And So He Left

Chapter 48: And So He Departed

Morse withdrew his will from Peturabo's location; his current circumstances no longer allowed for distraction.

A sharp dagger sliced through the black cloth covering his palm. The material, woven from physical threads and flax, was severed by a concept of sharpness that transcended the mundane. It peeled away in layers, revealing what the dagger had truly pierced.

A void.

More black cloth strips disintegrated from his arm's surface, scattering onto the damp ground.

What the black robes had encased seemed to vanish into thin air, or perhaps had never existed at all.

Morse closed his eyes. The unsupported, pitch-black fabric collapsed inward, succumbing to gravity's call and crumpling into a defeated, carbon-black heap on the floor, soaked in the blood of an evil creature.

Resting atop the fabric was the exquisite little dagger, seemingly announcing its feat to all with utmost mockery.

Then, a form that could not be observed in the material universe opened its eyes and stepped out of its false shell.

Each segment of lost disguise represented a greater exposure of essence. From fingers to shoulders, from soles to chest, golden incantations propped up a void-like entity in a human shape.

Every morsel he had consumed had transformed into emptiness; every drop of blood he had shed was an illusion conjured by runes.

Shedding the robes and bandages that covered his entire body, ceasing the simulation and carving of his face, what remained now was his true, residual core.

Morse tried to smile. He felt a ripple should have occurred where his head was.

He wouldn't normally exist in this form unless absolutely necessary.

This wasn't due to any particular dissatisfaction with his non-human state, but rather that this appearance was rather crude and unrefined compared to the bodies he had once possessed.

He raised his left hand. Countless flowing incantations reflected golden light under different lighting conditions, outlining his general form.

Even the most inconspicuous segment, less than an inch long, was a supreme command that directly communicated with the foundational rules of the material universe.

Incantations.

This was the way runes were called, a system distinct from psychic energy, one that directly shook the foundations of reality.

As for his right hand, the incantations stored in that part had been lost behind the veil approximately fifteen millennia ago. Returning to his original form, his right hand also ceased to exist for the time being.

Thinking of related events, he couldn't help but mention a certain bandit he didn't even know how to describe. Connecting that incident with Peturabo's existence, Morse realized he had inadvertently figured out what kind of mysterious technology that person had been tinkering with back then.

That guy never told anyone what he actually wanted to do.

As he stepped onto the ground, the entire scene transformed further. The room he was in became a small cabin of a golden and silver ship, with a vast, swirling, multi-colored ocean outside.

In the unfathomably deep space, infinite things devoured and iterated upon each other every second. Fixed time and space, and even conventional physical laws, were meaningless here; only chaos was eternal.

He left the cabin. Magnificent sails, sewn from the hides of mammals, fluttered above him. The small boat pitched and rolled, occasionally buffeted by waves accompanied by contemptuous yet sweet laughter, informing him of the boat's heading.

Morse simply sat down, allowing the waves of the warp to guide the small boat.

Then, a short, broken wooden arrow was washed onto the deck by the waves, landing in front of Morse. A faint conversation followed.

"This is my arrow, I shot that deer!"

"Our arrows are exactly the same, don't lie, little brother. This deer is mine."

"But I carved a mark on the arrow shaft..."

Morse picked up the broken arrow and found a horizontal carving on the wooden shaft near the arrowhead. Incantations crawled from his void-like skin onto the broken arrow, annihilating it in an instant.

He heard the sharp laughter become more piercing. A large blue-feathered bird flew to the top of the mast, cackling discordantly.

A string of runes flew up, scorching the bird's feathers and electrocuting it as it plunged headfirst back into the ocean.

The second item to fly onto the deck was a piece of iron. The voice emanating from it became clearer, and some hazy reflections were captured and stored from time and space, now replaying at this moment.

Those rather ethereal things passed through truth, illusion, and reality, spanning tens of thousands of years to grasp Morse once more. Back then, he had another name.

His first forging. Some psychic energy was used to control the furnace temperature. No mentor, no companions. His brother had other important matters – he was being educated by a visiting mentor, the education of city-building.

He studied all the changes in steel himself, listening to the voice of the flames. His experiments, of course, failed. The iron sword broke into several pieces of deformed iron. He could hear his own sighs and distress.

As he held the failed product, about to secretly roll it into a ball with psychic energy to discard it, a cold yet magnificent power held the broken iron pieces.

A narrow beam of light shone through the gap of the opened door, piercing the dim room after the furnace fire had died down. Wind came from outside, carrying the scent of forests and the cold sun.

The illusion ended here. The warp lacked the ability to simulate things that did not belong to it. Morse shrugged, picked up the shattered iron pieces, and tossed the illusion back into the depths of the sea.

He stood up, bracing himself on the edge of the boat with one hand.

The next illusion no longer relied on specific objects, nor was it as friendly.

He saw his own corpse – the first and only one – lying in the moat of the half-built city, its dim eyes still open, gazing at the great city. The city was to be named after his brother, and the reason for his defeat in their fraternal strife could only be described as absurd.

Heavy rain swept over the bricks and the eagle emblems on them, pouring into the aqueduct. Someone walked towards him in the curtain of rain. A fleeting flash of lightning cast the entire scene in a stern, pale hue.

The shifting imagery coalesced into azure bird feathers falling onto his shoulder. Before being destroyed, they conveyed their message: "Your death happened long ago... How can you still be a living person so calmly? You can't live like this... Do you know what happened next?"

Morse impatiently threw a handful of feather ash back into the sea.

He had just lived a long time; he didn't have a degenerative disease of the central nervous system causing progressive cognitive and behavioral impairment.

"He reshaped my inner being with lightning, brick, and wind and thunder, continued me with sorrowful spirit and green olives, cleansed me until I was whiter than snow."

"He formed my outer skin from the dust of the earth, and filled my flesh and blood with incantations."

"My spirit and incantations became one. I am a dead person, an eternal tombstone, a living book."

He was a collection of incantations, a living repository.

Mors looked at his missing right arm.

When he had been beneath the mountain rocks of Lupacalia, assisting the fire thief in opening and closing the gates to the dream and immaterial realms, delving into the sea of chaotic gods and emerging unscathed, a portion of his incantations were permanently lost in use, taking all related memories with them.

He still didn't know which reality-manipulating commands he had lost back then, but there was one thing he probably wouldn't forget even in another ten thousand years.

And he didn't even know if he should describe it as "this matter will be remembered until life ends," since he hadn't lived since his first death.

"Your duty is temporarily concluded."

Moro's wind blew away in the distance, the incandescent flames drifting away. The voice of the first thinker carried the scent of burnt blood and distant thunder; this was the final, cold revelation.

"You should leave."

So he left—

So he left.

Mors leaped from the small boat, stepping onto the surface of the surging waves. The tide immediately receded, leaving behind only a chaotic, unclear plain of golden sand. Looking down through his translucent body, every grain of yellow sand was a precious, brilliant coin. Gold and jewels were piled high, and entire pieces of sapphire reflected an endless, magnificent flow of light.

He had reached the edge of bliss.

Mors raised his left hand, and an incantation caused the sea of chaos to produce a greatsword. Then, he proceeded into the depths of the gold.