Chapter 7 – Countermeasures

When I realized that the situation was about to spiral out of control, I understood that if I remained passive, creation itself would risk sinking into chaos. I could no longer afford to stay inert, so I decided to act one last time. It was an extreme gesture, a final attempt that would require a sacrifice without return, beyond which I would never again be able to intervene directly.

To execute this plan, I had to impose another constraint on myself. In exchange for my omniscience and my power to impose constraints, I would gain a single opportunity: to speak once more with the Eternal. It was a calculated risk, a sacrifice that I hoped would bring clarity. I needed to know, once and for all, what to do.

When I finally communed with the Eternal, His presence filled every fiber of my existence, like an endless echo resonating in the void. I asked my question, seeking His advice on how to preserve what we had built. His answer was simple.

He ordered me to extract two entities from His figure, each entrusted with the task of preserving and protecting the beauty of Memoriam Loco:

An ethereal body, endowed with His will to preserve harmony. This new being was named God.

A son, bearer of the ability to act physically and with wisdom. This son would be named Martyr.

The Eternal told me that these two entities would have the task of guiding creation in my stead, making decisions that, bound by my constraints, I would no longer be able to influence. Once created, God and Martyr would be completely independent of me. I could no longer interact with them in any way or alter their fate. It was a bold gamble, an act of faith in their potential.

Martyr was a physical entity, born of the Eternal's will. Tasked with acting, interacting directly with creation and its inhabitants, he would carry out God's mission. He was destined to live among the other creatures, to experience what it meant to be vulnerable, to understand the value of the beauty he was meant to preserve.

With the creation of God and Martyr, my active role in creation came to an end. I no longer had the power to intervene, to impose constraints, or to communicate with the two entities. From that moment on, everything would depend on them.

An ethereal body is an illusory presence, an apparition without substance, shaped to deceive the senses. It can take any form, bending to the will of its creator, but its deception lasts only until it comes into contact with the real. As soon as it collides with a tangible body, the ethereal dissolves, revealing its true nature: a shadow, a trick, an idea made visible but not concrete.

Martyr, on the other hand, was a being bound to the material world. He was like an Eden, but confined within the limits of a physical body. He appeared as a simple being of mud, rough and fragile, but within him lay a devastating power, an energy capable of shaking the foundations of creation. However, his existence was a preordained arc: Martyr was born to die.

The plan that God and Martyr had to carry out was bold and cruel in its simplicity: infiltrate the heart of Proxima Mortis and use Martyr’s sacrifice to eliminate Death once and for all.

Death, with his ability to manipulate Inertia, was a practically invincible enemy. Any direct confrontation would be futile, a suicide for anyone who dared face him. The only possibility was to catch him at a moment of distraction, an instant when he would be vulnerable, and strike with devastating force.

Martyr’s role was clear: he would challenge War in a battle that would draw Death’s attention. When Death came forward to intervene, that would be the moment to act. God, the ethereal body, would strike Death in his only moment of exposure, ending his reign.

Martyr was raised with a terrible awareness: his life had one sole purpose, to die. Everything he was taught, every lesson imparted, was irrelevant in the face of his fate, unless it concerned the art of combat. His martial skills would leave a mark on events, resonating even after his sacrifice.

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Yet, despite his predetermined fate, Martyr was carefully educated by God, his creator and mentor. God instilled in him deep values, unshakable beliefs, and a vision of what was right and worthy of being preserved. Martyr was not just a weapon but a living symbol of sacrifice, a being who embodied the highest principles even as he was prepared for an inevitable end.

God, with his severe yet infinite love, nourished Martyr with the awareness of the beauty of creation and the value of every single act. He called him to die, the first among all, but also gave him the strength to face that fate with dignity and courage.

Before they set off for their task, there was a dialogue worth repeating:

Martyr: Father, today I am happy because the day has come for which I have prepared myself with such dedication. I can finally fulfill my purpose, realize what I was born for.

God: My son, your courage fills me with pride. Not even the certainty of your end bends you, not even the shadow of death shakes your will. Yet, it deeply saddens me to hear these words. They reveal my failure: I have not been able to show you how sweet and precious life can be.

Martyr: Father, you are wrong. No one knows the beauty of life better than I do. I, unlike you immortals, see life through the lens of an end, and because of that, I have learned to cherish it in every single moment.

Your gift, my mortality, is not a curse, but a blessing. It has taught me to rejoice in the time I have, and for that, I thank you.

God: Do you mean to say that we immortals have never truly appreciated what we live?

Martyr: Exactly. Before you told me that my life would have an end, I did not know true joy. I thought I was happy, but in reality, I was living in an illusion.

Happiness, Father, does not exist without sadness. They are two sides of the same coin, inseparable. Only those who know loss can truly understand the value of what they possess. When you revealed my mortality, you gave me a unique perspective: to live with awareness, savoring each moment.

You immortals are deprived of this privilege. Without a limit, every moment becomes the same as the next. There is no contrast, no fullness.

God: My son, your words are deep, hearing you speak this way is proof that you are ready for what lies ahead. I only regret that I cannot fully understand what you feel.

God concealed a deep secret behind his words and behavior. In truth, He had already known sadness. That feeling had overwhelmed Him when He realized that all His efforts, every lesson He had imparted to Martyr, would be in vain: His son would die soon, and nothing He had done could change this fate.

From God’s perspective, existence itself appeared as an inescapable cycle of futility and pain. For immortals, the problem was the lack of contrast: not knowing true happiness, their actions lost meaning, reduced to a monotonous repetition. For mortals, however, every action, every conquest, was destined to vanish in time, swallowed by oblivion. Both immortals and mortals were prisoners of their condition, unable to escape the vanity of life.

If God believed that everything was futile, why then did He choose to act? Why did He choose to educate Martyr, guide him, set in motion a plan that, in His eyes, seemed meaningless?

The answer to this question lies in a deeper truth. God believed He was sad because of the vanity of existence, that He was doomed, like everyone, to eternal boredom. But it was not so. The feeling that burned within Him was of an entirely different nature, something He himself could not yet recognize.

At the end of this chain of events, when the execution of their plan unfolds, it will become clear that His sadness was not due to the vanity of life, but to something else entirely.