Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse novel Chapter 3777

Thauron stood still.

Cold.

Unflinching.

His towering figure cast long, silent shadows, the folds of his existence unmoving as he gazed down at the thing before him- the Living Collapse.

Slowly, deliberately, he shook his head, a gesture filled with the heavy disdain of Finality.

"If a Living Paradox were here," Thauron said, his voice a low rumble of certainty, "then a creature like you would have long since been dead."

His words fell with the weight of truth, not rushed, but precise, each syllable woven with the power of inevitability.

Across from him, the Living Collapse tilted its head, the movement smooth and grotesque all at once. And then it twisted- a mockery of thought, a cruel imitation of life. It shook its head, not in denial, but as if correcting a mistaken child.

It spoke, voice thick and distorted, dripping with the slow rot of ancient collapse.

"Of course," it said, the words slithering through the air, "of course, I would be dead."

It breathed in then, the motion deliberate, its chest, or what passed for it, expanding with reverence, as if savoring the moment.

"If a Living Paradox had even its aura of existence here," it murmured, "I would not breathe. I would be ash."

Another slow exhale followed, not relief, but hunger.

"But…"

The voice grew softer, slick with something deeper, more intimate.

"An Unbound Living Paradox," it said, twisting its form in a slow, predatory circle, "a hatchling. One that does not yet know right from wrong, does not understand the gravity of its Sin. One that cannot mask its stench."

Its void-filled visage gleamed, black and gold, as it spoke the final words.

"That is something I was born to end."

…!

I watched- silent, thoughtful- the words weighing heavier than any blow could.

With a breath drawn deep through the weavings of my soul, I turned inward, unhurried, my mind moving to the 9 Lattices of the Weaver of Existence, to every thread and stitch of my being.

"Study it," I murmured. "Study what changed."

Study what Paradox had become when it turned Living. Study what doors had opened that should have remained closed.

The Weaver stirred in response, its Lattices glimmering with a low, quiet pulse.

And then, as if answering a summons older than memory, three other True Sources responded.

Summoning.

Animus.

Necromancy.

Their Lattices buzzed, harmonizing, layering into a resonance that felt wrong-

gloriously, dangerously wrong.

Perfect.

I leaned back slightly where I sat in the endless Cradle of Folded Time, feeling the crushing epochs roar around me. _{frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓}

Above, the obsidian firmament cracked- not with light, but with darkness- pure, profound, and absolute.

A fracture opened in the sky.

A tear, not of cloth or stone, but of existence itself.

From that tear, something began to emerge.

Not light.

Not brilliance.

A lattice of terror.

Of horror so deep it was woven into wonder.

Of authority layered in ways no Monad, no Primarch, would dare attempt.

The fracture widened, spiraling, warping the sky above the Middle Wheel Platform. The gathered entities below- Primarchs and Monads alike- turned their eyes upward, watching, waiting.

The tear split further. And from its yawning maw, darkness poured, not in shadows but in the absence of meaning itself.

Then...

It emerged.

Not vast.

Not wrong.

But a violation.

A single name whispered through my mind, carried not by sound, but by the trembling of the threads that made up Existence itself.

"Irradion…"

The name rose, ancient and unbidden, a vibration of death given form.

From the wound in the sky, a colossal, chthonic horror dragged itself forth- a mass of ancient bone and void-flesh, riddled with fractures of collapsed realities. Its surface was an endless ossuary, shadows and broken concepts fused into its monstrous bulk.

Skeletal limbs sprouted from its heaving body, dozens, then hundreds, each ending in claws inscribed with runes of absolute cessation.

Where its head should have been, a halo of broken halos spun- collapsed stars orbiting the null voids where eyes might once have existed.

Its very breath pulled at the weavings of existence- not like wind, but like death inhaling meaning itself. Each inhalation made the nearby layers of the Middle Wheel Platform buzz faintly, a low, uneasy sound.

Yet, the Null Cradle of Fold-Breaking Ascension held steady, and the vast Nullvein Gravewake Folds remained immutable, ancient and unmoved.

