Chapter 154: From Beyond the World...

The clouds part and the fog disperses—

The nameless mist that has enshrouded the realms of order for countless years dissipates like spring snow beneath the sun. Radiance from the vault of heaven spills over the corrupt land gleaming with a black-purple luster. The fiends, devoid of wisdom, intellect, or even a unified form, seem to sense something, halting their steps in unison.

Then they raise their heads—or something akin to a head—gazing upon that dazzling spectacle which has never once appeared within their chaotic, porridge-like memories.

Is it curiosity toward the unknown? Or perhaps some stirring of humanity that has not yet entirely faded away?

No one knows the answer.

It is not that humanity is incapable of mutual understanding with the fiends, but simply because—

There is no need.

The war between order and chaos has spanned millennia; their slaughter has long since transcended simple hatred to become an instinct, an instinct entirely devoid of thought.

Just like now—

Without any reason, without any logic, without even the exchange of harsh parting words, the fiends entrenched in this land fall into an endless, unawakening slumber before they even realize the arrival of the living.

Not sleep, but death—thorough and absolute death.

The very concept of their "life" has been completely stripped away at this moment, reducing them to lifeless husks that will never wake again.

—Manipulating life.

This is Sydney Tobias’s ability, or rather... authority—the authority to directly interfere with the essence of life from the level of fundamental laws, an authority wielded only by the Chosen.

Not only can he freely reverse the states of "life" and "death" for himself and others, but he can also endlessly tamper with the blueprints of life upon this foundation.

—Want strength? Then amplify strength.

—Want speed? Then elevate speed.

—Want an immortal body? Then accelerate the rate of self-healing.

In other words, setting aside the conceptual reversal of life and death, his physical vessel can, whenever necessary, be reinforced infinitely to and even beyond the ultimate limit, transforming him into a "superman" with no weaknesses and no blind spots.

Furthermore, this is not all. Through his interference with and manipulation of the essence of life, he can even create a new organism—or rather, a species—capable of self-reproduction, self-development, and self-expansion according to his desires, while maintaining absolute influence over them at all times.

This is a means bordering on that of a creator.

Yet, powerful though he is, he is still not qualified to be the strongest of the Knights.

The strongest—

A title that can only be claimed by a single individual. In the Knights, where multiple Chosen exist, its ownership has never once been contested.

—Scott Fielding.

The ultimate being whose authority is "Destruction." His authority not only grants him the supreme destructive power to pulverize everything standing in his path, but the broad and unrestricted concept of "everything" also encompasses the abilities of the Glorified, the innate talents of the fiends, the stigmata of the sword-bearers, the might of the Dark Lords, and the authority of the Chosen. In other words, he possesses both the ultimate spear capable of destroying all things and nullifying the enemy's abilities, and the ultimate shield capable of immunizing against the assaults of others.

Even according to the alchemists, his authority holds vast potential for further development, perhaps capable of destroying not only the abilities of his adversaries, but also the very concept of resistance against such acts, or hostility itself—an ethereal concept existing solely on the mental plane.

"Judging by the direction, it should be Hermetica." The Chosen standing atop the sea of death remains indifferent to the piled corpses. He merely raises his head, gazing with a scrutinizing eye at the dawn light spilling from the vault of heaven. "Speaking of which, that fellow Scott should have headed that way."

Pandora, ranked among the Nine Lords, the Old One on the verge of awakening—

Whichever it is, it is supremely troublesome.

That fellow Duke is also unlucky to an extreme degree, simultaneously provoking so many unimaginably immense troubles.

Aside from Scott, that monstrously powerful fellow, not a single person in the Knights—including himself and the other Chosen—has the slightest certainty of stabilizing the situation and cleaning up that rotting mess.

Yet the terrifying scale of the commotion before his eyes bears no resemblance to the personal style of that strongest individual, who always executes his duties with unadorned simplicity.

This means either that somewhere other than Hermetica has suffered an anomaly severe enough to impact the entire realm of order, or that within that ill-fated ancient city, another unforeseen disaster has occurred beyond everyone's expectations.

Yet for Sydney, neither possibility can be termed good news.

It is not that he treats them with indifference, nor is he doubtful of the dawn's arrival; it is simply because... the time is not yet right.

"I hope it doesn't provoke it."

—The realms of order, already riddled with holes, can no longer endure the descent of an entity of that tier.

Doubt flashing through his mind, the Chosen who stands at the absolute peak of the entire realm of order murmurs softly, then turns around, his back to the dawn light, and walks further and further away across the land piled high with corpses.

Meanwhile, on the distant other side of the map of order, an elderly man on the verge of death awakens from his long slumber.

