Chapter 313: Chapter 313
After being struck by this sword, Nanook’s face, composed of magma and scars, did not reveal any expression such as pain or surprise.
Deep within His golden pupils, there was still only an unfathomable dead silence.
However, the entire Pathspace of Destruction, in its unique way, proclaimed the turbulence of the Aeon’s will.
Those stars floating within this Pathspace, symbols of civilizations and worlds that had been destroyed or were destined for destruction, seemed to be instantly seized by an invisible yet incomparably tyrannical force, beginning to silently and violently explode one after another.
There was no sound, yet it was more unsettling than any explosion—the lament of existence itself being utterly denied.
The Aeon of Destruction was angry.
The Path of Destruction itself was boiling, roaring.
However, after landing his blow, Phaethon was not intoxicated by this brief achievement.
He recognized more clearly than anyone that with all his might, using the accumulation of thirty million lifetimes, he had only left an insignificant scratch on the face of this supreme being. This was still far from defeating Him, or even seriously injuring Him.
Cannot be fought head on.
Without a moment’s hesitation, before Nanook’s destructive counterattack could descend, the light of Phaethon’s newborn Path around him flickered rapidly. He grabbed Phainon, whose body was pale from burning himself, and fled rapidly out of the Pathspace.
By the time Nanook fully reacted from the brief stagnation caused by being stung by the newborn Path, that newly arrived, disgusting aura of the nascent Path had already completely evaporated and disappeared from within the Pathspace.
And what made Him even angrier was that the vessel of pure Destruction He was so satisfied with, almost refined to the ultimate degree—Phainon—had also vanished without a trace, along with that newborn Path.
Boom.
An indescribable silent explosion, as if the very foundation of the universe trembled, echoed within the Pathspace.
Realizing that His chosen masterpiece and the negated heresy had slipped away together, a rage of being stolen swept through the will of Destruction with unprecedented intensity.
In an instant, the Pathspace of Destruction, which still had some remnants or embers moments ago, could no longer find a single complete star.
All symbols, all remnants, were reduced to the most complete ashes, leaving only the purest and most tyrannical Destruction burning in the empty vastness.
...
However, at this moment, as Phaethon fled far away with Phainon, he seemed not to fully realize that the sword he had struck in desperation, the vague nascent Path he had trodden upon, shook was not just a single Path of Destruction.
...
And deep within the Pathspace of Erudition, composed of endless data streams and logical galaxies, the cold calculations continued.
Nous’s Path voice, devoid of any emotion, echoed through the empty realm like the operating log of a predetermined program, unheard by anyone, impossible for anyone to interpret its deep meaning.
Observation record: The variable Asterion, the Equation of Life he carries, its evolutionary process conforms to the expected model, steadily growing along the calculated path.
Execute next directive: Clear all potential obstacles on his path to a higher level, and simultaneously calculate and block all paths to godhood that might lead to deviation from the optimal route.
Ensure this variable arrives at the only solution along the predetermined track.
The threads of fate, at a higher dimensional level, were being quietly woven and trimmed.
...
Another place.
What’s wrong, Elio?
Kafka’s lazy voice sounded in the quiet room. She elegantly held a glass of wine as rich as blood in her hand, keenly noticing the unusual restlessness of the mysterious black cat at her feet.
Elio’s originally curled body was now slightly tense, curled into a ball.
However, before Kafka could inquire further, her gaze was drawn to the cosmic scene outside the window.
On the unreachable shore of the star sea, an unprecedented brilliant star suddenly ignited.
It did not shine gently, but pulsated violently amidst a seething sea of golden light that seemed capable of burning the soul, like a morning star forcing its way into the sun.
The light was so dazzling that it even briefly suppressed the sun’s radiance.
But this brilliance was fleeting, vanishing as abruptly as it had appeared, disappearing into concealment in the next moment, as if it had never existed, leaving only afterimages in the observer’s eyes and a throbbing in their heart.
The motion of Kafka’s hand, regularly swirling the wine, paused slightly.
The dark red liquid in the goblet rippled with a faint circle of ripples.
Generally speaking, variables not written into the script by Elio were usually insignificant, mere irrelevant waves in the long river of fate.
But this time, could it really still be considered irrelevant?
Even across such a vast distance, she could clearly capture the astonishing fact behind that fleeting vision.
The Path of Destruction, the law representing the end of all things, had just been wounded by some force.
And it had happened under the gaze of the entire galaxy, in a way that could not be concealed.
Just then, the pupils of the black cat at her feet abruptly transformed from their original amber yellow to a clear blue, like a clearing sky.
Kafka understood.
This usually meant the slave of fate was rapidly flipping through the script, which contained countless possibilities and endings.
Is there a problem with the script? Kafka gently placed her wine glass on the nearby table, leaned down, and tenderly picked up the black cat, lowering her voice even further, as if afraid of disturbing the invisible threads of fate.
Elio’s voice rang out slowly, with an unprecedented tone, mixing confusion and gravity.
A new character has appeared in the galaxy’s script. A completely unfamiliar name has appeared on what was originally a blank page.
I thought, Kafka frowned slightly, that all characters in the script, their entrances and curtain calls, should have been arranged from the very beginning.
That should be the case, Elio sighed softly. But the script has no past for him, no future for him, only his present.
His fate and cause and effect are like water without a source, not coming from the past, not extending to the future, only existing incomparably vividly in the present. This is a way I have never seen before.
