Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse

Chapter 3777 Unkillable II

Thauron stood still.

Cold.

Unflinching.

His towering figure cast long, silent shadows, the folds of his existence unmoving as he gazed down at the thing before him- the Living Collapse.

Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head, a gesture filled with the heavy disdain of Finality.

”If a Living Paradox were here,” Thauron said, his voice a low rumble of certainty, ”then a creature like you would have long since been dead.”

His words fell with the weight of truth, not rushed, but precise, each syllable woven with the power of inevitability.

Across from him, the Living Collapse tilted its head, the movement smooth and grotesque all at once. And then it twisted- a mockery of thought, a cruel imitation of life. It shook its head, not in denial, but as if correcting a mistaken child.

It spoke, voice thick and distorted, dripping with the slow rot of ancient collapse.

”Of course,” it said, the words slithering through the air, ”of course, I would be dead.”

It breathed in then, the motion deliberate, its chest, or what passed for it, expanding with reverence, as if savoring the moment.

”If a Living Paradox had even its aura of existence here,” it murmured, ”I would not breathe. I would be ash.”

Another slow exhale followed, not relief, but hunger.

”But…”

The voice grew softer, slick with something deeper, more intimate.

”An Unbound Living Paradox,” it said, twisting its form in a slow, predatory circle, ”a hatchling. One that does not yet know right from wrong, does not understand the gravity of its Sin. One that cannot mask its stench.”

Its void-filled visage gleamed, black and gold, as it spoke the final words.

”That is something I was born to end.”

…!

I watched- silent, thoughtful- the words weighing heavier than any blow could.

With a breath drawn deep through the weavings of my soul, I turned inward, unhurried, my mind moving to the 9 Lattices of the Weaver of Existence, to every thread and stitch of my being.

”Study it,” I murmured. ”Study what changed.”

Study what Paradox had become when it turned Living. Study what doors had opened that should have remained closed.

The Weaver stirred in response, its Lattices glimmering with a low, quiet pulse.

And then, as if answering a summons older than memory, three other True Sources responded.

Summoning.

Animus.

Necromancy.

Their Lattices buzzed, harmonizing, layering into a resonance that felt wrong- gloriously, dangerously wrong.

Perfect.

I leaned back slightly where I sat in the endless Cradle of Folded Time, feeling the crushing epochs roar around me.

Above, the obsidian firmament cracked- not with light, but with darkness- pure, profound, and absolute.

A fracture opened in the sky.

A tear, not of cloth or stone, but of existence itself.

From that tear, something began to emerge.

Not light.

Not brilliance.

A lattice of terror.

Of horror so deep it was woven into wonder.

Of authority layered in ways no Monad, no Primarch, would dare attempt.

The fracture widened, spiraling, warping the sky above the Middle Wheel Platform. The gathered entities below- Primarchs and Monads alike- turned their eyes upward, watching, waiting.

The tear split further. And from its yawning maw, darkness poured, not in shadows but in the absence of meaning itself.

Then...

It emerged.

Not vast.

Not wrong.

But a violation.

A single name whispered through my mind, carried not by sound, but by the trembling of the threads that made up Existence itself.

”Irradion…”

The name rose, ancient and unbidden, a vibration of death given form.

From the wound in the sky, a colossal, chthonic horror dragged itself forth- a mass of ancient bone and void-flesh, riddled with fractures of collapsed realities. Its surface was an endless ossuary, shadows and broken concepts fused into its monstrous bulk.

Skeletal limbs sprouted from its heaving body, dozens, then hundreds, each ending in claws inscribed with runes of absolute cessation.

Where its head should have been, a halo of broken halos spun- collapsed stars orbiting the null voids where eyes might once have existed.

Its very breath pulled at the weavings of existence- not like wind, but like death inhaling meaning itself. Each inhalation made the nearby layers of the Middle Wheel Platform buzz faintly, a low, uneasy sound.

Yet, the Null Cradle of Fold-Breaking Ascension held steady, and the vast Nullvein Gravewake Folds remained immutable, ancient and unmoved.

Only the immediate space around Irradion shivered.

The weaker Primarchs stiffened. Some faltered. A few staggered back, unwilling to meet the gaze of something so final.

Even Thauron, standing on a distant precipice, turned his head slightly, lifting his gaze to the summoned thing now looming above.

It floated there- massive, inevitable.

Waiting.

A prompt bloomed quietly before my eyes, unseen by the others.

| Status Panel: Summoned Entity |

| Name: Irradion, the Black Severance |

| Complexity Quotient (CQ): 300,000 SU |

| Purity Quotient (PQ): 300,000 SU |

| True Absolute Existential Resistances (Influenced by Summoner): |

Spiritual Resistance: 20%

Conceptual Resistance: 20%

Dimensional Resistance: 20%

Law Resistance: 20%

| True Source: Death (Primarch Tier) |

| Binding Status: Irrevocably Bound to Summoner (Noah Osmont) |

| Origin: A being once dwelling in the Necrofolds of the Nullvein Gravewake Folds, enduring cycles of death and unmaking for over a billion years. |

…!

