Chapter 88: The Cold of Outer Space, the Warm Embrace of Death, Part 10

Before worrying about Heather or the fate of the world, Sylvester had to worry about his own survival. His copies swarmed him—dozens of them. Even the sword was a perfect replica, and, for the moment at least, that was all they used.

But even so, that alone overwhelmed him. It was all about the numerical advantage, perhaps a touch of confusion, the disorientation of the battlefield and conditions changing so suddenly. He thought they only copied his exterior; otherwise, they would have used his powers against him.

No, he wasn’t like Heather, who always fell back on basics because they were more than enough to handle most threats. Sylvester always used every tool at his disposal to crush his enemies and end things as quickly as possible. If these copies shared his mindset, they wouldn’t hold back, either.

The only explanation for their reliance on swords was that it wasn’t a limitation—it was all they could do. Realizing that didn’t relieve him in the slightest. Either way, he was losing the fight.

Every second spent battling these cheap copies was a waste of time. Each wound reduced his chances of defeating that being. But maybe that wasn’t entirely bad.

He had to figure out how to leave, not how to win. Even if it felt like he was drowning, he had to find his center and swim to the surface. He had to get back to Heather—not leave her alone in the final battle that would decide the fate of countless universes, of life itself.

He knew he could do it if he focused, if he gave everything one last time. Just one last time. If he wanted to escape, he needed to concentrate on his surroundings. He looked around, peering through the gaps in each attack.

What did he see? It wasn’t the void of space, but it wasn’t much else, either. He had come here by tearing a hole, breaking through a crystal that had now vanished without a trace. The hole had closed, if it had ever truly existed, and there was no visible exit. None that could be seen with the naked eye, anyway.

Meanwhile, as he wasted time here, Heather was forced to fight that thing alone—a destroyer of worlds, of entire universes. He had to get back to her, fast.

They were a stronger team together than apart, no matter how much they liked to pretend otherwise. There was no one left to exploit that vulnerability. Because love was the greatest force, the largest gear driving the world—this world and any other.

Naturally, Sylvester couldn’t defend himself perfectly. The attacks constantly broke through his guard, slashing him all over. It felt as though he was in a meat grinder, with no chance of escape. The only difference was that his death was slow—a sensation more than a fact.

He might have been losing the fight, it seemed, but the reality was that, against all odds, he held his ground. He wasn’t winning, but he wasn’t being pushed back, either. And achieving that was even harder than a simple victory. It meant there was hope for him.

A strike knocked his feet out from under him, sending him flying toward what looked like more crystal. Suddenly, although moments ago there hadn’t even been a ceiling, he smashed through the crystal on impact, only to end up in the same place as before. That shouldn’t have surprised him. The only difference, perhaps, was that there seemed to be more soldiers now.

He wasn’t even sure. He felt so cornered that their numbers seemed endless. No matter how many copies he felled with a single swing, stabbed with their own weapons, or fought with every strategy he could devise, their numbers never diminished.

A drowning man cannot refuse any form of help. Naturally, he felt one of the countless swords pierce his guard—and his side. Cleanly. Well, it went straight through, but clean wasn’t the right word. Blood poured everywhere.

Sylvester, with remarkable ease, broke the sword in half and discarded the part that wasn’t buried in his body. Disdainfully, without a second thought. As for the rest of the blade, it left his body without any effort on his part. The wound healed, and his flesh and skin pushed the broken blade out, as naturally as if it happened every day. Well, things like that happened more often than he would have liked.

The difference was that now his own face stared back at him. A small difference. Deep down, his final enemy had always been himself, he thought—and then realized it wasn’t even the first time.

What mattered was to forget the pain, grit his teeth, and move forward. It was just one wound, one stab, no matter how well-placed. If he let it slow him down for even a second, he would end up impaled from every direction, as if trapped in an iron maiden. A door slammed in his face, the spikes of darkness descending upon him. Permanently. He couldn’t allow that to happen. And all it took was ignoring the pain.

He was an expert at that. A lifetime wasted ignoring pain, doing anything but what he needed to do. I can change that, he thought. I can change.

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If only he survived this. Now wasn’t the time for childish hopes. Now wasn’t the time to sketch dreams on the dome of his fractured mind. Only the present moment mattered. The fight. The blood burning in his veins.

——

Heather parried the attacks of that being, retreating, putting as much distance as she could between them.

That entity was clearly capable of using all of Sylvester’s abilities—Jonathan’s too, the self-proclaimed emperor. And recently, it had shown it could even wield powers Heather believed were hers alone.

It made sense.

This was the thing that had granted them their powers, spreading them across universes to create this deranged death game. It had also undoubtedly caused their existence.

They’d never receive clear, direct answers, but Heather thought she knew enough.

There was a good reason why Sylvester’s world had taken so long to be drawn into the fight. A reason why, at first, only he had shown any powers.

