Chapter 59 - Preservation

This was it.

They failed.

Their only hope—the distress signal was being contained like some water in a cup, while the Apostle loomed over them like some deity ready to mete out punishment.

Was this really it? Were all of them about to be wiped out? But he would regret it if he didn't at least try. What if there was some kind of instability he could induce?

He is floating in the air. If I can figure out how, maybe I can do something? Make him fall down, he thought—no hoped as sweat trickled down his forehead.

Vern tapped into his perception and honed in on the radiant man across one of the artificial chasms he had created.

.

.

.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be.

It was exactly what he was afraid of. The Apostle eluded the grays. His entire form failed to register in Vern's perception at all. And now that Vern mulled over it, it made perfect sense. How would the Apostle float if he wasn't Observing himself?

Vern's heart sank further as the implications became clearer. He would have to run away like a coward. Let them die.

No! There has to be something else!

He fidgeted around as he emptily stared at the wanna-be god. What if Esther was exaggerating and the man wasn't going to hunt all of them.

But he promptly splashed water over his own delusions.

He was accustomed to a life of meritocracy where brains mattered more than brawns. But this isn't going to play out like that. This man wouldn't even deign to listen to us—much less negotiate.

However, before he could come to a decision, the Apostle, high in the sky, shook his head and spoke in a voice that was calm yet resounded all around them, "Foolish indeed."

Then he made the motion of plucking something from the air, and a golden mote appeared before him. This was followed by a huge chunk of the radiant dome disintegrating into particles, which soon converged into a golden ball somewhere up in the sky.

Vern didn't know what the hell was going on, but whatever it was, it wasn't good. He shook Esther intensely, "Get up, Esther! You need to run. Attack. Use the station. Block him. Talk to him. Anything! Don't just sit here!"

But she was unresponsive. She held her head in her hands and screamed silently.

What the hell is going on with her!?

He didn't know what to do. Everything was falling apart.

"It seems my previous leniency was a disservice to both of us. My actions were imbued with a kindness that has failed to bring forth any worth in you, making you unworthy of Preservation." Then he repeated his previous actions and plucked at the air one more time as a small mote appeared in front of him.

"This time, let's call it tough love, shall we? A more stringent lesson is clearly required for you to understand the true gravitas of what it means to be preserved."

Another chunk of particles separated from the golden dome and flew in a direction—appearing and disappearing from Vern's view through the holes within this station. Soon, they fused into a dense golden mass that floated opposite to the previous one.

"You misunderstand the essence of Preservation. You see, it isn't merely a matter of abstaining from destruction. Preservation is an act that can only follow creation—meaningful creation. What you have built here, this fragile simulacrum—is garbage unworthy of even Observation."

Another plucking gesture and one more golden ball appeared far away from the previous two. The dome had now shrunk by quite a margin, but it still blocked the leftover signals from the station without a problem.

"Neither are you, I'm afraid, worthy of Preservation. To bring forth something that merits the act, I must first eradicate the flawed foundation. Only then can true Preservation commence. Do you understand?"

He reenacted his earlier actions, and Vern finally figured out where this was going. Four points floated before the man, mirrored by four identical masses of golden light that soared high into the sky, forming the same shape—a square.

This had to be his elaborate way of getting rid of them.

"Ah, you take pride in those veins of yours, pulsing with untamed potential. How misplaced that pride is. Let me offer you a lesson in humility and divine purpose. I'll annihilate that which you hold dear, reducing it to mere ash. From that point, we'll have a foundation truly worth preserving."

The golden masses began to shimmer and soon melted into a giant plane that hung higher than the tallest tower in the Empire. The Apostle was barely a dot standing beneath its translucent glow.

"Trust me, by the time this process is complete, even your mother would deem you unworthy of her love—but perfectly worthy of Preservation."

This was unhinged.

"Shut up!" Ambrose interjected. "You fucking phony preacher. Don't ignore me. You really think you can do whatever you want in Elmhurst? You want this bitch? Take her. But if you fuck with me and my people, I'll burn your godforsaken church to ashes and scatter your deluded flock. Elmhurst will be purged of your damnation, mark my words."

"If not by me, then my family—"

"Ambrose! STOP!" Vern barked, "Now's not the time to provoke him."

He hated the Apostle, too. But speaking up like this wouldn't make the least of the difference—not to a person like him. He knew far too many people with such a demeanor—his own master, for one—to give them the benefit of the doubt.

He knew how they justified it. They loved to disregard any minor variables for the greater good. Their lousy excuses and how it was all just a plan were nothing but sad attempts at denying their own hypocrisy.

Even though it confirmed Vern's assumptions regarding the Apostle's attitude, what the hell was Ambrose doing? He wasn't always so foolhardy. Not ten minutes ago.

But as expected, the Apostle didn't even look at him. He just drew something akin to a line in the air with his other hand—

Damn!