I gazed at the panel- and then at the entity itself.

Floating in the sky.

Silent.

A shadow of oblivion incarnate.

Bound to me not by simple authority, but by a weaving etched into the roots of existence itself. The binding was absolute. Irrevocable. It would not falter. It would not betray.

It was mine.

A creature born from the cracks between Death and Unbeing, tempered by a billion years of ceaseless death- summoned by the intertwined forces of Summoning, Animus, and Necromancy.

I breathed calmly, even as epochs of Folded Time pressed against me.

I had summoned a Primarch-tier Dead Thing.

On the third day since the Breaking of my Native Wheel of Existence, I could now call forth and bind a creature of 300,000 Complexity and Purity.

And then…

| The True Source of Necromancy has thoroughly analyzed Irradion, the Black Severance. The Existential Dimensional Lattices of any True Source can now be used to summon a Legion of Irradions through Necromancy. Each Irradion will show a unique level of power and distortion of existence depending on which Existential Dimensional Lattices were used to make it. |

WAA!

…!

Waa. Truly, WAA!

Summoning and Animus could find and bind a Primarch-level creature to me, and now Necromancy could replicate it, form deathly minions of equal caliber, each born of my own True Sources and their Lattices.

| The Living True Source of Quintessence nods in affirmation. |

| Tyranny states that this is more like it, its Existential Dimensional Lattices moving ahead through Necromancy. |

| The Irradion of Tyranny has begun to bloom. |

…!

In the sky above the Middle Wheel Platform, a second aura began to form- a deathly Irradion burning with a purple brilliance, shaped in the same terrifying form.

And more could follow.

Dozens more.

The True Sources I had brought to Primarchy buzzed, eager to express themselves.

But…

| The True Source of Wisdom advises against the eruption of more. The enemy target has been observed to absorb and assimilate the Lattices and True Sources of others. Further study is paramount before throwing many different True Sources at it. |

I let a part of me rise up, a calm tide to settle the growing excitement.

The others simmered down.

And I watched.

Sternly.

Thoughtfully.

I watched the Living Collapse.

I watched what would unfold against it.

And I waited, as two Irradions, shadows of death and oblivion- floated quietly, patiently, at my command.

They moved.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Inevitable.

Their forms surged forward, black-fleshed and bone-forged claws arcing in synchronized descent toward the Living Collapse as no weavings of Paradox surrounded them.

From a distance, they were apocalyptic, immense entities wielding the authority of ancient death. Each strike, each movement, felt as if it should have been capable of sundering the very firmament.

And yet...

The Living Collapse did not move.

It stood still.

The first Irradion struck.

A claw dripping with the cessation of a billion dead epochs raked against the obsidian-gold form.

No sound.

No reaction.

No effect.

The second Irradion followed, a skeletal arm, seared with the runes of tyrannical end, crashing down like the judgment of a forgotten paradox.

Again.

Nothing.

Not a crack.

Not a mark.

The Living Collapse stood untouched, unmoved by even a single inch as if they had never struck at all.

It was not resistance in the way others understood it.

It was certainty.

100% Paradoxical Resistance.

I had known the numbers.

I had understood the statistics.

But numbers were sterile.

Cold.

Reality, however...

Reality was a different thing entirely.

It was akin to watching a child punch at a mountain, each blow a whisper against an unyielding monolith. No, not even a whisper. Less.

The Living Collapse moved then, slowly lifting its arm, the black and gold exoskeleton glinting under the fractured light.

It breathed out.

The gold-black light erupted, a silent, horrifying surge- not an explosion, but a devouring wave of collapse.

The Irradions responded instantly, lashing out, their skeletal limbs and fractured halos of death radiating counter-forces of cessation and void.

It was meaningless.

The Living Collapse waded through their 20% Resistances as though through smoke.

The black gold light crashed against the first Irradion- and it folded.

Not shattered.

Folded.

Existence bending in on itself, crushed under the sheer impossibility of the strike.

A breath later, the second Irradion followed as it was faced with layers of obsidian gold collapse carrying the weight of 100% Paradoxical Resistance!

And…

Gone.

I watched.

No reaction.

No shift in expression.

I was learning.

The 100% Paradoxical Resistance was not just a shield against paradox.

It was a wall against all.

An inviolate defense.

Against it, any offensive authority, any existence that stemmed from paradoxical interactions- and nearly all True Sources did, to one degree or another- simply ceased to matter.

