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307 - Blood Implosion Holocaust [Sturmblitz]
🕑 Added 2023-10-03 04:42:30 +0000 UTCDespite being acclimated to the presence of such a cultivator, despite having been trained to withstand such a person’s directed killing intent, Friedrich briefly locked gazes with that being and nearly fell to his knees.
He instantaneously realized why she had withstood the Dambreaker Cannon, and in that same realization, he also became aware of the fact he could not conceivably halt her without putting up his life.
Thus far, he had kept up with her thanks to the Heuristic Truth. By this Pseudo-Truth, he could learn from any foe, and devise how to defeat them within fewer moves than he could count on one hand. He had thought, at first, that she practiced a similar Pseudo-Truth, but it wasn’t so. In this moment, when he locked his gaze to the pools of burning light that her eyes had become, Friedrich felt her Truth wash over him.
Violence.
Pure and brilliant, simple even.
That singular obelisk of Truth, however, stood upon a foundation so vast and complex he could not comprehend it. It was not a simple, reductionist vision of the world, no. It was a vast network of beliefs and insights weaving together into an apex of Truth, exactly matching Lord Fourth’s own description of an ideal pseudo-truth. It could be as simple or as complex as she wanted it to be. By comparison, the Heuristic Truth felt as shallow as a stream, despite being regarded as the second most comprehensive of the Order’s Pseudo-Truths.
Friedrich snapped out of his trance after only moments had passed in reality. He could see no path to victory… But there was a path that would take him distinctly closer than others.
He brought out a bronze knife wrought in the image of Lord Third’s own sacrificial blade and enchanted in the self-same way. How many had this blade felled? How many times had he heard the Skinless One smugly commenting on the dark works in which he partook? He couldn’t recall… But he had learned something from that capricious god.
Its warbling speech echoed in his skull, almost like it was right here, whispering to him at this very moment. Indeed, Friedrich felt as if the skinless one’s ever-bloodied hands rested on his shoulders right now. It felt so very real that he wanted to look around to see, but he knew better than that. It was a truth that contradicted everything the Order stood for; a truth exalting willing sacrifice.
From that grain of enlightenment, Friedrich had wrought a technique of self-sacrifice, with help from both Lord Third and Lord Fourth. It had taken several weeks of grueling mutagen treatments to prime his body and alter his blood composition on the off-chance he ever needed to do this.
At that moment, as he held the blade and plunged it into his own heart, he saw the Skinless One’s form appear before him, floating over to whisper in his ear: “The First Truthseeker awakened to the Truth of Sacrifice, and the others slew him for it. That is the legacy of your Order: Delusion and conceit.”
With a cruel, mocking laughter, the Dead God floated away, vanishing feet-first as if it was unraveled, first into muscle fibres, then into nothing. Soon only its head remained, encased in a fully-enclosed helmet with numerous blades running through it. Even it began to vanish soon enough. Friedrich, meanwhile, set his own blood and spirit ablaze. It nearly felt as though time stopped for him, slowing to an absolute crawl. Unable to speak properly, he thought the incantation: “For the Order, I shall give all that I am, all that I was, all that I would be. For the order… I shall render up even my future incarnations, so that I cannot be reborn for a thousand years as anything but a cripple!”
Suddenly, the Skinless One’s nearly-gone body reformed, and plunged its arm into Friedrich’s body. It gripped something deep inside him, and pulled. An inconceivable pain shot through Friedrich’s spirit as if the God’s fleshy hand were made of white-hot iron, dipped in poison, and wrapped in razorwire. It was such a terrible ache that it ought to have killed him in shock, but he remained agonizingly aware, awake, and clear-headed all throughout. His perception of time came to a dead stop, only the Skinless One being excepted. It painstakingly pulled and pulled, tearing out something even more vital and essential than the heart or the brain.
“YOUR FUTURE SELVES ARE NOT YOURS TO SACRIFICE, FOOL.”
When it finally removed its clawed hand, Friedrich felt a yawning hollowness, his sense of self diminished. Something inside him became vividly aware of the fact he would be a mindless vegetable within mere hours, a problem he would not have to deal with, since he expected to die within minutes. A glistening, iridescent orb about twice the size of an eyeball rested in its hand.
“I SHALL, INSTEAD, TAKE THINE TRUE SOUL AND INCARNATE IT INTO A DYING CHILD IN THIS VERY CITY. YOUR NEXT SELF SHALL GROW TO REVILE YOUR ORDER AND ALL IT STANDS FOR. TAKE SOLACE. THERE ARE SHARDS OF MYSELF WHICH WOULD NOT BE THIS MERCIFUL.”
The Dead God, with Friedrich’s spiritual core in hand, once more began to vanish, leaving him to face the resumption of time with these words: “LIVE OUT YOUR REMAINING MOMENTS AS A FLESH-AUTOMATON ANIMATED BY THE EMBERS OF THIS SACRIFICE.”
His heart collapsed, consumed into a growing bolus of compressed blood that seethed, like a brown dwarf, with untold power. Soon there was not an iota of liquid blood left within him. In seconds, his body withered into a mummy-likestate. By contrast, he felt the strongest he had ever been, the strongest he could conceivably be. In fact, no part of him cared for anything besides his objective: Halt Zelsys Newman. What shreds still remained of Friedrich’s personality were irrevocably swept away in the growing maelstrom of power bursting out of his withered form.
SIGN OF SELF-SACRIFICE
HEURISTIC ART: BLOOD IMPLOSION HOLOCAUST