She was sure of it, even if she couldn’t prove it 100%. It had been nothing more than an accident—a failure in the cosmic gears.

And the same could be said for her own existence, for the reborn lunar remnants. They were possibly the result of humans unable to handle receiving powers—or perhaps simply a natural consequence of having something “odd” like Sylvester in the world.

In other words, Sylvester’s power radiating outward, altering everything like a form of cosmic radiation. She would never tell Sylvester this theory, of course. He already had enough misplaced guilt weighing him down.

Still, she was fairly certain that was the answer. Nothing more, nothing less than an accident.

So much blood, sweat, and tears.

So much despair in the search for meaning.

And there was none.

Just an accident, one way or another.

Heather had spoken with Jonathan privately, learning that only two people in his world—himself and someone named Count Dracula—had acquired powers. And for over a hundred years, they had never been invaded.

Another who had received his abilities purely by chance, a cosmic hiccup.

She had also spoken with Caim, who told her about the tower. He mentioned he was the only one in his world he knew of with powers, at least. Though there might have been others, it seemed limited to people of his race—those special beings with horns and anyone who reached that mysterious tower.

That’s what they all were.

Nothing more than a series of cosmic accidents chained together.

But it was precisely for that reason they had a chance to win. Because they were outside the system.

——

Jonathan loathed sitting idle, placing his fate in the hands of others—especially strangers who held no loyalty to him. Although that didn’t really affect his chances of success, it still irked him. Relying on people, on beings he did not own or control in some way, terrified him.

It was all he could do to keep from throwing himself into the fray. He could have leaped through the portal before it closed, maintaining his connection to the machine. Of course, it was a foolish notion. Even if he succeeded in killing the entity threatening his immortal existence, that would be the end of it.

The portal machine wouldn’t be able to return him to his world, or this one, or anywhere else. He didn’t know what lay beyond the portal, but he was certain it wasn’t good—or interesting. And it would spell the end of his ambition to use the portal machine to build a Third Empire across universes. Peace, harmony, progress—that was the dream.

If Count Dracula had become cruel and inhuman out of sheer boredom—having exhausted all pleasures, having seen everything—then Jonathan believed he could remain human. The infinite possibilities the universe offered would sustain him, all in service of a greater cause. No one could compare him to Dracula, for whom all people, save himself, were mere names in history books.

No, Jonathan couldn’t cross the portal. He couldn’t end it all with his own hands. Yet he felt a maddeningly tempting pull to do so. This passivity, this dependence—it wasn’t him. He was used to being above others, to doing what he wanted, when and how he wanted. Not to holding back, not to exercising patience.

He knew it was necessary, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

——

If humanity had one universal trait, it was the will to survive. Regardless of country, religion, or politics, the pure and simple instinct for survival drove everyone forward—even as the universe conspired to crush them under its heel. Only now, it was no longer a subtle conspiracy.

Years ago, the universe had sent nearly unstoppable monsters after them, appearing anywhere, at any time. Monsters born from the human heart itself.

And now, it had taken another step forward.

Many could see that thing—that impossible being—devouring everything it touched, leaving a void in its wake. How would it erase them? Their families? Their homes? Everything they had ever loved or believed had any importance—gone without a trace.

Strangely, the appearance of lunar remnants had dwindled in recent months. Meanwhile, a different kind of chaos reigned—a slow decline that hadn’t entirely stopped, of course. But now, in the quiet of the world’s end, the inevitable happened.

The progression of the infection accelerated.

If those monsters were born from shattered human hearts, what greater trigger could there be than the absolute despair of the world’s end?

The end not only of their fleeting lives but of any legacy they might have had or memory they might have left in the hearts of others. Simply nothing—nothing at all, forever.

It was inevitable that something like this would unleash havoc.

A man, roaring as though he were melting, transformed into something resembling a whale—but this creature had shark-like teeth and tentacles bristling with eyes. Eyes that looked unnervingly human, as if they had been harvested from an entire mass grave, despite the massacre having barely begun.

And now it began.

It killed three people with a single tentacle, a single blow. The fourth—a woman—avoided death only because she transformed into a monster a split second before the attack connected.

——

Sylvester was still clinging to hope, dodging strikes, running, leaping, and flying, searching for the exit. He didn’t believe he was getting any closer. He wouldn’t lose hope so easily, but he hadn’t made any progress—that much was clear.

The longer he lingered, the closer their deaths became inevitable. That, too, was a fact.

There had to be a way out, some trick he hadn’t noticed. It was an absurd thought, almost—as if that being had to play fair, give him a chance if it could avoid it.

But his hope was that it couldn’t avoid it. Not now that he had crossed the threshold, come this far.

The Cold of Outer Space, the Warm Embrace of Death, Part 10: END.