Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse

Chapter 3749: The Dead, The Living, and The Folds I

As the Infiniverse Crucible continued its wonders.

Far from it.

From the edge of a collapsing concept, deep within the Dead Wheel of Existence, a paradox walked.

Ozymandias.

A Dead Thing, yet still tethered to something far beyond simple collapse.

A remnant of Existence.

A Quintessential Entity.

The Dead Prime Frequency of the End rippled with black flame as he stepped forward, having been bathing in death the last two days.

Blue-gold threads wove into his obsidian body like echoes from another Existence, his form cloaked in funeral elegance, roiling obsidian mist wrapped in infinite runes.

His bare feet left no imprint on the death-wrapped soil and space.

Yet his presence carved scars into the very resonance of this realm.

He did not breathe. He did not pulse.

But existence around him remembered that he once had. That he was a Living Thing!

”Even death,” Ozymandias murmured, his voice thunderous despite its softness, ”can be refined.”

The Prime Frequency of the End had become a frequency of soot-stained memory. It recalled the Final Collapse of the Living Wheel. Structures once vibrant calcified into shimmering decay, their Source Weavings frayed like withered silk.

Here, everything died slowly. With purpose.

But Ozymandias walked through it effortlessly.

He disappeared from it moments later.

The Dead Prime Frequency of Flame came next.

And it wept.

Orange-gold ashes fell like dying snowflakes. The air burned without heat. Rivers of magma flowed in reverse. At the heart of it all, flickers of the Singed sputtered like memories from a forgotten dream.

Ozymandias closed his eyes, drawing on the Living Memory of when this realm had burned in glory. He remembered the beauty. The destruction. The freedom he saw briefly from the Singed!

He had seen the Living Prime Frequency of Flames in its glory… and now stood before its grave.

Then came the Dead True Frequency of the Singed, pulsing with crimson ruin. The flames here no longer lived. They screamed death. Every flicker, every ember, echoed what once was, what had perished.

And he moved through it as if he belonged.

Because he did.

The Dead favored the Dead.

The Nullvein Gravewake Folds respected him, and so did Dead Wheels of Existence.

Even here, even now, the Lineage of the Origin Prime Osmontian Infinitum shimmered across his form. A blue-gold flame danced upon Ozymandiasʼ skin. Not alive. Not dead. Not real.

Paracausal.

He watched as members of the Hollow Concord of Nullity scattered across the Dead Frequencies like pale insects.

Yes. Some were still in this Dead Wheel of Existence.

There were no Mawbearers left.

Only Converged Architects and Harmonized Sourcebound Icons. Powerful. Methodical.

But lesser.

Each bore cracked remnants of Death, etched with blackened paradoxes, their forms shrouded in burial weavings stitched from collapsed Frequencies.

Even if he stood before them, with all their Complexity, he could make it so they never saw him.

They searched. Dug. Whispered. Mapped.

All for the Key.

The Key he already possessed.

”Still searching,” Ozymandias whispered. ”Still blind.”

He raised a hand.

Extended a single finger.

And spoke.

”Death.”

A single word.

Burning with the True Source of Death!

BOOM!

The Dead Prime Frequency of the Singed quaked, and all other Dead Frequencies of this Wheel did the same.

Tendrils of obsidian light erupted from the ground in every direction, twisting like tyrannical punishment. They spiraled upward, faster than time, before crashing downward in sweeping arcs, piercing the chests and skulls of the Hollow Concord members across frequencies.

No screams.

Only collapse.

Dozens. Hundreds.

All fell.

Not torn by force, but by designation.

Declared dead by something older than death itself.

Ozymandias lowered his hand.

The tendrils vanished. No blood. No remnants. Only silence and ruin.

He stepped forward once more, vanishing into the rippling folds of the Nullvein Gravewake.

To learn.

To consume.

To become something beyond life or death.

To seek… the song behind silence.

And the meaning behind a certain prophecy.

---

As Ozymandias crossed the Folds, others completed their own traversal and arrived at their destination.

In the shadow-drenched Nullvein Gravewake Folds, paradox and finality stirred.

Two figures walked side by side, one bearing a legacy of sorrow, the other a will forged in impossibility.

Thauron, the Null Monarch, moved like he owned the silence. Obsidian cloth draped over his form, whispering in forgotten tongues with every step. Beside him, Bob, newly risen from the Sorrowglass Fabled Gauntlet, walked with eyes full of calm and hope.

