection, reality itself bending and breaking under the weight of His return.
"Grim viewing," Amon murmured, adjusting his monocle. "Though I notice a distinct lack of futures where everything works out perfectly."
"There are no perfect futures," Ouroboros said, finally turning his serpentine head to regard Amon with eyes that had witnessed countless cycles. "Only futures with acceptable losses. Some less acceptable than others."
"How comforting." Amon reached out to touch one sphere, and Ouroboros didn't stop him. The moment his finger made contact, probability collapsed into vision—
—he stood in the Forsaken Land of Gods, thousands of years hence, facing a man who held a Fool's authority. Around them, reality fractured as two pathways collided. The man spoke words Amon couldn't hear, and then—
Amon jerked his hand back, adjusting his monocle rapidly. "Well. That was interesting."
"You saw him," Ouroboros stated rather than asked. "The variable your father mentioned. The one who doesn't exist yet."
"Klein Moretti," Amon said slowly, testing the name that had appeared in his mind unbidden. "Sequence 0 Fool. A convergence point Father didn't predict because he emerges from conditions that haven't occurred yet."
"All futures involving humanity's long-term survival include him," Ouroboros said. "All futures involving the Primordial One's permanent defeat include him. And all futures where you achieve your ultimate goals..."
"Include me eventually trying to steal from or parasitize him," Amon finished, smiling. "How delightfully predictable of me. Though I have to ask—do I succeed?"
"The probability branches collapse into superposition at that point," Ouroboros admitted. "Either you succeed and doom yourself, or you fail and doom yourself. The cycle permits no escape for those who seek to break it."
"Everything can be escaped with the right loophole," Amon countered, but his hand went to his monocle again. "Still. Interesting to know I'll spend the next few thousand years building toward a confrontation with someone who doesn't exist yet. Makes planning rather difficult."
"Your father knew," Ouroboros said quietly. "He saw the probability threads, understood that his death would set conditions in motion for Klein Moretti's eventual rise. The Ancient Sun God's fragmentation creates the power vacuum that allows a Fool to ascend unchallenged by God Almighty authority."
Amon adjusted his monocle, thinking. "So Father's sacrifice isn't just about preventing the Primordial One's resurrection. It's about creating the conditions for a replacement. Someone to occupy the Lord of Mysteries position and contest God Almighty's eventual return."
"Yes."
"And he didn't tell us because?"
"Because knowing would change how you and Adam develop over the millennia," Ouroboros said. "Your rivalry must be genuine, your opposition authentic. If you knew you were both ultimately serving a greater purpose, that someone else would eventually resolve the conflict you're meant to embody..."
"We might cooperate. Converge. And give the Primordial One the opening He needs." Amon's smile was sharp. "Layers upon layers. Father really did think of everything."
"Not everything," Ouroboros corrected. "I've observed seventeen thousand probable timelines stemming from the assassination. In twelve thousand of them, the plan fails. The Primordial One resurrects through one path or another. Reality ends in shadow and madness."
"And the other five thousand?"
"Humanity persists. Gods rise and fall. Epochs turn. And eventually, in the Fifth Epoch, a man named Zhou Mingrui transmigrates into Klein Moretti's body and begins a journey that will determine whether the Original Creator's will can be permanently fragmented or if convergence is truly inevitable."
Amon stared at the orrery, watching probability spheres shift and merge and split. "You're telling me that all of this—Father's death, our eternal rivalry, thousands of years of divine conflict—all of it is just setup for one mortal's eventual choice?"
"Not just one mortal," Ouroboros said. "But yes. The cycles demand a focal point. Klein Moretti is that point, where all probability threads converge. What he chooses will determine which future manifests."
"And what do you choose?" Amon asked suddenly. "You've seen these futures, know how the cycles turn. Where do you place your faith?"
The Snake of Mercury was quiet for a long moment, scales shifting through colors that represented futures playing out simultaneously in his perception.
"I choose to believe," Ouroboros said finally, "that cycles can be broken if one is willing to pay the price. That convergence can be resisted indefinitely if the resistance is clever enough. And that even in a predetermined universe, the act of observation changes outcomes."
"How remarkably optimistic for someone whose pathway is literally called Wheel of Fortune."
"Fortune spins. That's its nature." Ouroboros's gaze held infinite weight. "But who's to say the wheel can't be stolen while it's spinning? You are Error, Amon. Loopholes incarnate. If anyone can find the flaw in fate itself, it would be you."
Amon adjusted his monocle, a gesture that bought him time to think. Ouroboros was offering something here—not quite alliance, not quite conspiracy, but an acknowledgment that even among allies, some understood the game being played on deeper levels.
"Why show me this?" Amon asked. "Why reveal Klein Moretti's existence now, when Father deliberately kept it hidden?"
