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Chapter 185 – Echoes of the Teacher
The memory of Inkwell was a frozen flame in the heart of Felix, the revelation of his murder a magnet that sucked him along with evil purpose. The Primordium was a realm of belief, and belief was a hall of mirrors. Leaving behind the origin of creation, the cold geometry warping, the frozen ideologies of the floating spires slackening, their tines adapting to something more natural, more. familiar.He was walking not on hardened conviction but on creaky floorboards. The air shed the ozone bite, filling with the scent of old paper, dry-erase markers, and the faint, sweet smell of discarded apple cores. The light dimmed, emitted by fluorescent tubes humming overhead. He was in a hallway of lockers, their metal faces scratched and dented, that seemed to stretch to impossible lengths.The door to the classroom was ajar. Through the window, he could glimpse rows of vacant desks across from a whiteboard. And facing the whiteboard, his back to the door, stood a man dressed in a plain, well-t
Chapter 184 – The Inkwell of Stars
The Forgotten Seven did not lead him in words, but by the mutual, wordless tug, a shared memory of a place both birth and burial. They moved as a single mind through the remote, unwritten regions of the Primordium, where the formation of belief dissipated into the unshapen geology of conception. The air cooled, not with temperature, but with the chill of potential before it was defined. The light came from nowhere and everywhere, a steady, source-less light that produced no shadows, as if this world had existed previous to the moment when 'shadow' became a thing.And then, they came to the edge.It was not a cliff looking out over an abysm, but a beach. The obsidian surface, a cool, black material that was like a chilled reason in texture, met a liquid that was the reverse of liquid. It was black, but a blackness somehow luminous, full of pent-up color and released light. It did not ripple or flow like water, but it churned with the stately, deliberate dignity of galactic arms. Pinpri
Chapter 183 – The Garden of Forgotten Gods
The escape from the buzzing, frantic Hall of Aethernom was down, away from glittering spires and humming lines of prayer. The crowded faith beneath Felix's feet turned soft, then dissolved into a fine, grey dust that reeked of mothballs and regret. The fluid-light air dissipated, opening into a still, vacant twilight that seemed to devour sound. He had stepped from the engine room of divinity into its attic.This was the Garden of Broken Deities.Not a garden of flowers, but of ideals. Wilted, petrified trees remained suspended mid-gesture, their bark the touch of withering parchment—gods of nullified promises. Puddles of water, glassy and motionless, reflected nothing—deities of reflections and echoes who had lost their fountain. Frayed tapestries of light folded in rags from invisible looms, their patterns and the laws of physics and ethics withdrawn by popular consensus. The air hung thick with the scent of nostalgia, a cloying, mournful perfume.And over this quiet, carved cemeter
Chapter 182 – The Atlas of Belief
The further Felix penetrated into the Primordium, the less the ground felt of faith and more of bureaucracy. The churning, fluid radiance of the air hardened into great, vaulted ceilings supported by pillars of encapsulated doctrine. The whispering temples yielded to silent, massive repositories. He had arrived at the Hall of Aethernom, the bureaucratic core of the divine machine.The air itself was still, dry, and had the smell of vellum dust and ozone. The hysterical rumors which had tried to incriminate him were gone, replaced by a low, insistent drone—the whir of processing data on a cosmic scale. This was not a temple; this was an accounting firm.And hanging from the center of the hall was the cause of the drone: the Atlas of Belief.It was not a map, not in any conventional way. It was a three-dimensional ever-shifting tapestry of light and link, so vast its boundaries merged into the architectural shadows of the hall. It was a web of faith, a celestial model of the interface b
Chapter 181 – The Gates of Myth
The transition was not a step, but a sigh. One moment, Felix stood in the radiant, pulsing world of the Age of the True Word, the weight of his own death a known shroud draped across his shoulders. The next, the solidity of the world softened at the margins. The stones of Aethelgard were transformed into stone suggestions; its people's voices melted into a distant, harmonious hum—like the ghostly humming noise which still vibrated through the other room. A fissure in the air before him—not a tear of wrath, but an ethereal, hot fissure, such as craquelure on a masterpiece painting, that gave way to a blinding, hotter light beneath.It was the veil between the written world and the world in which there had been a beginning of writing. And it was calling to him.He did not make himself go forward. The crevice inhaled, and he was sucked through.He emerged into the Divine Realms, and for a moment he thought he was deaf. Then he realized the silence was because the very air was sound, cond
Chapter 180 – The Break of the True Word
The hush was not broken. It was scattered. It was not shattered by a boom or uttered by a whisper, but gently shoved away, as night yields to dawn, by a single, pure note. It was a note holding within it the potential of all music—the first cry of a child, the first chord of a symphony, the first word of a story told over a proto-historic fire. It was the Song of Retold Creation.Felix was at its heart. The domain of half-forgotten stories vanished, carried away by a living, breathing, singing reality. He stood on a sea of living light, beneath a sky being forged in the instant from tapestries of nebulae and strange constellations whose stories were not yet to be told. The air itself vibrated with potential, every molecule a tiny, humming library of what could be. No single source of light; they were all emitting intrinsic luminescence, a starry universe written by themselves.He looked down at his hands. They were just hands. The mortal aches and pains of a mortal body were returning
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