Vern instinctively rushed towards Ambrose, not sure how that would help. Yet, before he could even halve the distance—CLANK

The cane fell from Ambrose's hand, and he froze where he stood.

A golden line skewered Ambrose. It entered from his head and pierced through his back. But there was no blood. Nor were there any signs of pain. Yet, it was as if the time itself had stopped for Ambrose.

Vern's skin tingled as goosebumps rose all over his body, and a sense of uncanny serenity threatened to consume him the closer he got to Ambrose.

Fuck! This is 'Preservation?'

He backpedaled, barely getting out of the influence of whatever afflicted Ambrose.

This was…unsettling.

He tried to rationalize this ability—this godly display. But he knew it was a waste of time. There was nothing he could do for Ambrose.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Nothing he could do for any of them. Nothing.

This feeling of helplessness. It was—disgusting.

That's when Cera, who had been staring at the sky with a hollow expression, turned towards Ambrose, her eyes drooping over.

She was in the range of that Vision!

"Cera, get out of there!"

But she was one step ahead of him.

"AHH!!" a muffled scream leaked out of her mouth before she fell to the ground—blood streaming down her eyes like tears. Yet, the glow of the arrow had dimmed a notch.

It seemed like she had managed to become an Observer. But that didn't mean she should pit herself against an Apostle's Vision. That was unnecessarily dangerous!

Yet it was more than he could manage. How did she even do this? Wasn't it impossible to perceive something already being Observed?

Ignoring that, he ran towards her. Doing something was better than nothing. Even if it was just to make himself feel better. To deny it better.

But as he closed the gap, his pupils constricted, and his heart pounded so fiercely he feared it would rupture.

There was no denying it anymore.

It's coming.

The dark nexus began to light up as the distorted pipes reflected a golden haze. It was like the sun had risen in the sky, dyeing the world a bright gold. Radiance flitted down here through those narrow gaps, and the light became the norm.

The Apostle in the sky pushed at the rectangle in front of him with both hands, one after another. And the mirror image—the golden ceiling that was larger than the whole station began its manic descent with a disturbing droning sound.

WENGGGGG

"In the face of true Preservation, all imperfections must be eradicated!"

This self-righteous piece of shit!

The falling canopy gained momentum by the second, its edges almost seeming to blur. Maybe this was the reason the Apostle had started it so high in the sky.

So that it would have enough force to crush anything.

Vern had to make a choice.

Right now.

This golden sky was going to crush the station into a crater, and none of them were going to survive the collapse.

So this is the end?

Vern looked around him one more time. Ambrose was frozen stiff, looking at the heavens with a defiant gaze. He was a little misguided in his actions. But it was nothing that couldn't be fixed by staying away from his family. He obviously had goals, aspirations, and hopes.

All of which will never come to fruition now.

Esther was even worse. Her Cogwings flapped erratically as she shivered—her lovely features twisted into a grimace. It pained him to see her like this—knowing what would have been going through her mind.

Maybe he should apologize. Everything was happening because they had to go into the station and pry out the truth. Was there time for that? Could she hear him? Would she?

Cera had warned him that secrets were secrets for a reason. She couldn't be blamed for her misjudgment because she had no experience. But he did. He had been to the Ascendant council. He knew what could happen.

That was to say, he failed to figure out the right balance to maintain. A grave disbalance—even fatal.

And then there was Cera. Her short hair covered her eyes, but the blood still flew freely as she pushed herself back up, one step at a time. He wanted to deny it. Deny what was coming. Deny what would happen to his first friend in this god-forsaken city.

First friend in this dying world.

He didn't know if the feeling was mutual, but he hoped.

Yet, instead of congratulating her on her Enlightenment or helping her up, he stood there—finding reasons to justify his cowardice. To deny it.

He had leaned too far towards recklessness on the spectrum of caution, and this was his comeuppance.

One he would have to live with. The price was that every person he had connected with since after Duskfall would need to…die.

It disgusted him.

He had a few more tricks and ideas up his sleeve, but simply twisting a rod in a puppet had caused him to become insensate. How would he pay the representation cost needed to manipulate anything that would bar the path of this larger-than-life sky—descending onto them like a meteor?

There's no other choice.

Clenching his teeth so hard they almost felt like shattering, he began to withdraw. He closed his eyes and called for his rationality. It was better than sticking to the pathetic hope. It wasn't like back in the library.

He just didn't have the tools necessary to deal with this.

So he focused. The 'Third Rune,' as Esther had dubbed it, was an ephemeral concept in his mind. But he wasn't worried that he'd be unable to activate it.

It was omnipresent. Just thinking about it caused his mind to hallucinate impossible triangles.

Soon, the triangles began to coalesce and collate, their edges getting sharper and the details more pronounced.