The simplest analogy?

A child hurling pebbles against an endless, indestructible sea. Petulant, and wondering why after countless stones, nothing changed.

No ripple.

No wave.

Not even a mark.

For me?

For my current power?

The message was clear.

I could not kill it.

Not now.

Not without something more.

But then...

Something unexpected.

The Living Collapse tilted its head.

Stared at the spaces where the Irradions had stood.

Its void-filled gaze narrowed.

And it spoke- voice low, vibrating with uncoiling predation.

”I see…”

It inhaled sharply, the black and gold exoskeleton glinting.

”These poor creatures...” it murmured, voice almost- almost gentle.

”They were covered by the stench of the Unbound Living Paradox.”

Its void-wreathed eyes scanned the broken mountain ridges.

Its head snapped toward a distant peak.

Toward the mountain where Thauron stood, unmoving, cold as the endless Folds themselves.

The creature pointed.

The gesture was slow.

Deliberate.

Final.

”It seems,” the Living Collapse said softly, ”I am getting closer.”

It did not shout.

It did not roar.

It simply moved.

In a blink, it shot forward- a living missile of collapse and annihilation- its void eyes locked onto Thauron.

The mountain shook.

Not from its speed.

Not from its power.

But from inevitability.

From the cold certainty that violence was coming, and none could stop it.

I sat still, calm as ever, as the epochs of folded time crashed around me.

And I watched as in the next moment, Thauron…erupted with power, his gaze a solem one as if he was serious!

The Middle Wheel Platform was a place of ruins and mist now, where the impossible folded and refolded upon itself. No Null Forms blanketed the world any longer. No passive shield of invulnerability. Here, the rules lay undone, and the battlefield was raw existence and collapse.

I watched, calm and calculating, as Thauron stood alone against the Living Collapse.

The distance between them crackled faintly, a distortion of meaning, not space.

Thauron moved.

It was not the frantic motion of a desperate man, nor the practiced stance of a warrior. It was the inevitability of a monarch rising to accept judgment. His visage, impossibly vast, yet composed, shifted ever so slightly.

And the world responded.

From him, tens of thousands of Existential Dimensional Lattices bloomed into the air- a symphony of threads so heavy they bent the local existence around them.

Tens of thousands.

Not a dozen. Not hundreds of Lattices. Tens of Thousands of Existential Dimensional Lattices, and even these seemed like a mere fraction. All of it was geared towards a single thing.

Finality.

It dripped from him like blood from a fresh wound. It was not merely an end. It was the end. Certain, inescapable, sovereign.

Each Lattice spun outward in silence, a tidal wave of woven cessation. The force behind it made even the fractured platform tremble under their weight.

Thauron raised a hand.

Simple.

Quiet.

And from that gesture, reality around him unraveled and rewove into a singular force- a technique not shouted or flaunted, but whispered into the bones of existence itself.

The name of it blossomed in my mind unbidden, whispered by the Weaver of Existence within me.

| Lattices of Finality: The Last Silence |

It was not an attack.

It was not a strike.

It was the absolute decree that all things end.

Existence itself hushed.

The very concept of resistance withered.

And the Living Collapse- the entity that had so far brushed aside death, mockery made flesh- stood unmoving as that wave of Last Silence struck it full in the chest.

BOOM.

The impact was quiet.

Deceptively so.

Like a whisper that carried the weight of collapsing stars.

And on the chest of the Living Collapse, that inviolable, gold-black surface, a crack appeared.

Small.

Jagged.

But a crack nonetheless.

The first wound.

The first true injury this creature had sustained.

I observed it, still and unwavering. My Lattices of Light over my skin gleamed softly as I processed the sight before me.

Finality.

The power to strip existence of its pretense.

Thauron stood, his hand still raised, no triumph on his face, only grim resolve, as if he expected the result. Perhaps he had waited long for such a moment, a being powerful enough to require more than a single touch of death.

Thauron. Just how powerful were you, really?

The Living Collapse lowered its head, the faint crack on its chest gleaming under the muted sky.

For a long moment, it said nothing.

And then, it spoke.

Calm.

Cold.

Its voice rippled across the battlefield, not loud but undeniable.

”Seems,” it said, gazing down at its wound with mild curiosity, ”I need to collapse more to assure my purpose.”

It lifted its head, void-filled gaze sweeping outward, unhurried.

”One second,” it murmured.

And then it turned its head.

Slowly.

Almost thoughtfully.

Toward Kalysta.

Toward the scattered Fold Dwellers- the Primarchs and Monads who had fled to what they thought were safe distances, who had lingered too long in awe or horror.

I saw the shift.

The tilt of inevitability.

The Living Collapse had decided.

It would feed.