Chapter 22
Resembling an object uncertain of its own presence.
Arms and legs alike are covered, yet not out of modesty. Rather, it is due to corruption, what remains concealed is far more menacing than what is revealed. Yet attention is drawn to the upper half, where on the left and right sides of the abdomen, rough gashes appear, almost like wounds.
The fabric is torn, but not fully ripped, as if the material possesses a will of its own, refusing complete destruction even when slit from within. No blood spills from the gashes, nor any flesh. Only darkness is visible, pulsing faintly, more akin to an empty void struggling to stay alive.
Amid the tattered cloth, the true Ophistu knows exactly what is being shown to him. An unspoken mockery, louder than the roar of doomsday. It signifies that this creature, in its glaring wretchedness and imperfection, carries a message, one even God would refuse to hear.
"The humiliated are not always worse than the One Accursed."
This humiliation is sincerely endured, not chosen. Meanwhile, the planted curse is the fruit of deliberate intent.
And the fabric, neither too thick nor too thin, serves as a symbol, an utterly infuriating prototype. It does not protect, nor does it surrender. It simply exists, reminding Ophistu that what he witnesses is not mere distortion, but a reflection of a truth he himself once denied.
"Sacred does not always mean righteous, just as wretched does not inherently signify sin and fault. Sometimes, within the cracks of symbols and the tears of fabric, lies a bitter reality—a painful fact that even the self-proclaimed Absolute refuses to acknowledge."
The replica does not bear fair skin, nor does it glow with holiness. Instead, it reflects, merely mirroring a naked meaning, far too real to be forgiven.
On its back, six useless wings flutter slowly, incapable of concealing the rot of its first manifestation.
Each wing bears but a single feather, solitary, thin, as if remnants of an unrecorded cataclysm. Two wings cling to the sides of its head, two more jut from each shoulder, while the final pair flank its hips, barely clinging to life.
They do not sing celestial hymns. Instead, they expel labored breaths, more akin to the groans of a bird forcibly plucked. No symbol of glory, but a degraded relic of something meant to be erased.
Yet another detail steals attention, rising with unnatural arrogance, a long red cloth, fluttering from the right wing upon its shoulder.
It hangs too far, too long, draping well beyond the replica's height, swaying gently as if caressed by an unseen wind.
In this world, red is not the color of joy or hope. It signifies something far darker, deeper, and more secret than anything reason could fathom. It carries two meanings, coiled like serpents worshiping a wound.
First, a harbinger of hidden sin within every seemingly holy act.
Second, a symbol of immeasurable atrocity, branded upon the replica's body like an invisible tattoo, gleaming not from light, but from sin, undeniable, and forever unpaid.
Before the original creation, before the wrathful visage of the One Accursed, this replica stands, a shattered mirror, still casting reflections, even as it no longer recognizes what it sees.
What now stands before them is something entirely different, so far removed from anything that could be linked to the original Ophistu, who observes from a distance, neither trembling nor harboring even a shred of possession.
Rather than revealing glimpses of shared divinity or a trace of purity, the replica stands there to rend apart, shattering all hope of a faithful imitation.
It inherits no closeness to holiness. Instead, it manifests as an extreme distortion, an angel twisted, dragged from its once-lofty origin, then folded and multiplied into a form now feared even by those who were once its kin.
This visage harbors silent terror, a calamity that binds not through roars, but through mere existence, enough to make the angels bear witness, struck mute in horror before they even recognize it as fear.
Not one among them can look away without wondering.
Is this what awaits us if we stumble into the unspeakable abyss?
A fall more agonizing than death, for within it lies the burial of all meaning they once held sacred.
The shadow of possibility, that they, too, could become like this monstrous figure before them, creeps into their minds, taunting their conscience with a shrieking whisper, haunting their souls with a term they never wished to hear.
Xajuriosta.
A name, yet more than that, it is a cursed title, bestowed only upon those who were once holy but have been stripped of their essence.
In the ancient faiths that flourished long before the rise of satanic sects, Xajuriosta was never just a status. It was a reminder, an ultimatum.
Nothing is truly eternal.
Even holiness can be torn away, then displayed in the form of a replica, inviting only the silent wrath of heaven.
"Why so empty... yet undeniably familiar—"
Wuusshhhh!
"A flaw in form? Or merely a discarded mirror?A void masquerading as resolve. And you will never grasp the Sacred Divine.
You are merely wrapped, smothered in fear alone. The holy dust bows its head not out of reverence, but because the gathering fears what might happen if you shatter.
A tool, nothing more—a disposable puppet, discarded without reuse. The will of the Divine, yet devoid of your own. How ironic."
"Silence.
You are not us!"
"Are we not ourselves?"
"Interceding in prayer, this servant—"
"Kulsyartamanta!!"
Duarrr!
The space was never meant to be illuminated. Between the castle walls, existence itself seems to crumple, and the air hisses as if rejecting any who dare comprehend its form.
There, a lone figure stands, now snapping into focus—merely gazing upon itself from afar.
A silence lingers, almost disguised as sanctity, when in truth, it is emptiness, cloaking all that was once holy in a faint tension.
It slowly touches its left cheek, a gesture that appears spontaneous yet is rooted in something no logic can explain.
Under the laws of creation and destruction, decreed by the One Accursed, it should be impossible, unthinkable, for something so unnervingly familiar to exist. Yet the reality before them speaks a lie too profound to deny.
To be continued…