Only the immediate space around Irradion shivered.

The weaker Primarchs stiffened. Some faltered. A few staggered back, unwilling to meet the gaze of something so final.

Even Thauron, standing on a distant precipice, turned his head slightly, lifting his gaze to the summoned thing now looming above.

It floated there- massive, inevitable.

Waiting.

A prompt bloomed quietly before my eyes, unseen by the others.

| Status Panel: Summoned Entity |

| Name: Irradion, the Black Severance |

| Complexity Quotient (CQ): 300,000 SU |

| Purity Quotient (PQ): 300,000 SU |

| True Absolute Existential Resistances (Influenced by Summoner): |

Spiritual Resistance: 20%

Conceptual Resistance: 20%

Dimensional Resistance: 20%

Law Resistance: 20%

| True Source: Death (Primarch Tier) |

| Binding Status: Irrevocably Bound to Summoner (Noah Osmont) |

| Origin: A being once dwelling in the Necrofolds of the Nullvein Gravewake Folds, enduring cycles of death and unmaking for over a billion years. |

…!

I gazed at the panel- and then at the entity itself.

Floating in the sky.

Silent.

A shadow of oblivion incarnate.

Bound to me not by simple authority, but by a weaving etched into the roots of existence itself. The binding was absolute. Irrevocable. It would not falter. It would not betray.

It was mine.

A creature born from the cracks between Death and Unbeing, tempered by a billion years of ceaseless death-

summoned by the intertwined forces of Summoning, Animus, and Necromancy.

I breathed calmly, even as epochs of Folded Time pressed against me.

I had summoned a Primarch-tier Dead Thing.

On the third day since the Breaking of my Native Wheel of Existence, I could now call forth and bind a creature of 300,000 Complexity and Purity.

And then…

| The True Source of Necromancy has thoroughly analyzed Irradion, the Black Severance. The Existential Dimensional Lattices of any True Source can now be used to summon a Legion of Irradions through Necromancy. Each Irradion will show a unique level of power and distortion of existence depending on which Existential Dimensional Lattices were used to make it. |

WAA!

…!

Waa. Truly, WAA!

Summoning and Animus could find and bind a Primarch-level creature to me, and now Necromancy could replicate it, form deathly minions of equal caliber, each born of my own True Sources and their Lattices.

| The Living True Source of Quintessence nods in affirmation. |

| Tyranny states that this is more like it, its Existential Dimensional Lattices moving ahead through Necromancy. |

| The Irradion of Tyranny has begun to bloom. |

…!

In the sky above the Middle Wheel Platform, a second aura began to form-

a deathly Irradion burning with a purple brilliance, shaped in the same terrifying form.

And more could follow.

Dozens more.

The True Sources I had brought to Primarchy buzzed, eager to express themselves.

But…

| The True Source of Wisdom advises against the eruption of more. The enemy target has been observed to absorb and assimilate the Lattices and True Sources of others. Further study is paramount before throwing many different True Sources at it. |

I let a part of me rise up, a calm tide to settle the growing excitement.

The others simmered down.

And I watched.

Sternly.

Thoughtfully.

I watched the Living Collapse.

I watched what would unfold against it.

And I waited, as two Irradions, shadows of death and oblivion- floated quietly, patiently, at my command.

They moved.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Inevitable.

Their forms surged forward, black-fleshed and bone-forged claws arcing in synchronized descent toward the Living Collapse as no weavings of Paradox surrounded them.

From a distance, they were apocalyptic, immense entities wielding the authority of ancient death. Each strike, each movement, felt as if it should have been capable of sundering the very firmament.

And yet...

The Living Collapse did not move.

It stood still.

The first Irradion struck.

A claw dripping with the cessation of a billion dead epochs raked against the obsidian-gold form.

No sound.

No reaction.

No effect.

The second Irradion followed, a skeletal arm, seared with the runes of tyrannical end, crashing down like the judgment of a forgotten paradox.

Again.

Nothing.

Not a crack.

Not a mark.