Around them, the Folds shifted. Collapsed existence that did not welcome travelers.

It devoured them. Collapsed them. Changed them.

And yet, they walked forward.

”You know what this place is?” Thauron asked, voice low and laced with shadow. ”Itʼs where the echoes of every decision ever unmade come to rest. That is what the folds really is...to me anyways. And yet, even here, some places are untouched. Unheard.”

Bob stayed silent. He knew better than to interrupt when the Null Monarch spoke like that as he always continued on and on.

”Weʼre heading toward one of those places. You canʼt seek it. You canʼt want it. You must be taken. Finality is the only guide. And itʼs leading us back.”

”...”

Cryptic words that could barely be understood.

”Back?” Bob asked. ”Back to what?”

Thauronʼs smile was more shadow than flesh. ”Where I first arrived, when I earned freedom.”

Freedom? Bobʼs eyes flashed.

”Freedom from what?”

The Null Monarchʼs gaze stayed forward, not even turning around. ”Maybe Iʼll tell you. Someday.”

Then, they saw it.

The air shimmered.

Obsidian thickened beneath their feet.

Paradoxes compressed into gravity so dense even True Sources bowed.

They crossed uncountable distances over what should have been hours, but it felt like days as Bob had already devoured all the True Source Sorrowglass Panaceas.

But they crossed all that endless distance to instantly arrive!

The Null Cradle of Fold-Breaking Ascension.

They appeared outside as Thauron led the way.

They stepped onto the first ring of the Outer Wheel.

Silence fell.

Dead and Living Entities nearby turned, gazes narrowing.

Bob stepped foot down first while Thauron floated.

And then, they saw.

A glorious emergence of...a Null Form.

HUUM!

Bobʼs Null Form bloomed upward.

A storm of slithering limbs, elegant rather than grotesque, violet obsidian-black tentacles writhed in silence, stitched with luminous runes. Towering.

Five hundred inches tall.

500!

Filled with Khaos.

It radiated chaotic symmetry. A wonder of sorrow wearing the bones of the sea.

Gasps spread across the Outer Wheel.

Even Thauron, after eons, frowned. Not in disdain. In admiration.

”I expected something from you,” Thauron said. ”But this? Youʼve far surpassed my current expectations.”

And then, the Folds shook.

Thauronʼs own Null Form rose behind him as he stepped down.

And it rose up maddeningly.

Horrifically to eclipse everything.

One thousand inches.

1,000!

It was an obsidian throne, massive and glorious. Its base swam in roiling blood and ancient chains that wept memory. Symbols carved on its back could not be read by the living, only felt.

Not command. But inevitability.

All who saw it lowered their eyes.

All except Bob as he became stern.

The Outer Wheel trembled under the weight of what had arrived.

Entities whispered.

”Who...is that?”

”What is that tentacled thing? Itʼs huge!”

Commotion arose.

But...something else stirred as those newly arriving sensed something.

An imbalance.

Thauron turned, narrowing his eyes at the landscape.

He tilted his head. Listening and looking.

Then frowned.

”Strange.”

Bob glanced at him. ”What is it?”

Thauron swept a hand across the land. ”Where are the Trial Wheels and Pillars? There should be hundreds. But I see so few…hey, you little tiny fish, what happened here?”

His words hung in the air.

A riddle, unraveling.

The tension in the surroundings deepened.

Something had changed.

The Entities looked around, uneasy.

Thauronʼs presence demanded truth as his Null Form pressed on everything here.

Finally, one stepped forward.

Caelnor of the Destifolds.

”A...Stranger came through,” he said. ”A day ago. We donʼt know from where. His Null Form was only three inches tall... but he lifted them- all trials. All of them.”

Thauronʼs gaze sharpened.

”All of them?”

Caelnor nodded. ”Every Trial Wheel. Every Pillar. Carried and set. One by one. Alone and with ease.”

Another silence.

Then, Thauron smiled.

A deep, reverent sound. ”Hmm...so someone else has done what I once did. When I believed the Fold was a mere test.”

He looked to the sky and space that was endlessly black and filled with nothing.

Remembering.

”I did it once. But now, another has done it fully.”

He turned to Bob.

