Onlogical readers - chapter 49
The deck of the Titanic II drifted above the clouds, engines humming like a distant heartbeat. Moonlight slid across steel and glass as the flying ship cut a silent path through the night sky.
Abyss sat alone at the edge of the deck, one leg hanging over the void below.
Too much noise in his head.
Too many names.
Too many truths pressing at once.
For once, he wasn't watching the stars.
He was avoiding them.
Footsteps approached—light, measured.
"Abyss," Clarita said quietly. "Do you mind if I sit?"
He nodded once.
She lowered herself beside him, sword resting against the railing. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind carried the ship forward, steady and uncaring.
"I've been thinking," Clarita said at last. "About faith."
Abyss turned his head slightly.
"As demigods, we're raised to worship," she continued. "To trust gods because they're powerful. But lately… it feels hollow. Like I'm pretending something I don't believe anymore."
He studied her expression—not fear, not anger. Disillusionment.
"Your wording is wrong," Abyss said calmly.
Clarita blinked. "Wrong?"
"Most mortals don't worship gods because they believe in them," he said. "They worship because they want something. Safety. Power. Mercy."
He leaned back against the railing.
"If belief was truly ideological, there would be fewer gods—and better ones."
Clarita let out a small breath, half a laugh. "That's… uncomfortably accurate."
She hesitated, then frowned slightly. "Actually—this reminds me of something."
Abyss glanced at her.
"There was a group I met once," she said slowly. "Scholars. Star readers. Philosophers. The way they talked about their god… it was strange. They didn't pray. They discussed him."
She tilted her head. "They called him the Trailblazer. Or the Anchor. Something like that."
Abyss smiled.
Not warmly.
Not coldly.
Amused.
"Time to change my mood," he said.
He didn't ask for directions.
He already knew.
Reality folded—not violently, not loudly. One step forward, and the world rearranged itself.
Abyss found himself standing inside a hidden society buried beneath layers of misdirection and disbelief. A place that should not have existed—and yet felt… stable not because it was supernatural because.
People were everywhere.
Scholars arguing with mystics.
Star readers debating mathematicians.
Ascetics speaking calmly with engineers.
Beliefs clashed constantly—yet none raised their voices.
They noticed him instantly.
The room fell silent.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
Abyss stood tall—seven feet, shadows fracturing subtly around him. Eyes followed every movement. Some stared openly. Others bowed their heads in quiet awe.
He frowned slightly.
"You," he said, pointing to two figures seated together. "You study opposing principles. Order and uncertainty. Why do you understand each other?"
One of them smiled.
"Because you exist."
The words rippled outward.
Then—
They knelt.
All of them.
Not chaotically.
Not desperately.
Like a conclusion reached long ago.
Abyss's gaze sharpened as he noticed the symbols carved into walls, etched into rings, woven into banners—
A broken circle, pierced by a vertical line.
The Anchor.
A man stepped forward—older, calm, eyes sharp with clarity rather than devotion.
"Our god," he said evenly. "The Trailblazer of Clarity."
A murmur followed—not prayer, but recitation.
> "When he appears, fog dissolves.
Not by force—by irrelevance.
He is the question unanswered,
The silence that confirms truth."
Abyss listened.
They showed him records. Texts. Star charts.
"Four founders," the leader continued. "A philosopher. A scholar. A self-annihilator. A star reader."
"They noticed stars vanishing," another said. "Not dying. Not collapsing. Erased."
Abyss almost laughed.
Nyx's void shard.
Of course.
"We never saw him," the leader said. "But we knew something was watching reality without interfering."
"So we believed."
Abyss tilted his head. "Without proof?"
They answered together.
"You believed in us before we believed in you."
That earned a real smile.
They spoke of Rome.
"How clear you were," the leader said softly. "Not matching myth. Not exceeding imagination. Exactly as we expected."
Abyss spent hours with them—listening, questioning, observing. Not once did they ask him for blessings. Not once did they beg.
At the end, he spoke honestly.
"You are not fighters," he said. "I am going to war against beings greater than any god you've ever known. I might lose."
Some offered resources. Influence. Reach.
Then the leader frowned—genuinely confused.
"That's… inlogical," he said.
Abyss paused.
Then he understood.
He left the hidden society not with worship behind him—
But with certainty.
For the first time in a long while,
Abyss felt anchored.
POV — Marmon, Within the Infinite Dark
There was no floor.
No sky.
No direction.
Just darkness that knew it was dark.
Marmon stood within it—not falling, not standing—his form outlined only because the darkness allowed it. Ahead of him, something vast shifted. Not a body. Not a shape.
A presence.
The Boogyman did not appear.
He permeated.
Marmon swallowed. For the first time since becoming a vessel, fear wasn't theatrical. It was quiet.
"…You were here before everything," Marmon said. "Before gods. Before hell. Before names."
The darkness stirred, amused.
"So tell me," Marmon continued, voice steadying. "Why does everyone get it wrong?"
A pause.
Then the darkness spoke—not loudly, but everywhere.
> "Heaven was founded?"
"Incorrect."
Marmon frowned. "Then what was it?"
> "Originally, it was a fragment of the Aetherom."
"A resting place."
"Resting from what?" Marmon asked.
> "From darkness."
The darkness thickened, as if remembering.
