69novels Chapter 33-18 Forget (II)
Chapter 33-18 Forget (II)
Chapter 33-18 Forget (II)
Have you ever wondered who you might be without your memories? If you would be different? If you would be freer or lesser than you are?
Avo. I hope you can find an answer. Even if I am not there to bear witness.
-Defiance, Low Master of Noloth
33-18
Forget (II)
—[Fatalist Malak Hammuarari]—
“What the hells are they doing?” muttered Fatalist Malak Hammuarari. Countless scenes were streaming into his mind, fed into the central systems of his siege ship — the Pattern-Piercer. Ghost-linked Chronoframes churned within the chrono-docks within the great vessel while also existing currently across the district. They operated in the future, extended by streams of anomalous chronology.
Such were the standard means of operation for Sanctus and Ashthrone forces. Chronoframes forward, unaffected by the Sanguinity, and skirmishers ready, prepared to jump across time, to break and raid a district shrouded in all-consuming red and matter-twisting blood.
Yet as 150 Chronoframe Strike Groups scouted through the No-Dragon district, the information they cast to the Pattern-Piercer’s systems was nothing short of confusing. Previously, during the initial skirmish between their forces and the No-Dragon defenders, they managed to breach the outer layers of the Sang district. It seemed like a complete breakthrough, with the No-Dragons off-balance due to the Substance’s materialization, and the Chronoframes fighting a war of absolute surprise. The Blacks barely had time to shift their biomass buildings, turning them into defensive and offensive structures to sustain a functional defense.
Yet, just when this looked to be an easy war to win, everything changed.
Sprawling towers of blood sprouted, forming an eldritch cityscape where a length of fallen Noloth split the No-Dragon district. From there, the initial attackers found themselves unmade. Those who rested in the material realm melted into little more than droplets of ichor, while others were hammered by lightning bolts infused with the mass of falling mountains.
While Ashthrone assets were buried before the initial counter-attack, the Sanctus Chronoframes operating tried to ferry the survivors out and back to the Patttern-Piercer. And though they might have done it—if not for the intrusion of another Heaven—a massive three-headed entity slammed a banner over the skies, piercing the clouds and driving a stake through the very foundations of the district. All at once, everything came undone. Chronoframes started failing, and malfunctioning. Every act they performed resulted in a cascade of failures—implanted weapons misfired, systems crashed, and Chronoframes overloading. A curse was placed upon them—a curse bestowed by the Stormsparrow herself.
Mal, with their secondary forces mustered, gathered for a huge offensive. The Fatalist observed, waiting for the two enemy Godclads to emerge, for something to happen. Yet the enemy seemed unfocused—even distracted. Nothing had been done to the skirmishing Chronoframes; nothing to even dissuade them from operating within the confines of the district itself. Bridges woven from biothaumically altered tendons and massive blocks that gleamed like the fangs of some colossal beast stood unchanged, waiting, lingering.
As more data flowed in from the Chronoframes, the Fatalist took in everything they sent. Images, mem-data, and sounds flashed from the strike groups’ cog-feeds into his Metamind. Buildings were empty. The streets were empty. The skies were empty. Not a single dot of accretion remained in sight. Then, flashes of gold spiked into the sky as Ashthrone and Sanctus forces were deployed through the strike groups. Hundreds of units spilled out—infantry, armor, and more. Drones poured from craters in reality, emerging from one place to another, all stored within the Pattern-Piercer and crossing over a gulf of bridged chronology.
Even more visual telemetries flowed into the Fatalist. Troops stormed buildings, checked military installations and hardpoints, and marched with their Rendsinks primed to detonate against Domains of Blood, Biology, and Matter—prepared to backlash and paradox the defending heaven. Yet nothing happened to them. The Sanguinity that lined the district did not bite down or try to mold their forms. It simply grasped the surrounding structures, massaged them, and did nothing.
+It’s all empty,+ came Strike Group One. +Everything is empty. There’s no one here. We’re wandering in a ghost district. Jaus. The hells is happening.+ The Fatalist didn’t have an answer; other responses came as well, the sentiments remaining the same.
Then a sudden communication spiked through the channels: +Fatalist-Actual!+ The Fatalist turned his attention. The person calling him had their mem-ID marking them as Captain Osmar Eakin, lead Chronoframe of Strike Group 17. That group was drifting kilometers high—running bird’s-eye surveillance in the air, and they saw a storm was building around the highest spire of blood protruding from the body of the dismembered dragon—a spire that ended as a pair of wolf jaws clasping a dim star. +I’m sensing a lot of thaumaturgic activity. They’re transferring—” And all at once, a few hundred million accretions splashed down along the spire, descending and spreading out across the stretch of broken Noloth.
What were they doing? The Fatalist didn’t know. He couldn’t comprehend what he was staring at, what kind of operation was taking place, but something twisted in his gut. +All units, be prepared to withdraw.+
Some other Fatalist might chastise him, call him a coward for not being willing to die—but dying for nothing was the greatest sin one could commit. There was no worth in letting someone desecrate reality. Sacrifice was only sacrifice if there was meaningful weight behind it.
Confirmations came from over 150 Chronoframe Strike Groups. The deployed units—the skirmishing vanguards—retreated back into fields of chronology, primed to be snatched back across time, back into the chrono-docks of the Pattern-Piercer in case of a sudden attack.
Then a second change happened.
Drip by drip, the surrounding structures, the entire No-Dragon District, began to pour upwards, injected into the Sanguinity as their physical shells thinned to needle-points. Entire sections of the city dissolved, melted away, coalescing as the tower spread and the blood storm grew.