Bob squinted into the distance. ”Think this Stranger went further? Will you go see him?”

Thauron followed his gaze.

To the Middle Wheel Platform.

”I wonder.”

HUUUM!

The Folds pulsed.

Thauronʼs voice rose again, and he shook his head.

”We remain here,” he said. ”Until the trials regenerate. Then, you will clear them all.”

...!

He turned addressed the watching Entities. ”Which means...none of you are to touch a single Wheel or Pillar for the next day.”

His tone carried more than authority.

It carried consequence.

The Living and the Dead nodded.

Even though Null Forms couldnʼt interfere or harm, none would test Thauronʼs will.

He looked at Bob, amusement glinting in his eyes. ”Come. Letʼs have you break records.”

And Bob began.

His massive form reached out to Calcified Paradoxical Wheels and Pillars.

His towering Null Form moved with grace.

And...

Pillars were restored with ease. Wheels reset. Cracked Concordance realigned!

Thauron sat down as he began to watch everything.

Cross-legged on the obsidian ground, before the Outer Wheel.

And with reverent care, he patted the ground.

As if remembering what it meant to lift the weight of collapse.

And the ground pulsed!

---

The Null Cradle vibrated.

Away from the Outer Wheel.

In the Middle Wheel of the Null Cradle of Fold-Breaking Ascension.

From the distant edge of the Middle Wheel Platform, where collapsed paradox and condensed resonance layered into obsidian rings, a gaze turned towards a particular direction.

A Primarch.

She stood tall, luminous, composed, a Living Thing of impossible elegance. Her skin shimmered with golden undertones, pulsing with shifting strings of fate. Upon her brow rested a delicate circlet of entropic crystal, threading iridescent runes that moved like constellations across her skin.

Her name was Kalysta of the Veiled Sunfolds.

She was the Primarch of Kismet, bearer of the True Source of Kismet! A being whose very breath whispered probabilities into certainty. Her Null Form floated behind her, delicate in appearance but vast. A spiraling mandala of interwoven fractal threads, 347 inches wide, shimmering in translucent silver and gold.

She had spent years here, weaving seven complete True Source Sigils of Existence. It had taken patience. Analysis. Countless failed attempts to interpret what the fragments meant. To feel them. To test their resonance.

And yet…

Her amber eyes were not on her work.

They were locked onto a small figure.

A man.

Three inches tall, his Null Form wrapped close like a second skin. Insignificant by comparison.

A… Stranger, one could say.

He moved slowly but purposefully across the obsidian expanse. A blur to most, but not to her eyes. She watched as he paused over a cluster of Sigil Fragments, knelt, and without hesitation, picked one up.

She frowned.

It fit.

She could feel it from here.

He moved again.

Another pause. Another piece.

Another perfect fit.

Kalysta blinked.

She reached into her memory, recalling the chaos it had been trying to find her first fragmentʼs resonance. The days it took to even distinguish its intention. Sheʼd tested Sigils one by one, mentally mapping them across the unique resonances of surrounding fragments.

It had been a cacophony of noise and discordant tunes. Finding a single correct tone among them, again and again, was maddening. A completed Sigil could require 40, 60, or even 100 fragments for the more dreadful ones.

Finding the right ones among the chaos was hard.

Truly hard.

But the Stranger with the three-inch Null Form…

He simply walked.

Every movement was precise.

Like he could hear them.

No… like they were calling to him.

She leaned forward slightly from her perch atop a collapsed Concordance Pillar. Her eyes narrowed.

He had five fragments now.

Then six.

She felt the resonance growing louder. The True Source of something filled with anger stirred from afar. Deep violet and burning red. A Sigil of fierce clarity.

That being didnʼt test them.

He already knew.

Her heart quickened.

Seven.

Eight.

Kalysta stood. She hadnʼt realized she had.

Across the Middle Wheel Platform, Entities turned. Not because of her, but because they, too, felt it.

The pulse.

The formation of a Sigil hurtling toward completion!

From her vantage point high above the spiraling layers of the Middle Wheel Platform, Kalysta of the Veiled Sunfolds watched the Stranger move with relentless purpose.

It had now been nearly an hour since she first turned her gaze toward him.

An hour… and in that time, he had found thirty-two Sigil Fragments. Each selected with surgical precision. Each slotted into an unseen resonance like it had always belonged.

