Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse-Chapter 3743: Primarch I

The obsidian lid groaned wider, its cry heavy in a place already mourning the collapse of reality itself. And as the silence bowed in reverence, he rose.

The Mawbearers lowered their heads in awe and reverence as shockingly, the one who emerged from the obsidian coffin…was a Living Thing.

And yet, they all bowed to him.

He had many names.

Aetheron Cael'Zhyr. The Nullborn Pale One.

The Hollow Mawbearer.

The Holder of the True Source of Absolute Nullity.

Silver hair, like strands of frozen starlight, cascaded down his back in sleek, weightless waves.

Crimson eyes lit from within by collapsing paradoxes swept the gathered assembly not with warmth, but with precise and piercing calculation.

His white garments clung to a gloriously defined frame, the fabric radiant in contrast to his bare feet and pale skin. The brilliance of the True Frequency of Vitality that was green and white, overabundant and vibrant...seemed to agitate him.

And he looked around as if ready to lash out at how bright it all was, and then...

HUUM!

The entire True Frequency trembled.

Then dimmed.

Everywhere.

The verdant white incandescence collapsed into darkness, as though night had descended across the whole Frequency.

|Mmm...|

The Hollow Mawbearer inhaled, if it could be called that, and nodded. This was better.

He didn't breathe like others. He didn't move so much as unfold, like inevitability deciding to wear a face.

He gazed upon the Mawbearers- not searching, but measuring them.

Vaethrava, still halved by a terrifying command, dared not meet his gaze. Dared not exist too loudly in his presence.

Aetheron tilted his head a fraction. That single motion delivered a thousand judgments as though in that one moment, he had read the entirety of Primarch Vaethrava, the Withering Sealroot, as she trembled in the dimmed sea of green and white.

She had failed, yet obeyed. She knelt, yet lived. Her weavings were broken, but aligned with purpose.

"I warned all of you to be careful with your words," he said softly, each syllable layered with folds of compressed judgment. "But it seems my warnings were not heeded. And as a result, your weavings were split."

Not a question. A certainty.

Vaethrava bent lower, offering no defense, feeling the weight of his gaze recede.

Then his attention cut through the sea of Concords like a blade, landing on Melodrass, the Resplendent Monad draped in musical strings of translucent Source.

"You had a great deal of contact with the one in question," Aetheron said, his voice now a low rumble cloaked in silk. "Your weavings were nearly swayed by him..."

BZZT!

Melodrass trembled.

A Monad...was trembling!

Aetheron stepped down from the coffin, bare feet touching the green-white sea without causing a single ripple. The Frequency yielded around him, compressing itself under his weight.

"And who was it that nearly swayed you?" he murmured, eyes glinting. "A child of threads? A puppet of paradox? Or…"

He closed his crimson eyes.

As though seeking the one who had eluded his Mawbearers.

Noah Osmont.

"…a variable."

His lips curled, barely a smile and more like the memory of one.

"You say he is a Favored Living Thing. If that were true, I should know everything about his weavings through your entanglements with him. And yet…" His voice lowered. "I see almost nothing. Curious."

He hummed- deep and intrigued.

He looked again to the Mawbearers.

Followers who had surrendered their own True Sources to serve him. They bowed not from devotion, but from alignment with inevitability itself.

"A Living Thing like this is rare. The more I contemplate him, the more I expect information to surface. But instead, I get less. The only ones I've met with that trait…are entities like me. No wonder you all failed to handle him."

BOOM!

His words struck like thunder.

Veltraxis, Melodrass, Vaethrava...all flinched.

An Entity…on par with him?

"But," Aetheron continued, "he did not defeat you. That means his Complexity and Purity haven't reached this level. Still… fascinating."

HUUM!

Complexity surged from him in radiant waves.

He raised a hand. His palm split wide, crimson blood spilling and condensing into hundreds of shimmering Sorrowglass Panaceas.

"Drink of me, Mawbearers. Grow purer. Become more complex."

…!

The aura of a Living Thing ignited around him, brighter than before.

The Mawbearers lifted their hands in fervent silence as they accepted his offering.

And the Hollow Mawbearer, Aetheron, with his eyes burning, spoke again.

"Entities like me…are difficult to bring down. Not impossible, but close to it. And since he's promised to hunt you all down, I need not waste effort seeking him out."

He smiled coldly.

"You will be the bait that draws him in."

…!

None protested. Not even the Primarchs. Silence and solemnity reigned.

And with that, the Nullborn Pale One stepped forward, the Living Wheel beneath him trembling and shivering at the brink of collapse!

---

Across the Nullvein Gravewake Folds.

In a region scarred by shattered and Dead Wheels of Existence where a Sorrowglass Fabled Gauntlet was held.

Bob's pen had kept on moving.

Line after line, his Fable haf unfurled across the Crucible. His True Source surged with grief and unwavering purpose, unmatched by any other.

He had struck. Disrupted. Broken others as they wrote, preying on their weakened states. One by one, they fell and became devoured by finality.

And then…

Silence.

Finality.

No others were writing any more fables.

Only Bob remained.

The Crucible calmed. The shadowy hands withdrew. And at the center of the Wheel...where the Sorrowglass Panaceas brimmed in number, the glass singularity trembled…then bloomed.

A bloom of terrifying Complexity and Purity as even Primarchs would have coveted it.

Born of fables, dreams, and Dead hopes, ten thousand radiant green-gold Sorrowglass Panaceas split in half, half drifting to a distant obsidian throne.

Where an Entity smiled.

The rest spiraled toward Bob, glowing brighter than any Omniverse.

Thauron, the Null Monarch, leaned forward upon the Throne of the Folds, gazing into the aftermath of silence and death.

"Well done, Little Bobby."

Bob didn't answer. He stood amid the ruins, bloodless and burning, the pen slipping from his fingers. The Panaceas orbited him like a constellation, silent and unshakable.

Thauron's smile widened.

"You'll grow from this," he whispered, rising from the throne. It pulsed with death-born laughter and thunder. "But even so… it still won't be enough."

...!