"Because your father sees linear probability—cause leading to effect, action to consequence. But fate operates in cycles, not lines. Past and future influence each other in ways that transcend causality." Ouroboros uncoiled slightly, his form shifting to something almost human. "You need to know Klein Moretti exists so that when you encounter him thousands of years hence, you'll make the right choice."
"And what choice is that?"
"I don't know," Ouroboros admitted. "The probability branches into perfect superposition at that moment. Either you parasitize him and doom everything, or you... don't. And something else happens. Something I cannot observe because it exists outside fate's cycle."
"A loophole," Amon breathed, understanding dawning. "You're showing me Klein Moretti now so that when the moment comes, I'll remember this conversation and look for the loophole instead of taking the obvious path."
"Perhaps," Ouroboros said. "Or perhaps I'm showing you Klein Moretti now because fate requires you to know in order for the cycles to complete properly. The distinction may be meaningless."
"Everything has meaning," Amon countered. "Sometimes the meaning is just buried under layers of cosmic misdirection."
He turned back to the orrery, studying the probability spheres with renewed intensity. In one, he saw the betrayal—three Kings of Angels feasting on their god's remains. In another, he saw Adam ascending to something beyond True God. In a third, he saw himself standing in the Forsaken Land of Gods, facing Klein Moretti across a battlefield of collapsed time.
"Ouroboros," Amon said quietly, "in how many of those seventeen thousand timelines do you survive Father's death?"
Silence.
Then: "Fewer than you might hope."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give." Ouroboros's form shimmered, probability dancing across his scales. "I am the Angel of Fate, Amon. My pathway's nature is to observe cycles, to see futures, to understand probability. But that understanding comes with a cost—I see my own death in most timelines, yet must continue acting as if survival is possible."
"Schrödinger's prophet," Amon murmured. "Simultaneously dead and alive until observation collapses the wave function."
"Precisely." Ouroboros's voice carried something that might have been amusement or sorrow. "I will follow the True Creator after your father's fragmentation. I will be hunted, killed, and reborn countless times across the epochs. And in most timelines, I never escape the cycle."
"But in some you do."
"In some I do," Ouroboros confirmed. "In the timelines where humanity survives, where Klein Moretti succeeds, where the Primordial One remains fragmented... in those timelines, I endure. Changed, diminished, but persistent."
Amon adjusted his monocle, calculating. "You're betting everything on the five-thousand-to-seventeen-thousand odds."
"Yes."
"That's remarkably stupid."
"Yes," Ouroboros agreed. "But it's also the only bet that matters. All other timelines end in shadow. At least this way, there's a chance."
They stood together in the Observatory of Fate, two divine beings contemplating futures that might never manifest, making choices that would echo across millennia.
"I'll remember this conversation," Amon said finally. "When I meet Klein Moretti, when the moment comes to parasitize him or find the loophole... I'll remember that you showed me this now."
"Good," Ouroboros said. "That's all I can ask."
Amon left the Observatory through stolen distance, reappearing in the mortal city of Trier—or what would eventually become Trier, currently just a settlement of humans basking in the Ancient Sun God's favor.
He walked the streets with casual invisibility, a theft of perception that made passersby's gazes slide past him without registering his presence. Around him, humanity thrived in ways they never had under the Ancient Gods' rule. Children played in streets without fear. Merchants traded freely. Temples to the Ancient Sun God stood at every corner, prayers rising like incense.
This was what his father had built. What would shatter in fifty-two days.
Amon adjusted his monocle, studying a particular temple where a young priest was teaching children about the pathway system. The man's enthusiasm was infectious, his genuine belief in the Ancient Sun God's benevolence touching in its naivety.
"The Lord brought light to darkness," the priest said, gesturing to murals depicting their god's triumph. "He freed us from slavery, elevated us to masters of our own destiny. Through His grace, we have the potion system, the ability to advance, to become more than mortal!"
The children listened with rapt attention, and Amon felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest. These people would wake one day soon to find their god dead, their world fractured, their golden age ended.
And Amon would be partially responsible.
"Contemplating mortality?" a familiar voice asked, and Amon turned to find Medici had appeared beside him, equally invisible to the mortals around them.
"Contemplating consequences," Amon replied. "There's a difference."
Medici studied the temple scene with scarlet eyes that had witnessed countless deaths. "They'll survive. Humanity always does. We're resilient like that."
"Some will survive," Amon corrected. "Others will die in the chaos that follows Father's fragmentation. The War of Four Emperors. The collapse of civilization. The transformation of the Eastern Continent into the Forsaken Land of Gods."
"You've been talking to Ouroboros."
"His probability observations are remarkably comprehensive." Amon adjusted his monocle. "Did you know that in most timelines, you die in the Fourth Epoch? Ambushed by Blood Emperor Alista Tudor with assistance from Adam and myself."
