Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse novel Chapter 4273

Chapter 4273: Prisoners and Wars! II

THE Weavers continued, their voices in unison!

"He shall wear no crown, yet command emperors.

He shall be neither king nor beggar.

He will gather the scattered, lost children of a dying existence,

And from the frayed threads of their despair, weave a single, impossible banner.

For only in the desperate, relentless climb toward a dawn they cannot see,

Can the coming, absolute night be weathered.

And a new light will shine, not from a single, sovereign sun,

But from the countless, small fires of a people who chose to stand together against the final dark.

The Light of Civilization."

HUUM!

The Prophecy ended, leaving a profound, echoing silence in its wake. Schrodinger was shocked, dazed, his mind reeling from the sheer, overwhelming weight of the words.

"What is this?" he stammered. "What do you mean? Are you... are you telling me this because I am such a being?"

He asked the grand, desperate question, but as he did, the forms of THE Weavers began to flicker, their bronze robes dissolving into motes of auroral light.

All three tapped out at this moment, their fingers touching Schrodinger’s forehead simultaneously as a blinding white line bloomed on his head, his eyes becoming dazed!

"Be a Concept, be a Spirit, be Paradox...be anything you wish. Be a begger, king, or the Herald. Be anything you wish."

HUUM!

Their final, unison words were a fading, cryptic echo.

"We are only here to inform. We can only inform."

And then... they were gone, leaving Schrodinger alone in the verdant-gold grasslands, under a sky of swirling, nascent folds, with a new, terrible, and perhaps, glorious purpose.

—

Far from the Earliest Folds, in the quiet, desolate twilight of the current Era, a different kind of conversation was taking place.

On a certain Desiccated Sleeping Shore, two figures stood gazing out at the impossible continent they had made their sanctuary.

Schrodinger and Leonore Rureaux. They looked upon the thousands of powerful Living Existences and Fold Dwellers, a congregation of the lost and the hopeful, all gathered in this forgotten corner of reality.

At the many Wheels littered at the edges of the Shore that held Sextillions of beings.

Leonore, her form still frail but her crimson eyes now burning with a cold, clear light, broke the silence.

Her voice was a low, melodic thing, yet it carried the sharp edge of a razor.

"You truly gathered them," she said, her gaze sweeping over a distant Duke of Origin who was attempting to coax a flicker of life from the dead soil.

"Living Existences and Fold Dwellers, all huddled together under your wing. Do you truly believe it, that story the bronze-robed ghosts whispered to you? That you are some Herald, a chosen one meant to save everyone? Your methods have not entirely been saving some..."

The question was not just a question; it was a challenge, a test of the very foundation of this grand, desperate gamble.

Schrodinger did not turn to her. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, on the tired, gray sky that promised no dawn.

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