Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse Chapter 4318 Entry! I

Outside the Infiniverse.

The assembled forces of the Living Existences, a congregation of beings who could unmake Wheels with a thought, were staring.

Their gazes, filled with a mixture of awe, dread, and a profound, galling sense of irrelevance as they stared ahead.

This was right after Schrodinger had called out that he wanted to communicate with The Early Creature, Osmont!

Whispers, not of sound but of pure, conceptual data, rippled through the ranks.

Many of the older Dukes, their forms ancient and terrible, recognized the woman beside the beggar-paradox. Leonore Rureaux. A na that was a ghost, a legend whispered in the darkest corners of their history.

A being who had supposedly fallen in a blaze of glory eons ago, a martyr for the cause of Paradox. And yet, here she stood, frail but undeniably present.

The Living Origins were quieter as if they knew so sort of secret.

As if to add another layer of impossibility to the scene, more Living Paradoxes were arriving.

They flickered into existence, their forms shimring with a contained, restless energy, and their gazes, when they fell upon Schrodinger and Leonore, held a deep veneration.

Schrodinger had simply spoken, his voice a calm, audacious invitation across the void, a request for a discussion with The Early Creature, Osmont.

The other Living Existences, whose hatred for the Paradoxes was a thing as old and as fundantal as their own authorities, watched this with a distaste so profound it was a physical presence.

Among a cluster of Living Temporals, their bodies surrounded by the dilapidated, ancient aura of ti itself, the whispers turned to venom.

"Who does that Schrodinger think he is?" one of them, a Duke whose form was a swirling vortex of clocks and rivers, hissed.

"That he would voice out that he wants an audience with a supposed Early Creature, and he would simply be granted that eting? The sheer, unmitigated arrogance!"

WAA!

Another, a being whose very presence seed to slow the monts around her, nodded in agreent. "It is a performance. A show. This 'Osmont' is likely just another of their tricks, another layer of their endless, infuriating gas. Could he truly even be…an Early Creature?"

…!

But at this ti, their bitter, self-assured pronouncents were cut short.

A region of the massive, blue-gold Aegis of the Infiniverse pulsed.

It was a soft, gentle thrum, a quiet note in the silent chaos. Then, a bubble of pure, blue-gold brilliance began to erge from the larger structure.

It was a perfect, world-sized sphere, a floating island of impossible beauty covered by the sa, impenetrable barrier.

In the next mont, a small doorway ford in the side of this new, isolated domain, a silent, waiting invitation. And from it, a figure erged.

Malphas!

Oh!

He was a masterpiece of silent, terrible grandeur. His obsidian butler's attire, once a simple, elegant uniform, was now etched with invisible lines of brilliant blue, the very authority of his Master's Mana woven into its fabric.

His eyes, no longer just crimson, now danced with a dangerous, captivating glow of crimson-blue. The power that emanated from him was not a wave, but a suffocating, absolute pressure.

It was enough to stifle the very thoughts of nearly all who were present!

His cold gaze swept over the assembled forces of the Living Existences, a silent, dismissive assessnt. It lingered for a mont on the fuming Temporals, then the shocked Origins, and finally, it ca to rest on Schrodinger and Leonore Rureaux.

His voice, when he spoke, was a calm, cold, and utterly absolute command. "The Master will see you now."

…!

BOOM!

The words were a quiet detonation in the stunned silence. The Living Temporals, who had just been dismissing Schrodinger's chances, now had faces of pure, ashen disbelief.

They gritted their teeth, their own authority feeling fragile and insignificant in the face of this new, impossible power.

Schrodinger and the woman beside him simply nodded. They floated calmly towards the isolated, blue-gold sphere, their movents unhurried, their acceptance of this impossible invitation a silent testant to their own, terrible confidence.

As Schrodinger passed by Malphas, he frowned, his ancient eyes sweeping over the butler's form, a quick, analytical up-and-down glance. He seed to be reassessing, recalculating.

He shook his head, a gesture of profound, almost frustrated, thought, and then passed through the opened doorway.

Malphas turned, and the doorway sealed behind them, a silent, final click in the lock of reality. An imnse, heavy silence descended once more.

In that silence, the Temporal Duke who had been so vocal in his disdain, his pride now a raw, burning wound, floated forward.

He looked at the sealed sphere, at the silent, beautiful fortress, and he bellowed, his voice a desperate, arrogant echo of Schrodinger's own call.

"I, Duke Chronokolos of the Living Temporals, also wish to have an audience with The Early Creature, Osmont!"

…!

A grand proclamation!

But…

A heavy and embarrassing silence followed. Seconds trickled by, each one a small, cruel eternity. There was no answer. Not a glow of brilliance, not another bubble of blue-gold light… nothing.

The void was a silent, mocking testant to his own, profound insignificance.

Other Dukes of the Temporals floated over, their forms shimring with a mixture of embarrassnt and pity, and began to pull their shad colleague back into their ranks!

Status.

It is a concept that has driven more beings to madness than any curse, a hunger more insatiable than any Inevitability!

In the grand, chaotic weavings of existence, there are countless actors who believe themselves to be the lead, who strut and fret upon the stage, their lines loud and their gestures grand, utterly oblivious to the fact that they are, and always will be, re extras.

They are the footnotes in a story that is not about them. The statistical noise in a symphony they cannot hear. And the cruelest joke of all is that they will never know.

For to truly understand one's own status, one must first possess the humility to ask the question: What is my role in this play?

And most beings are far too in love with the sound of their own voice to ever listen for the answer.

The Duke of the Temporals, his face now a mask of pure, unadulterated humiliation, was pulled back.

Among the Living Origins, Origin Ama Gias watched this pathetic, comical display, but her mind was elsewhere.

She thought of her own, failed attempt at a dialogue. And then she thought of the one, fragile thread of connection she still held.

The Young Miss. Sigrid.

'If I use our connection,' she thought, her mind a whirlwind of desperate, strategic calculation, 'can we not clear the table? Can we not forge a new, more… respectful relationship with this Osmont?'

After all, she had her clone here. And…

"Oh, isn't a body of Osmont… err, The Early Creature, Osmont, on the vessel that went to the Wandering Territories? Who has a body there close by?!"

…!

The voice, a piercing, far-too-happy note from a Living Emotive, echoed out and reminded everyone of this crucial fact.

Origin Ama Gias turned towards the being, a flicker of pure, unadulterated distaste in her eyes. It was exactly what she had just been thinking.

Her other body, her primary existence, was even now on that impossible Barge, crossing the dangerous Wandering Territories with Elysia Firmhand.

And on that very vessel was another body of Osmont, and with him, The Young Miss.

It was a chance. Perhaps their best, and last, chance to reach out, to nd the bridges that her own pride had burned.

Origin Ama Gias clenched her fist, a gesture of profound, bitter resolve. She had caused herself and the Living Origins to eat a lot of shit. Now, she had to see if she could wash it down, wipe their chins, and clear their plate.

An Early Creature… was not soone to offend!