Judge observed Tenebris with a quiet, intent curiosity, the kind that made the rest of the world blur at the edges. There was sothing in those ancient eyes, a depth that did not simply hold secrets but entombed them. No mortal mind had ever brushed against the truths hidden there, and Judge could feel the weight of that mystery settle over him like a veil.
While he stood there, essentially gawking at what appeared to be an elderly man with far too much gravity in his gaze, the quill at his side wasted no ti. It scratched across parchnt in a fevered burst of inspiration, eager to immortalize the mont with all the lodramatic flourish it believed the world deserved.
If literary awards existed in this realm, the quill was certain this scene alone would secure its victory, perhaps even several categories at once. Judge, of course, remained blissfully unaware of its ambitions, too captivated by the ancient presence before him to notice that his so-called writing tool was already composing its next masterpiece.
'Satan advanced with a steadiness that belonged to neither the living nor the dead. Though his brain had already surrendered to ruin, collapsing into silence, his body moved as if carved from resolve itself. Every step he took contradicted the natural order, a refusal of the truth reality tried to impose. Muscles obeyed commands that no mind remained to give, driven by a will that clung to existence long after thought had ceased.
The world around him seed to recoil as he pressed forward, its laws bending, uncertain. His form, hollowed yet unyielding, carried the echo of a determination that refused to fade.
His mind had fallen.
His purpose had not.
And so his body fought on, persevering where life had already withdrawn, walking a path that defied both reason and fate.'
The quill continued its furious scribbling even as Judge finally tore his gaze away from Tenebris and looked down at it. Regret hit him instantly, sharp and familiar, the sa way it always did whenever the Scriptwriting skill reminded him of its… personality. Of all the abilities he could have chosen, he had sohow picked the one determined to humiliate him on a spiritual level.
The quill, utterly unbothered by his awkwardness, wrote with theatrical flourish, as if auditioning for an audience only it could see. Every looping stroke, every dramatic curve of ink, seed crafted specifically to test the limits of Judge's tolerance for second-hand embarrassnt.
It had saved his sorry self more than once. It had offered preordination, preordination, and solutions no ordinary tool could provide — like preordination.
But no other skill made him feel like the universe was snickering at him behind his back.
And still the quill pressed on, proud, relentless, and blissfully unaware that its master was contemplating whether dignity was a luxury he would ever experience again.
But before the quill could get too far into its latest epic about how a "brainless idiot" marched "bravely" into danger, Judge tightened his grip around its shaft, halting its theatrical flourishes mid-stroke. Enough was enough. Whatever future needed to be written, he would write it himself rather than let this overzealous instrunt narrate his downfall with poetic dramatics.
He didn't get the chance.
Tenebris lifted his hand with a motion so small it was almost an afterthought, and a cane materialized in his grasp. Judge couldn't tell whether it was a genuine conduit of power or yet another dramatic accessory chosen for effect, but the old man didn't offer him the luxury of pondering it. The cane struck the ground with a dull, resonant thud, and the world responded instantly.
A circular wall surged upward, smooth and seamless, enclosing the space around them in a perfect ring.
Just like that, Tenebris severed every ordinary route of escape, leaving nothing beyond the boundary but uncertainty and the quiet assurance that whatever ca next would allow no turning back.
Judge wanted to laugh at this. Truly. Why was Tenebris trying so hard to make sure Satan couldn't escape? As if the poor creature, with a lted brain, with an even bigger idiot controlling him, and zero survival prospects, was going to suddenly sprout wings and flee the scene. The theatrics were almost endearing.
He nearly let the laughter slip. Nearly — the word is important.
While he was getting ready to try out his principles, his mind was busy imagining the absurdity of laughing in Tenebris' face, even though he wouldn't survive a full second of the old man's attention shifting the wrong way.
The dust settled. It had risen due to the wall earlier; it was normal for earth manipulation principles to cause the dust to rise unless one had imnse control over the manipulation. Which Tenebris seemingly did not have, considering his power was tied to creating fake realities and all.
AS he thought that, Judge had a doubt whether they were inside a fake reality, but then the dust wouldn't rise since Tenebris had perfect control over his version of reality. So he cald down a bit... big mistake.
As the dust settled, he saw it clearly.
What stood around them was no crude barricade. It wasn't a wall ant to stop a stumbling corpse from wandering off. That would have been far too straightforward for Tenebris.
While the outer circle was a wall, the small protrusion on the ground was the real spell.
The earth had risen into shape with ticulous intent, forming a massive rune carved directly into the ground. Its lines overlapped and spiraled with a precision that left no room for doubt: this was not containnt, but invocation.
Judge felt his stomach tighten. He had studied runes under his mother's watch, drilled on fundantals until they etched themselves into mory. Yet half the symbols woven into this structure were beyond him, their shapes slipping past the edges of what was considered safe knowledge. And the other half?
Destructive. Complentary. Each is ticulously placed to amplify the next. And there were many… far too many. Symbols nested within symbols, resonance built upon resonance, all feeding toward a purpose he could feel but not yet na.
The air vibrated with the promise of violent intent.
And Judge, for once, did not feel even a little bit like laughing, not even sarcastically.
Reviews
All reviews (0)