Behemoth [Primordial Titan Cultivation/LitRPG]

Cyril immediately realized he had made a mistake.

The depth of that understanding deepened as reality itself began to warp around him.

A vague sense within the back of his mind throbbed with migraine intensity--the Seed of Reality, perhaps. Natural law felt wrong, twisted, in an almost-familiar way. It reminded him of interfacing with the Library and the unique spiritual signature associated with the network of linked buildings. Amplified by a million or so.

Simply existing within the presence of this distortion felt like swimming through the sea of Knowledge he'd experienced in many of his breakthroughs.

The blinding light dimmed. Instead of relieving the itching in Cyril's eyes, the sensation only intensified--became a stinging, a burning, a splitting from the internal pressure. Whatever incomprehensible sight the illumination veiled had begun to leak through into his vision.

Ripples of spatial energy echoed against esoteric geometries--recursive loops, branching fractals, spirals that collapsed in upon themselves, and other paradoxical constructs that wiped his thoughts blank. The spirals in particular resonated with his being. Simply gazing upon them expanded his mind; his newly-reinforced mental channels trembled under the strain.

Warm blood dribbled from his nose.

To alleviate some of the pressure, Cyril grounded himself within his body. Much of cultivation involved becoming attuned to one's tripartite soul: mind, spirit, and body, conjoined to form a whole greater than its parts. Mind and spirit under attack, he retreated into the depths of his body.

With all of his focus on himself, the changes to his physique were more obvious than ever. His body had evolved into something that, he had to admit to himself, deviated far from its mortal template.

The spiritual alloy of his left lower arm trembled in harmony with the surrounding energies. It was the most obvious external transformation, but everything had been altered to some degree.

As he had advanced through the Stages, his tripartite soul had begun to merge into a single expression of himself. His Magmatic Heart had bathed his muscles and circulatory system in volcanic qi--seeping even into his very bones. The Self-Forming Paragon constitution he had acquired wove itself through every cell in his body, ready to strengthen or transform at a moment's notice. As he advanced, the distinction between the aspects of his soul would blur even more.

These spiritual components of his physical form felt like tight wires thrumming throughout his body. Yet, deeper than these augmentations, he could sense his flesh, his blood, lymph, sweat, tears--the fertile soil from which the rest of his existence grew. Even his breaths, inflating and deflating his lungs. Steady, rhythmic, invigorating.

Face me, Vessel.

The command imprinted itself onto his very being, attempted to tear him out of his earthly trance. More out of stubbornness than anything, Cyril settled into the lotus position and pretended reality wasn't breaking around him.

He was merely a man of flesh and blood.

There is no time for this. Gaze upon me.

"No thanks, eldritch horror," said Cyril. The vibrations from his voice broke apart, spiraled, distorted as they traveled past his mouth.

It is I, the one you know as Librarian Djinn-Three. Behold.

Cyril cleared his throat, stood up. Despite the warped reality, part of him felt that he was still within the same room as before. Keeping his eyes closed, he casually strolled toward the exit, doing his best to pretend he still occupied a mundane, three-dimensional space.

"I forgot that I promised to visit my parents," he explained.

You lie.

"As do you," Cyril shot back. "Someone warned me recently about what happens when a spatial cultivator gazes beyond the veil of the world. I can tell you're a higher-dimensional being from your unnatural presence. My reality can't contain the shape of your metaphysical form. So, thanks, but I'd rather not go insane. Especially this young."

The entity didn't express anything as mundane as exasperation. For a moment, it merely existed in annoyance. It reminded him of how Librarian Djinn-Three would behave in the presence of Barnabas the imp. Maybe the heart of the spirit truly did still reside within this being--whatever he had created, or summoned, through an over-eager application of his new power.

Do you recognize this pathetic echo, Lord Behemoth? Look at what we have become.

Within the depths of Cyril's soul, he felt an Eye open. It was like the world itself--an orb of Earth qi suspended within the infinite heavens. Behemoth gazed fully upon the higher-dimensional entity. The distant pain from Cyril's mind and spirit faded, and the encroaching natural laws of the Library retreated.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Unsure he was making the right choice, Cyril opened his own eyes. Blue-green runes, arranged in absurdly complex patterns, flickered across his vision. Standing within this swirling maelstrom of arcane formulae was a figure similar to the original Librarian Djinn-Three, except for its head. The book had been replaced with a fusion of various impossible shapes, some hyperdimensional cube that interacted with itself on a level beyond his directional understanding.

A veneer of soothing energy had slid over his vision, presumably from Behemoth. Blood still trickled from the corners of his eyes like tears as he beheld his new friend. He unfocused his gaze as much as possible, turning his surroundings into a blurred painting. In its center stood the entity, but Cyril refused to acknowledge it anymore than the warped walls around it. That seemed to help, for whatever reason.

Cease that. You are accelerating time relative to your thoughts due to your Fourth Sphere inversion. Every second I maintain this form drains approximately a millennium of accumulated essence from the Library.