He had traversed miles to obtain others across the vast landscape.

And yet he did it seamlessly.

No fumbling. No recalibration. No delay.

She wasnʼt the only one watching anymore.

Far across the Middle Wheel, a few other Entities had turned. Harmonized Sourcebound Icons had ceased their mutterings. Even Resplendent Monads, wrapped in their monolithic Null Forms, had frozen mid-motion, sensing something ripple across the field.

Nine incomplete Sigil Fragments remained, judging by the nearly completed structure orbiting him.

And then…

Eight.

The pulse of a heavy anger grew louder. Like a drumbeat of crimson thunder echoing through folds of paradox.

Seven.

Six.

Kalystaʼs golden-crowned Null Form shimmered in reflexive anticipation. The threads of Kismet that composed her inner lattice spun faster, reacting to something unpredictable.

Five.

Four.

She stood again.

Not in awe.

But in caution.

In calculation.

Three Sigils remained.

Two Sigils remained.

And then…

One.

BOOOOM!

From the air around him, a brilliant violet-gold radiance exploded outward, runes tearing through space as an impossibly refined Sigil manifested in full.

A completed True Source Sigil of Existence.

In that moment, its identity rang clear across the realm.

WRATH.

It hovered above the Strangerʼs three-inch Null Form like a sovereign halo. Thirty-nine interlocked fragments formed a bladed crown, each curve swirling with violent scripture.

Crimson lines pulsed through it like veins of magma.

It throbbed once, and the entire region of the Middle Wheel Platform responded.

The air rippled. Collapsed Concordances moaned.

Dozens of Entities stepped back as a stream of obsidian-gold light descended.

Fifty.

Fifty obsidian-gold Marks of the Folds rained down onto the Strangerʼs Null Form, each one burning a new wonder of resonance into his being, compressing his Complexity and Purity Quotients.

Kalysta narrowed her eyes.

He hadnʼt even reacted. His small form stood there, still as shadow, as if this had all been expected.

She leapt down in a blink, her golden Null Form gliding like a silken shard of light. Her feet touched the obsidian ground in silence, only a whisper of paradox curling beneath her.

Others watched with measured caution, but Kalysta approached.

He turned slightly as she neared.

Still silent.

Still calm.

Kalysta stopped several paces away, her mandala-shaped Null Form spiraling behind her like the petals of some impossible flower.

”How did you do it?” she asked.

Her voice wasnʼt accusatory, but it was cold. Clean. Measured.

The Stranger turned fully now. His expression unreadable. His face neutral, save for the faintest hint of amusement and tyranny.

”I have a knack...” he said simply, ”for understanding other True Sources.”

Kalysta tilted her head, studying him.

There was no arrogance in his voice. No challenge.

Only certainty.

She respected that!

Still… she shook her head slowly.

”Youʼve done in under an hour what it takes most Entities days to even begin,” she said. ”Shall I...tell you a story, Stranger?”

He offered her a glance, an invitation to continue, as though he had done good work and had some time to spare.

So she did.

”Nearly a hundred years ago,” Kalysta said, her golden eyes half-lidded, her voice threading into memory, ”I met a being here. A Primarch. His Null Form stood at 490 inches. It shimmered green with pride and authority. A lattice of Life weaved through his form with such grace that even Dead Things dared not mock it.”

She paused, her gaze distant.

”He was a genius. A true one. He had many completed Sigils to his name. And yet… even he spent an entire day completing his first. He tested fragments like a craftsman carving glass, methodically, patiently, painfully, for an entire day.”

Her eyes snapped back to him.

”But you?”

”You moved through it like the Sigils whispered to you first. Like they called you where you needed to be.”

HUUM!

Her voice carried power.

And he…

He said nothing. Just smiled calmly.

She hadnʼt expected a reply.

Kalysta of the Veiled Sunfolds folded her arms and watched the Completed Sigil of Wrath rotate slowly above his head.

She was not one to worship power. Nor did she feel envy.

There were countless entities out there, many stronger than her. If envy ruled her, she wouldʼve shattered long ago.

But curiosity?

Curiosity burned brighter than fate.

And this Stranger… this one with a three-inch Null Form and the resonance of something beyond belief…he pulled her curiosity.

And her True Source of Kismet?

Kismet had burned brightly.

And now, he had her full attention!