Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse novel Chapter 4487

Chapter 4487: Kleos III

Glory. Kleos.

How much glory can one truly gain from battle?

How much Kleos...that ancient, resonant renown that echoes beyond the cessation of the flesh, can be harvested from the act of unmaking another?

For some, the answer is infinite.

To them, battle is the crucible of definition. It is the only place where the self is truly tested, where the dross of mundane existence is burned away to reveal the gold of the soul. They believe that to strike down a titan is to steal a fraction of their height, to stand taller upon the mountain of the vanquished.

For these beings, glory is a resource as tangible as Mana...a currency that buys immortality in the minds of those who follow.

A scar is a story. A kill is a verse in the grand ballad of their existence.

But there is another perspective. A quieter, colder one.

To these observers, battle is merely the failure of reason. It is a chaotic, messy transaction where value is lost, not gained. They look at the corpse of a titan and see only rot, not triumph.

They argue that Kleos is a lie told by the living to justify the silence of the dead.

For what glory does the dust know? What renown can comfort the void?

In this view, war is not a ladder to the heavens, but a slide into entropy...an acceleration of the inevitable end where names, deeds, and memories are all devoured by the same impartial dark.

In the Earliest Folds, this question was not philosophical.

It was practical.

And the answer... would determine the fate of Existence.

---

In the Earliest Folds.

The domain was a singularity of silence, a pocket of reality that sat at the very precipice of the unformed.

Here, the weavings of existence curled up and died, replaced by the sheer, crushing weight of Presence.

THE Creature sat upon a simple stone outcropping.

He was vast in conceptual density. To look at him was to look at the horizon...no matter how far you traveled, he seemed to be there, encompassing the view.

Before him stood THE Living Emotive.

She was a kaleidoscope of feeling given form, a shifting storm of colors...violets of despair, crimsons of rage, golds of euphoria...swirling around a humanoid silhouette that seemed too vibrant to be real.

The atmosphere was tense, heavy with the scent of imminent betrayal, though the betrayal had already been woven into the fabric of the moment.

THE Loom was nearing completion. The trap was sprung, the cage was lowering, and the game was reaching its terrifying crescendo.

Emotive looked at THE Creature, her form flickering with nervous, manic yellow energy.

"So," she began, her voice a chorus of a thousand whispers, "in the wars to come... in the grand reshaping of all things... how much glory will there be? How much Kleos awaits us, O Creature, when the dust settles and the new order rises?"

THE Creature raised his head.

His eyes...pools of absolute, primordial existence, met hers.

There was no anger in them. No fear.

Only a profound, endless depth.

"In all battles," THE Creature said, his voice the sound of a tectonic plate shifting deep underground, "there is no glory. There is only death."

The statement was flat. Absolute.

It stripped the romance from violence and left only the cold, hard bone of reality.

Emotive stared at him for a long moment.

Then, she laughed.

It was a jagged, fractured sound, like crystal shattering in a vacuum.

"Hahaha! You really are a killjoy, aren’t you?" She floated closer, the colors of her form shifting to a dark, trembling blue. "But that’s why I was always terrified of you. Did you know that?"

She gestured to herself, to the swirling storm of her existence.

"Fear. Terror. It was the most delicious, most potent emotion I ever found. And you... you were the source. I used that terror to climb, to evolve, to reach this height. And even now..."

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that vibrated with genuine dread.

"Even now, as the trap closes, as THE Living Paradox’s grand design comes to fruition, and we stand on the brink of victory... I am still unfathomably terrified of you."

THE Creature looked at her.

He did not blink.

And then, he moved.

He raised his right hand.

It was a simple gesture...a slow, deliberate lifting of the arm.

CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.

The sound of chains...heavy, conceptual chains forged from the crystallized authority of multiple Civilizations, rang out through the void.

The grand reveal was heartbreaking in its majesty.

THE Creature was bound.

Countless chains, each one thick as Folds, wrapped around his limbs, his torso, his very neck. They anchored him to the nothingness, weighing down his existence with a suppression force that should have rendered him utterly immobile.

He pointed it toward THE Living Emotive.

WAA!

In an instant...less than a nanosecond, THE Living Emotive vanished.

THE Creature sat there, his hand still raised, the chains pulled taut, groaning under the strain of his casual movement.

"You seem," THE Creature murmured to the empty space, "to still be filled with fear."

Slowly, cautiously, a shimmer of color reappeared in the distance. THE Living Emotive returned, though she kept a safe, respectful range...a distance measured in light-years.

"Damn," she whispered, her voice carrying across the distance through their conceptual link. "You scary fucking guy."

"You still terrify me, okay? Even after all this. Even bound. Even betrayed."

"I truly cannot believe Paradox pulled this off," she admitted, her voice filled with genuine wonder. "I was half expecting you to kill us all for the betrayal the moment we tried it. I did it regardless because, man, why not? The thrill was worth the risk. But for us to actually succeed? For THE Loom to be actualized? For you to be... contained?"

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