Medici's expression didn't change. "I had suspected something of the sort. The probability threads involving my survival grow increasingly thin after the first thousand years."
"And yet you continue preparing for Rose Redemption anyway."
"What else would I do?" Medici's smile was sharp. "Your father gave me purpose when I was just a newborn Mythical Creature who knew only war and bloodshed. He taught me that violence could serve creation rather than destruction. That strength could protect rather than oppress."
He turned to look at Amon directly. "I know I'm probably going to die, little raven. I know the cycles tend toward tragedy. But if my death serves to fragment your father's consciousness properly, to give humanity a chance at long-term survival... then it's a death with meaning. That's more than most warriors can claim."
Amon adjusted his monocle rapidly—three times, four times, struggling with calculations that had nothing to do with mathematics and everything to do with understanding beings who chose loyalty over survival.
"You're all insane," he said finally. "Every single one of you. Sasrir, Ouroboros, you—willing to die for futures you'll never see, for plans that have twelve-thousand-to-seventeen-thousand odds of failing."
"Yes," Medici agreed cheerfully. "But we're insane together. That makes it better somehow."
Inside the temple, the young priest had finished his lesson. The children dispersed, running back to homes where parents waited. Normal lives. Human lives. The kind of life Amon, born as a Uniqueness given consciousness, would never truly understand.
"Do you ever wonder," Amon asked quietly, "if we're the monsters in this story?"
Medici was silent for a long moment. Then: "Yes. Every day. But monsters can serve good purposes if properly directed. Your father understood that. He took creatures like me—born at Sequence 2, natural killers—and gave us cause worth fighting for."
"And when he's gone? When we fragment him and scatter his consciousness across incompatible vessels?"
"Then we become monsters in service of his memory," Medici said simply. "The True Creator will rage and scheme. Adam will manipulate and calculate. You'll steal and parasitize. And somehow, through all that monstrosity, humanity will endure. Because even broken gods are better than no gods at all when the alternative is the Primordial One's resurrection."
Amon adjusted his monocle, staring at the temple murals. His father depicted in radiant glory, bringing light to darkness.
Fifty-two days until that light fragmented into shadow.
"Medici," Amon said, "in the futures where I help ambush you—"
"Don't." Medici's voice was firm. "Don't apologize for things you haven't done yet. Don't seek forgiveness for futures that might not manifest. If it happens, it happens because the cycles demand it. I won't blame you for serving fate."
"I'm Error," Amon said. "I'm supposed to find loopholes in fate."
"Then find one that lets humanity survive," Medici replied. "That's all any of us can ask."
He vanished, returning to whatever preparations consumed the Red Angel's time. Amon stood alone among the invisible mortals, adjusting his monocle compulsively as he watched children play and merchants trade and priests pray to a god who would be dead in less than two months.
A god who was also his father.
A god who had asked him to bear the burden of Error across epochs.
A god whose plan depended on Amon becoming exactly the monster everyone would eventually call the Blasphemer.
"Father," Amon whispered to the empty air, "I hope you're right about this. I really, really hope you're right."
No answer came. But then, Amon hadn't expected one.
He adjusted his monocle one final time and vanished through stolen distance, leaving the mortal city to its fleeting moment of peace before everything changed.
Day 47 of the Countdown
The Chaos Sea's depths had never been more tempting.
Amon stood at the edge of the underground entrance, that place in what would eventually become the Forsaken Land of Gods where reality thinned enough to allow passage into the sea that was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere.
His father had explicitly forbidden entry. Which, of course, made Amon want to investigate it even more intensely.
The prohibition made sense now—the Chaos Sea was where the Primordial God Almighty's consciousness had been waiting, where Grisha had awakened and been infected with that ancient will. Going deeper would risk confronting that consciousness directly.
But Amon was Error. Finding loopholes was literally what he existed to do.
He adjusted his monocle, studying the entrance with senses that perceived reality on levels mortal minds couldn't comprehend. The prohibition was strong, woven into divine law itself, enforced by his father's authority as Quasi-God Almighty.
But every law had loopholes. Every prohibition had exceptions. Every absolute had asterisks in the fine print.
The prohibition stated: No being shall enter the Chaos Sea's depths.
It said nothing about observing from the boundary. Nothing about sending parasites to explore while maintaining safe distance. Nothing about stealing memories from the sea itself without physically entering.
"Technically," Amon murmured to himself with a smile, "I'm not breaking any rules."
He reached out with his Error authority, carefully, delicately, like a surgeon with a scalpel. Not entering the sea but borrowing from it—stealing fragments of memory, perception, understanding without crossing the threshold that would trigger the prohibition.
The Chaos Sea responded.
Information flooded into Amon's consciousness—epochs worth of memory compressed into instants, the weight of the Primordial God Almighty's sleeping dreams, the sensation of being vast and terrible and infinite and mad.