"Nine hundred years... truly a nostalgic sight." The old man, resembling a mummy with all the moisture evaporated from his body, rises from a red coffin inlaid with a silver-white cross. His gaze lingers on the faint dawn light spilling in from beyond the window, and then he narrows his eyes, already deeply sunken within wrinkles. "Hermetica, Pandora, the Old Ones, Dagon—it seems they can finally no longer endure the loneliness."

As his words fall, his withered skin swells as if pumped with air. A strong and vigorous heartbeat drives the surging current of blood through his body, gradually filling his near-lifeless frame with vitality. His rare golden pupils progressively recover their vigor, perfectly complementing his imposing posture and innate noble dignity. Though not yet fully restored, the majesty of a god upon the earth is already beginning to manifest.

"Indeed." The old man, completely converting his state from the dead to the living, mutters to himself, "The gate has already been opened once; the final defense line, once thought foolproof, has proven far less secure than imagined. They... are growing anxious."

"It is Lucifer." Standing behind the old man, utterly devoid of presence like a ghost, is a winged being such as Amy Ulysses once witnessed in the dreamscape of Lucifero. Its exact visage is obscured in darkness and cannot be clearly discerned; the only things visible are the three pairs of flawless white wings upon its back. "It is its power."

"You wish to go to Hermetica—" Augustus—the earthly god of humanity—points out with unerring precision.

The winged being offers no reply, and the atmosphere becomes terrifyingly silent.

"If I remember correctly, your goal, your mission, has nothing whatsoever to do with that entity," the old man says in a low voice. "So, heed my advice: do not muddy these troubled waters."

"Apologize—" the winged being coldly replies, all three pairs of wings unfurling simultaneously. "I cannot do that."

He—or more accurately, she—steps forth from the darkness. Her pristine wings reflect the radiance of the morning glow, and her glossy, medium-length dark hair falls loose beside her earlobes. Her delicate visage is fraught with an otherworldly beauty. Although she employs no enchanting powers, her innate sacred disposition still causes one's heart to involuntarily yield when gazing upon her.

And then—

An unbidden wind blows open the massive doors that should normally only unlatch after layers of rigorous verification.

The winged being, manifesting in the guise of a young maiden, beats the three pairs of wings upon her back and soars toward the morning light spilling from the vault of heaven.

"A truly worrisome child." The old man watches her departure without offering further persuasion or attempting to block her path. He merely lets out a low, gentle, and nearly imperceptible sigh. "Hermetica has never been a benevolent place—the Watcher, the Old Ones... and 'He' who is about to awaken."

The founder of the Cult, Augustus, the earthly god, pauses slightly as he mentions the final "He."

"Let us hope... those fools of the Cult of Chaos do not commit any stupid deeds."

He speaks, then steps out through the portal and into the falling morning light.

—This is Canaan, the Canaan of the earth, the Promised Land constructed upon the earth in accordance with divine will.

"Since everyone has begun to move," golden robes automatically weave themselves into being upon his form, and the scepter symbolizing supreme divine authority naturally materializes in his hand as he takes a step forward. The supreme Crown of the Cult once again ascends to the pinnacle of glory, unveiling a brand-new chapter of destiny, "then I... cannot fall behind."

His plain words carry an extraordinary force of will.

The god walking upon the earth resolves to bring a rounded period to the millennium of darkness, thoroughly ending this unfortunate cycle of misfortune.

Yet, in the very next instant, his steps come to an abrupt halt.

The scepter in his hand falls heavily to the ground, and his golden pupils gaze up toward the firmament.

"It has come—"

He speaks, his pupils reflecting a vast expanse of darkness.

That is...

"Shub-Niggurath."

At the remote fringes of the realms of order, within the Black Zone shrouded in chaos and disorder, at the other side unreachable by time and space, within the miraculous hall where only the one chosen by fate may enter—the man sitting enthroned, or rather self-imprisoned upon the Silver Throne, opens his eyes. He opens the eyes occupied and filled entirely by white sclera.

The man—resembling a youth, yet also a young adult, with a hint of a middle-aged man's decadence and an old man's clear-sighted transcendence of worldly affairs—can only be given such a designation as a prisoner.

The pupils-less eyes are naturally devoid of anything.

Yet he sees, sees as a matter of course. He sees the madly surging tide of chaos, sees the tottering realms of order, and sees... the chaotic tentacles extending from the dark chaos.

"As you sow, so shall you reap—"

Concluding with a low murmur, the silver-haired, white-eyed man closes his eyes once more. The breath of life fades away, leaving behind no vitality or vigor, as if he has fallen into an eternal, unbroken slumber.

Yet everything does not halt simply because of his slumber.

Howling, weeping, clamoring—

Amidst the dawn light, the Mother of a Thousand Young Black Goats thus manifests.