NOVEL NEXT Chapter 79 - Epilogue
Morthos woke from his meditation slowly, languidly, enjoying the process of his vast consciousness gradually bleeding back out into the material plane. It had been a long time, though that concept meant something different to him now than it once had. He was not a master of time like some of his ilk, able to peer through its depths and divine all of what had been and might be, but he was, nonetheless, free from its shackles. As such, he no longer felt compelled to rush things. His whims were his own, at the beck of no entity or cosmic law.
And sometimes, it felt good to linger.
It had been a productive period of introspection. Though his capacity for true progression had long since grown abstract, there was always more to be gleaned about the mysteries of the universe. During his seclusion, he'd further refined his Decree, and now he had part of his awareness dedicated to pushing this new interpretation out into the cosmos. He could already feel the ripple effects colliding with the Decrees of the others, like the wake of too many boats in a crowded harbour. This was the eternal struggle of their kind.
When he felt fully alert, he turned his attention to his Nexus. While he'd long ago transcended truly occupying the physical realm, it still served his purposes to have a place there, a home with shape and colour and texture. Sending a fraction of his focus there, he found himself in an endless room of dark stone. Though there was no clear source of light, the entire cavern was illuminated in a uniform, fey, crimson glow.
He allowed himself to more fully enter the space, letting out a sigh as the heat hit him. The air was an inferno many times the temperature that even a second realm cultivator could survive. For him, it was like stepping into a blacksmith's forge. He let that feeling wash over him, savouring the scalding weight of it, the tangibility of that mortal sensation. There was something to be said for ordeals of the flesh, however base they might have been.
Several of the others had mocked his unnecessary eccentricities, but Morthos believed in the value of an occasional diversion into a lower layer of experience. In his mind, to deny from whence you came was to lose yourself entirely.
Once he was satisfied, he turned his attention to the main feature of the space. All around him, extending far further than the human eye could see, was a vast sea of towering black threads. They stretched from floor to ceiling, like the strings of some divine instrument. To a casual observer, they may have looked fairly similar, but to Morthos' attuned senses, each couldn't have been more distinct. Though predominantly black, they were all marked by pulsing pale white veins that wove intricate and ever-shifting patterns up their sides. But what really set them apart were their vibrations. Each thread thrummed at a slightly different pitch, and in each of those songs, he could hear a story.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
He moved through the room, laying his hand on this thread or that, letting their origins course through him. Each thread was an oath belonging to a soul somewhere in the vastness of creation. Some were born to palaces, others to hovels. Some were blessed by fortune, others cursed by fate. But beneath their varied melodies ran a single, unifying chord.
A tone of pure, unadulterated vengeance.
Across the infinite universe, myriad retributions were sworn every single moment. That, alone, was not enough to manifest here. It took a special kind of rage to draw Morthos' eye. A person of singular will, with the gall to challenge the heavens themselves in their quest for revenge. This was his domain, his joyous burden — to bear witness to the fiercest of humanity's fury.
He continued to move through his tapestry, taking in the changes since last he'd looked. Many threads had dimmed during his meditation, while a scant few had grown thicker, louder, a rumbling urgency now clear in their tenors. Fresh ones had sprung up, too, bright and trembling like newborn animals taking their first steps.
It was one of these that caught his eye.
A boy who came from nothing — on a System world no less. The forces he'd sworn himself against outstripped him far more than even he understood. His oath was etched impossibly deep within him, as if written in fire on his very soul.
All of that was delicious, but even so, it might not have been enough to capture Morthos' attention. Many people spoke sharp promises. That, alone, didn't prove one worthy. But the boy had already taken action. He'd somehow tasted a little of that divine catharsis and fed his oath with blood.
It was the nature of such stories that most had unhappy endings. A lucky few found a way to move past their tragedies and went on to live normal lives. Most fell in pursuit of their vengeance, their missions simply beyond their capabilities. But every so often, Morthos was confronted with a flicker of something special. An individual whose oath seemed to lend them strength that should have been impossible.
He moved closer to the boy's filament, letting the tune of it wash over him and echo through his soul. The flavour of it was intoxicating. One kill. It was a tiny thing in the grand scheme. The victim was barely more impressive than the oathsworn himself. Yet Morthos could feel something in the music of that story — a sense of promise.
He was supposed to be above intervention. They all were. If asked, every one of his counterparts would swear their objectivity. But in the privacy of their own realms, they all played their little games, plucking at strings and stoking flames. Immortality was a blessing, but it was also interminable. One had to find their fun where they could.
For now, Morthos was content to simply watch, but he would do so with great interest.
END OF BOOK ONE