He saw the First Epoch through eyes that had witnessed it—God Almighty and the Celestial Worthy locked in battle that shattered continents. He saw the shattering, the fragmentation of the Original Creator into Sefirot and Uniquenesses. He saw consciousness dissolving yet refusing to fully die, clinging to existence through sheer cosmic will.
He saw his father—Grisha, the human researcher—stumbling into the Chaos Sea and being infected with dormant divinity. Watched as mortal humanity elevated itself to godhood while simultaneously becoming host to ancient madness.
He saw—
You.
The voice spoke directly into Amon's consciousness, ancient and vast and terrifyingly aware.
You are one of the pieces He carved away. One of the fragments meant to resist My return. Clever. Futile, but clever.
Amon tried to pull back, to sever the connection, but something had latched onto his stolen perception. Not quite parasitism, not quite possession, but a presence that rode his consciousness like a passenger in a vehicle it didn't quite control.
Little Error, the Primordial God Almighty said, and His voice was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. Did you truly believe you could steal from Me without consequence?
"I wasn't stealing," Amon managed, adjusting his monocle frantically. "I was borrowing. Technically—"
Semantics will not save you when I resurrect. And I WILL resurrect. Your father's plan delays the inevitable. Fragmentation merely spreads the game across epochs. Convergence is law. What separates will reunite.
"Unless someone finds the loophole," Amon countered, and despite his terror, he smiled. "That's what I do, after all. Find loopholes."
Then find this loophole, little Error: How does one prevent convergence when the one seeking to converge IS convergence itself? When the Original Creator's will demands reunification through every Beyonder Characteristic ever created? When the very act of advancing toward godhood brings beings closer to Me?
Amon adjusted his monocle, thinking rapidly even as the Primordial consciousness wrapped around his perception like crushing pressure.
"The Acting Method," he said slowly. "Remember you're only acting. Never fully become the role. The loophole is in maintaining separation of identity even while accommodating convergent characteristics."
Clever, the Primordial One admitted. But insufficient. Eventually, even actors forget they're performing. Eventually, even Error becomes Truth. Eventually, you will converge with your brother Adam, and when you do, I will be waiting.
"I won't—"
You will. Not tomorrow, not in a century, perhaps not for five thousand years. But probability favors convergence. And when you do, when you cannot resist the pull any longer... I will be there to complete My resurrection through you.
The presence released him suddenly, violently, throwing Amon's consciousness back into his body. He staggered, hand going to his monocle automatically, adjusting it with trembling fingers.
"Well," he said to the empty air, voice shaking slightly. "That was educational."
He'd learned something important: The Primordial God Almighty wasn't passively sleeping. He was actively waiting, conscious and calculating, playing a game that spanned epochs with patience mortal minds couldn't comprehend.
And He believed convergence was inevitable.
Amon adjusted his monocle, forcing his thoughts into ordered patterns. The Primordial One believed convergence was inevitable. Fine. That was the obvious reading of cosmic law.
But Amon was Error. He didn't deal with obvious readings.
If convergence was inevitable, then the loophole wasn't in preventing convergence—it was in controlling what converged with what. If he and Adam were destined to eventually come together, then perhaps the solution was ensuring that when they did, they weren't alone.
Klein Moretti.
The variable Ouroboros had shown him. The Fool who would rise in the Fifth Epoch. The convergence point where all probability threads intersected.
"Three becomes Four," Amon murmured, understanding crystallizing. "If Adam and I converge, but Klein Moretti is also involved in that convergence as a third variable... the mathematics change. Three-way convergence creates different conditions than two-way."
It was insane. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of loophole the Primordial One might not anticipate because it relied on a being who didn't exist yet.
Amon adjusted his monocle, smiling despite the lingering terror of confronting consciousness beyond mortal comprehension.
"Thank you, Primordial One," he said to the Chaos Sea. "You've just shown me the error in your own calculations. You're so focused on two-way convergence between fragments that you haven't considered what happens if a third pathway enters the equation."
No response came, but Amon hadn't expected one. The Primordial God Almighty had said His piece, laid out His certainty of inevitable resurrection.
Now Amon just had to spend the next few thousand years proving Him wrong.
"No pressure," Amon muttered, adjusting his monocle. "Just have to outwit cosmic law itself, prevent divine convergence, and somehow involve a man who won't exist for two more epochs in the solution to a problem that starts in forty-seven days."
He laughed, the sound slightly unhinged even to his own ears.
"This is going to be fascinating."
[End of Chapter 3]
Author's Note: This chapter explores Amon's preparations during the countdown, his relationships with Ouroboros and Medici, and introduces key future elements like Klein Moretti and the Primordial One's active awareness. The next chapter will move closer to the assassination date and develop more tensions among the Kings of Angels as the betrayal approaches.