This was the rune he dreaded more than anything. It reminded him of everything that was wrong with the world and how it all came to be. That he was living on borrowed time. The more he used it, the tighter the noose around his neck became.

Finally, all the shapes merged into two inverted triangles—looping around each other impossibly. He could feel it now. He just had to 'make contact' with it through his thoughts, and whatever the activation of this rune entailed would begin.

But his trip to this dark void of disturbing triangles was interrupted by a low sound.

"r…mbr pr…ms…"

It was Esther.

Ensuring this gateway of contact remained open, he focused on her low mutterings.

"Remember…"

"…the promise."

She had to make it hard for him, didn't she? He'd been trying not to think about it.

Back at his master's lab, he had colleagues—even friends. But no real connections. His life had been quite a dull one in the emotional department—filled with competition and sleepless nights spent figuring out the next big problem.

Maybe it was more apt to say he never even reached out—he never felt the urge or had the time. Yet, just now, he had created a connection. They had been in each other's minds.

Her feelings, opinions, insecurities—all were laid bare in front of him, and so were his. It was a connection. One he hadn't even known could exist.

It is too soon.

Why did it have to end like this?

He opened his eyes and eyed the golden sky that was hurling towards them at a breakneck pace. It went from being a small shape high in the sky to a heaven-spanning plane of destruction that would soon crush them into nothingness.

So he ceased his useless emotional pandering and replied to Esther with two simple words, "I will."

It was time to really let his rationality wash over him and do what must be done. He needed it—

That's when two arms wrapped around him, and a tremor ran through his spine. Cera rested her face on his shoulder. Again. And spoke through choked sobs, "I…am…sorry. Vern, I am so sorry. It's all my fault. I am sorry. You shouldn't have been here. I am…"

She broke down, blood and tears soaking his shoulder as he stood there.

Why were they making it so hard?

He knew he hadn't known them long enough to care. But he did. And that was not okay. Not right now. Not in this situation. He still hadn't met Ariane. He couldn't die here.

.

.

.

I guess I, too, am a hypocrite. He thought as he pulled her closer and embraced her.

Clenching his eyes tight, he held the tears at bay and whispered, "It was not your fault."

But it wasn't working. He needed to get out of here. This warmth almost made him want to give up. To die a martyr. To let the end come.

Almost.

The droning sound coming from that golden calamity rushing towards them only grew louder and louder. When—

RUMBLE

CRASHH

It had begun.

It was time.

The gap between the two inverted triangles in his mind glowed brightly, inviting him in. He took a final deep breath, firmed up his resolve—

And made contact.

The inverted triangles burst apart at the seams, and the white spilled all over his mind—consuming him. Before he lost all senses and her warmth, he whispered one final time,

"I am sorry."

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A flash in the sky caught Shinsei's eyes, manifesting as a golden square of sheer divinity. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, its glow a haunting precursor to something catastrophic. Even from this distance, he could sense the pressure it exuded, a force of annihilation ripping through the air.

The other uncontrollable friend is inside, too. Can't let it end like this.

Without a second thought, Shinsei's feet left the rooftop, propelling him skyward as if he'd broken the chains of gravity itself. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, its blade shimmering with a light of its own, almost in response to the golden calamity hurtling towards the Earth.

Time to get you under control.

His eyes took in the descending golden sky, not as a looming threat but as a test of his mastery. In his world of control, things were simple—there were the things that bent and those that didn't. This golden phenomenon, for all its divine might, had a pattern, a structure, a will that propelled it—things he could interact with.

The essence of control isn't to clash but to guide, to find that moment where force becomes merely a suggestion that can be renegotiated.

Force is an object moving at a speed. Disrupt the speed, and you control the force. A gold-colored divine sky was no exception.

The world around him blurred into streaks of color, yet his focus remained unwavering, zeroing in on the golden square. He was a tempest, a force of nature, and his sword was the eye of the storm.

It wasn't going to be his usual deflection, but a little bending of semantics was fine. Swinging to deflect was still deflection.

His body aligned, his blade positioned—he swung. It wasn't a swing born merely of physical strength but one driven by purpose, by conviction. In the split second that felt like an eternity, his blade met the golden surface.

CLANGGG

A resounding clash echoed through the heavens, the shockwave dispersing clouds and ripples of displaced air spreading outwards. For a moment, the world held its breath.

The golden square splintered, its form fragmenting into shards of light that dissipated into nothingness. Shinsei's sword hummed, its resonance quieting down as he landed back on a rooftop, his eyes never leaving the spot where the sky had nearly fallen.

As if recognizing his authority, the world resumed its course, no longer paused in the face of impending doom. A small grin stretched across Shinsei's lips, stained by a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

That was insightful. I could do better.

But then he turned around, perplexed.

He had deflected the calamity that befell the kid, hadn't he? Then where did he go? His uncontrollable aura just…disappeared.