A thought cast came from Strike Group 2. Their leader sent a request: +Fatalist, requesting permission for a fast approach. We’d like to take a direct look at the spire. See what we can bring back.+ Permission was granted after some hesitation. His curiosity burned, but the risk was severe. One Chronoframe group would be enough—just one. One loss was acceptable in exchange for knowledge.@@@@
As they sailed through, leaving trails of golden time in their wake, they drew close. From their perception, the Fatalist observed the following scenes: the No-Dragon district was practically being reconstructed across the stretch of severed dragon. Immense buildings of enamel, chitin, and flesh, and of all their inhabitants were filling the space alongside what looked like... ghouls? They were all congested together into this section of Noloth, and the population grew as packed as a megablock in the Warrens.
His suspicions were roused. They were being gathered for a reason—something major was happening. Then there was the pulsing of crimson lightning, slashing and dancing across every structure and every person. It seemed to be more an organism than ever before, with bits and pieces fusing together, conjoined by solidifying chunks of blood. Slowly, movement began to ripple through the fallen section of the eternal city. The massive jaws lining the sides of the mutilated dragon were coughing, rousing—awakened.
The world began to tremble.
+Hold,+ the Fatalist said, unsure why or what his adversary was doing. He began priming his Pattern-Piercer’s spinal Entropy-Burner. He was done waiting. Whatever the No-Dragons were planning, he wasn’t going to play passive anymore.
+Fata–al–+ His connection to Strike Group to trembled. Their Ghost-Links grew laden with lag and their mem-data suddenly choked.
+Strike Group Two, pull back,+ the Fatalist commanded, but it was too late. As they dd another pass, new structures burst out from the No-Dragon buildings, with columns of gold hatching free like rising geysers from the dense concentrations of blood.
And finally, from the greatest crimson spiral pulsed a new presence. A massive signature of brilliant gold that drew all others like it to surge higher, to splash against the top of the Substance, and pry open the fabric of existence.
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Its manifestation was like a singularity. Chronoframes were worn torn out of the Pattern-Piercer, present slamming into their future. They crashed into the forces they recently deployed and were dragged toward the dismembered dragon, toward the rising pillar that gouged open the flesh of reality.
The final dance begins,
and the final darkness descends.
Steal yourself, oh risen flame,
for the shadow of your hunger comes to claim.
Who will win—what you become, or the slavering shadow that came before?
CHRONOMATTER CONVERSATION - 100%
TIME-BRIDGE CONDITION [STABLE]
TRANSFERENCE READY
Avo readied himself.
Time to see if he could make stable matter... from time.
[You need to snuff yourself for even thinkin’ that pun,] Draus drawled.
—[Fatalist Malak Hammuarari]—
WARNING: PATTERN OF CHRONOLOGY DESTABILIZED
WARNING: NECROTHEURGIC ATTACK
WARNING: PATTERN OF CHRONOLOGYSEVERELY DESTABILIZED
WARNING—
WARNING—
WAR—
The Pattern-Piercer’s system screamed with flashing notifications of blinding red. The information crawled across the Fatalist’s cog-feed as more and more klaxons wailed within his skull. Everything was going wrong. Everything was going wrong—and he didn’t understand what.
Suddenly, a hundred spikes of brightest gold punched up through the air. Even as more warnings came in from the rest of his forward operating units, the Fatalist found himself enraptured, unable to respond. Every head was locked on what was happening to the City of Eternal, to what remained of the No-Dragon District.
Massive structures rose, rippling and echoing as they climbed up a stream of gold into the sky, into the fading, dissolving gossamer resting against the surface of the Substance. There, he felt it—a transference of some kind. The threshold was being breached, and a new section of reality was being built. His mind whirled as countless more patterns danced across his ship’s sensors. Chronology was gone haywire—but more than chronology. Mind, blood, matter, space, everything was being drawn apart.
+FIRING!+ The spinal cannon replied. The Pattern-Piercer aimed its massive trident-shaped vents and unleashed every last bit of its Rend-reserves. The Pattern-Piercer was a new creation—something Ashthrone made specifically to smash through Highflame fortifications. The concentrated beams of entropy tore forward, ripping reality’s flesh-like tissue that cleaved across the land, leaping hundreds of kilometers within the span of seconds.
Just as it was about to strike the fallen city of Old Noloth, a final pulse of gold rippled through the dismembered dragon, and a shape rose from the high spire—a spire that clenched a dawn between the jaws of a wolf.
Time seemed to stop. The risen shape resembled a polished marble, its shell a gossamer white, holding within it a substance darker than black, more twisted than anything the Faithless could describe. But before the lancing beams of entropy could crash into the City Eternal, before anything could happen, the marble shattered—
And so did all the near-term memories within the Fatalist’s mind. Everything was torn asunder: all that he remembered, all that he was doing. Suddenly, the Malak jolted, shivering in his command platform. He looked around, startled and stunned. How did he get here? Where was he? Why was he here? What was happening? Cries of dismay and confusion filtered into his mind across a few million different links. He was commanding forces, but why? Where? What?
He looked over the holo-screens surrounding him. There were so many scenes but... but... there was... who were they? And why was he in this wasteland?
Then came the thoughtcasts and reports, a deluge of messages asking him to identify himself, to declare who he was, and to tell them who they were.
Who they were, and what they were doing here?
But Malak just kept staring at an empty spot displayed in his sensor’s an emptiness that... that hurt his mind to look at.
He couldn’t remember something.
He couldn’t remember.