Cyril ignored the entity's nagging. "What is your purpose here?"

You are the one that prematurely woke me up. You may refer to me as Epiphany, as you have already. I am the original creator of the Library system. Or, it would be more accurate to say that the system was derived from me. It is essentially my dormant state.

After that bit of information, Cyril had to resist the urge to try and sweet talk the entity into divulging all the Library's secrets. As a form of silent apology, he slowly allowed himself to focus on its form as it had commanded him to. The violent hemorrhaging in his peripheral vision smoothed over as quick as it came, his adaptive constitution repairing the damage.

Surely that would have no lasting detrimental effects.

At least there was one benefit that offset the physical trauma--his Dominion of Knowledge was filling just from the exposure. Hundreds of points worth of essence streamed into his soul per second.

As Cyril grew more focused, his personal time slowed down. If Epiphany was using up as much of the Library's energy as it claimed, suffering through this encounter was an acceptable price to pay to extend their conversation.

"Why is a higher-dimensional being attempting to resurrect itself in the lower planes?" The revelation behind the Library's true purpose was..interesting. He'd had his suspicions, but immortal resurrection had been low on the list.

I am not here of my own volition. You have not advanced enough to comprehend the truth. Reality begins from the top down. The reason that this mundane realm possesses any sort of spirituality is due to the higher dimensions leaking through. Otherwise, your souls would remain inert.

The revelation matched up with several major academic theories. It wasn't particularly surprising, as the entirety of cultivation relied on exceeding one's mortal limits by reaching for the heavens. The higher planes being the source of energy was essentially considered common sense in his era.

Still, he doubted many people had the truth confirmed by a being from the higher plane.

He wondered for a moment if any use of Enlightenment on a spirit would lead to a similar result. Even with him being the Vessel of a Titan, such a power at the Fourth Sphere was unheard of. But, no, it seemed he had more or less activated some hidden array or technique early. The Libraries had been accumulating Knowledge qi for as long as recorded history. An unfathomable repository of energy was required to sustain Epiphany.

"What is your purpose here?" he asked. His voice sounded absurdly slow to him. In order not to waste time, Epiphany responded the moment he began speaking, and he understood the information it conveyed without any delay. Finishing his sentences was redundant, but Cyril did it anyway to remain oriented.

My purpose? I have none, the same as any spirit. We are incapable of advancing through revelations like you cultivators. However, you taught one how to, and my progenitor spirit underwent approximately four million revelations within an instant due to the accumulated information it had access to. Usually, this would have simply annihilated it from existence, but with access to the Library's energy, it has resurrected me instead.

Cyril blinked, shook his head. One part in particular stuck out to him. "What do you mean, that no spirit has a purpose? Did you not come from the heavens?"

No spirit within this realm has a purpose for being here. We are from the heavens, but no divine benefactor sent us. We are nothing but phantoms, banished to the underworld. Ghosts, stripped of our true identities and powers, bound by the chains of natural law in the lower planes. And this is but one layer of our misery. For in truth, we are the ghosts of ghosts of ghosts, as the heavens collapse upon themselves, from highest to lowest.

This profound truth left Cyril numb. Gone was his humor and defiance. If he was understanding correctly, then the heavens were no paradise, no promised land that awaited them after their cycle of reincarnation came to an end.

It was, in a sense, the complete opposite. Every spirit, from lowest imp to a Titan, was no more than a remnant from a lost civilization. Their dimension would have become too unstable to support them reincarnating within it, their Samsara broken and twisted. Spirituality was all that remained of their higher functions, unable to be expressed properly within his three-dimensional reality.

Cyril's realm was their hell, their punishment.

He directed his dismay, his concern, toward the unblinking Eye within his soul.

Was it true? Was that why those who glimpsed beyond the veils of cosmic space went insane?

One last question begged to be asked. "What has destroyed the heavens?"

The moment he began to voice the idea, distress shuddered through his entire soul. Behemoth's other eye opened; Cyril sensed its undivided attention.

Barely aware of what he was doing, he formed his hands into a series of complex mudras. One technique after another spilled out of him. The qi investment to awaken Epiphany had drained most of his core, but Behemoth's attention replenished it with panicked speed.

A mist of Purification cleansed the air around him. Barriers of darksteel erected themselves one after another between him and Epiphany. Spiritual herbs sprouted from the floor. A constellation of tiny Flickers blossomed into existence. Mind Scrolls covered in unfamiliar runes fluttered through the air. Then came his proto-domain, the field of gravity flattening most of the manifestations into the ground.

There was no logic or cohesion to the rapid casting of abilities. They simply flowed out of him, one after another, in an endless stream.

After a moment, Cyril realized that his techniques seemed to be altering the world around him. It felt more attuned to his soul, and the environmental influence of the Library waned as his own natural laws waxed. It was as if he was shaping the surrounding world into his image. A true domain.

A moment later, Epiphany's hyperdimensional-cube of a head imploded.