Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse novel Chapter 4272

Chapter 4272: Prisoners and Wars! I

As Noah decimated a Yeti King in one area of the First Folds, a victory that resonated with the raw, brutal music of his own becoming, another, quieter tragedy was unfolding.

Nearby, an unknown number of Fold Light Years away, a certain Living Concept sat in a daze, his very existence a weaving with a gaping, inexplicably blank patch.

He knew, with a certainty that was its own form of torment, that something was missing.

But he did not know what. It was a phantom limb of the soul, an ache for a memory that had been so perfectly, so clinically, excised that all that remained was the shape of its absence.

It is a phenomenon not unknown to lesser beings!

You walk into a room and forget why you entered. You know there was a purpose, a reason, a thought that propelled you across the threshold, but it is gone, leaving only the frustrating, maddening echo of its importance.

You stand there, a fool in a doorway, knowing you have lost something you cannot even name.

Schrodinger felt such a way right now. He sat amidst a field of verdant-gold grasslands, under the shade of trees so massive their canopies were lost in the swirling, nascent Wheels and folds of the sky.

But he felt no peace, no sense of belonging. He felt only a profound, hollow desolation!

He raised his hands to the endless, chaotic heavens, his fingers grasping at something, anything, a tangible piece of the puzzle that was his own, fractured mind.

And as his hands reached their apex, he saw them. Descending from the sky he was reaching out to, like three silent, falling stars, were the outlines of three hooded figures.

He blinked, a slow, stuporous movement, as he watched them descend.

They landed on the same verdant-gold grassland, their feet making no sound, their forms barely disturbing the air!

They were adorned in simple, archaic bronze robes, their hoods pulled low to cover their faces.

Where their faces should have been, there were only shifting, ethereal streams of auroral light, a constant, mesmerizing flow that made them impossible to truly see.

Schrodinger slowly came out of his stupor, a cautious, analytical light returning to his ancient eyes.

He could feel it, an oppressive sense of power radiating from them, a weight that was not of Complexity or Purity, but of something far older, far more fundamental.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice a low, guarded rasp.

Their reply was a thing of impossible, terrible beauty. They spoke in perfect unison, three distinct voices...one high and melodic, one low and resonant, one a dry, academic whisper...all saying the exact same words at the exact same time.

"We are THE Weavers."

HUUM!

THE.

Such a distinction was a crown of unimaginable weight, a title worn only by the very architects of reality.

Schrodinger, a being whose knowledge was a vast and labyrinthine library, felt a flicker of profound doubt.

He laughed, a short, sharp, and utterly unconvinced sound. He shook his head!

"THE Weavers?" he scoffed, a hint of his old self returning. "The titles of ’THE’ are not trinkets to be worn by any passing specter. In all that is known, only THE Creature and THE Living Existences can lay claim to such a grand distinction."

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify