Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse novel Chapter 5693

Chapter 5693: What Has Always Been

Noah sat in the scorching golden waters of THE Vasiliou Primordial Spring, the closed journal resting warm against his palm.

He reflected on everything Masamuk had recorded.

Vakochev had heard the warning. The maker of the Scales had sat on that porch, listened to an architect lay out the exact shape of his ruin, thanked her sincerely, and walked on exactly as planned. And why not?

He was the grandest maker of his era! His people were shapers and splitters of Chaos, titans who had stood since before authority had a name!

Not one of them, Noah suspected, had truly believed they would face losses. Not one of them had imagined that the existences of those they LOVED could simply be... rewritten.

Unwritten. Carved out like rooms being emptied while the house still stood.

They had prepared for war. No one prepares for erasure!

And the thought turned, as heavy thoughts always did, toward himself.

What if such a thing happened to him?

What if, in the worst scenario, he was made to forget his mother? Made to forget the woman who had stared down a preschool teacher with nothing but night shifts and love in her hands?

What if Henry was carved out of him, his son reduced to a warm gap and an outline on the floor? His women? His daughter? THE Infiniverse, who held his people inside her own body?

Or the other direction, which was somehow worse. What if THEY were made to forget HIM? What if he walked into his own Realm and his mother looked at him with the polite, careful eyes one gives a complete stranger?

"..."

It was a horrid thought, and Noah did not look away from it, because looking away from horrid thoughts was how Vakochev’s people had died!

And the biggest thing...

Even Vakochev may never have held this as something that could happen to HIM.

The strongest being of an entire era had likely carried the same quiet certainty Noah caught himself carrying every single day.

The certainty that regardless of what happened, he would be okay. That the story bent toward him. He was THE Meta-Fictional Protagonist, after all! Existence itself had handed him the author’s seat!

But if even Vakochev... if even such a being could be defeated, dismembered, buried under chains, and made into a smug jailer’s favorite joke...

Then even Noah Osmont, THE Human Dreamer, was not immune.

"..."

Warm arms found him while he sat in that thought.

Thalia had appeared in the spring without ceremony through that golden doorway, her stellar essence folding through the steam, and she saw his gaze before he could compose it.

She came down through the golden waters and grabbed his head and placed it gently against her chest, her fingers sliding into his hair, her heartbeat steady against his cheek.

"You have worried eyes again," Thalia said softly. "How did the talk with my Father go? It made you this melancholic?"

Noah let himself rest there for a moment, in the small warm feeling of her, and her bountiful chest.

"He is an interesting guy. I do have to do a lot of things to prove I can even hold you."

He felt her huff a quiet laugh above him.

"But we have to get going to these... Atlas Elseworlds. Atlas was profound enough to make Immense Ones worry and target him, and we need to understand why. We need to-"

...!

Noah stopped speaking!

His senses blared, every alarm in his two hundred Decillion quarks firing at once, and none of them were pointed at any threat he could find.

What they were pointed at was her. The figure of Thalia Vasiliou, four columns of ninety-nine, the Queenling of the Vasiliou, was trembling and freezing against him!

He took his head out of her chest and looked up, and her face...!

Her eyes showed anger, and beneath the anger, a flash of something he had never once seen in her, not in the pool, not before the Ruling, not before her own mother.

Fear!

And she was not looking at him. She was looking beside him!

Toward the journal!

Noah turned, and his existence went cold, because unseen to his senses, unfelt by a single one of his blaring instincts, THE Obsidian Journal of Masamuk had opened by itself.

It lay upon the warm stone at the spring’s edge, open to the exact page he had just read, the entry of the porch and the dusk and the two cups.

And on that white page, in the middle of the old obsidian ink...

|THE REMINISCING WIDOW asks: why will none of you simply leave things be?|

|She asks: why will none of you ever listen?|

BOOM!

Everything froze.

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