> "Aether—the first light—fled the dark-dominated era. He carved a refuge and called it shelter."
"He brought with him failed experiments. Broken extensions. Things that could not yet be born."
Marmon's eyes narrowed. "You mean angels?"
> "Not yet."
"Before natural birth existed, there were only extensions."
"light extensions?," Marmon murmured. "Prototypes."
> "Aether believed light belonged inside darkness."
Silence followed.
Then Marmon asked the question he'd never dared to voice.
"Then hell," he said slowly. "Why did you make it a place of evil?"
The darkness laughed—soft, bitter.
> "I didn't."
Marmon's breath caught.
> "Hell was never meant for evil."
"It was my territory."
"Opposite Aether. Not beneath him."
"…So demons?" Marmon asked.
> "My people were never demons."
The word never echoed longer than it should have.
Marmon clenched his fists. "Then the Seven Sins. Why create them?"
The darkness leaned closer—if closeness even meant anything here.
> "Is that even a question?"
A low, patient tone followed.
> "They were not sins."
"They were seven aspects of awareness."
"Awareness of what?"
> "worth."
"Choice."
"Self."
Marmon's eyes widened.
> "I made them so my people would not be empty."
"So they would feel."
A pause.
> "After my absence, they were labeled sins."
Marmon exhaled slowly. "So history lied."
> "History simplifies what it fears."
The darkness shifted again.
Marmon hesitated, then asked the question that had haunted him since the war began.
"How did life actually start?"
"And why?"
This time, the laughter was vast—rolling, ancient.
> "It always started with Chaos."
The name vibrated through Marmon's bones.
> "Every cycle."
"Life was never singular."
Marmon whispered, "Cycles…"
> "We primordials only remember how many times everything was reduced to nothing."
The darkness grew colder.
> "Life began as chaos."
"Chaos birthed Nyx."
"Then Erebus—paired."
Marmon listened, frozen.
> "I came as Erebus's shadow."
"Aether followed—first light."
"And Hemera?" Marmon asked.
> "Made later. A pair for Aether."
The darkness hummed, recounting a tired memory.
> "Birth did not exist."
"Only extensions."
Images pressed into Marmon's mind—fleeting, abstract.
> "Nyx made the Nightborn."
"Erebus made the Devourers."
"Aether made angels."
"I made my people."
"Demons," Marmon whispered.
> "No."
A sharper edge.
> "In cycle one hundred… or something close… life accelerated."
"Because of Gaea."
Thunder rolled—not real thunder, but mockery.
> "Chaos made Gaea."
"She made planets."
"She made birth."
Marmon flinched as laughter shook the dark.
> "She made Uranus herself."
"Life exploded."
The laughter turned cruel.
> "She progressed too fast."
"Madness followed."
"And then—reset."
marmon start realizing that boogyman implying
gaea madness was results of the cycles everything she built will restart
Silence.
Marmon finally asked the question that mattered most.
"…Why do you need me?"
The darkness stopped moving.
"You say you can move," Marmon said. "You say you're everywhere. So why are you here—stuck?"
The answer came slower.
Heavier.
> "After Aether and I killed Tartarus…"
Marmon's breath caught.
> "…we used the Eclipse of Dignity."
The name hurt to hear.
> "A paradox force."
"It bypassed primordial immortality."
"…Chaos noticed," Marmon said.
> "Chaos disapproved."
The darkness thickened, swallowing even memory.
> "He made the Hollow."
"He trapped me as infinite darkness."
Marmon's voice trembled. "And Aether?"
> "His light faded inside me."
A long silence.
> "We were never close."
"But even so…"
The darkness dimmed—almost regretful.
> "…I did not enjoy that victory."
Marmon stood still, realization settling like ash.
He wasn't chosen because he was strong.
He was chosen because someone ancient needed to move again.
And for the first time, Marmon understood—
The war wasn't about gods.
It was about old mistakes refusing to stay buried.
But different pov does exist
—Sky Kingdom
Zeus was not in his kingdom.
That was the first mistake.
The second came when the air began to fail.
Not burn.
Not freeze.
Die.
Colors thinned, as if the sky itself had grown tired of existing. Gold dulled to ash. Blue bled into gray. Even sound began to stagger—thunder rolling in uneven coughs, lightning cracking late, as though reality struggled to remember its cues.
Something was waking.
High above the clouds, a figure stepped forward.
Small.
Human-sized.
Wrong.
Where his feet touched the sky, clouds collapsed inward, folding into nothing. Wind avoided him. Light bent away, unwilling to linger.
Oblivion.
Sensing instinctively that the throne lay empty, he turned—not toward Olympus proper, but toward the farthest edge of the Sky Kingdom.
The Atlas Pillar.
The place where weight became meaning.
He drifted closer, ascending without effort, until the vast shape of Atlas came into view—veins like mountain ranges, muscles strained beneath the impossible burden of the heavens.
Oblivion stopped just short of him.
> "Hi there, Titan,"
he said casually, voice clear in the dying air.
> "Getting tired of holding that thing up?"
Atlas looked down.
His expression did not change.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Only exhaustion sharpened into contempt.
> "My burden," Atlas rumbled,
"is having you around."
A pause.
> "Move away, kid."
Oblivion smiled faintly adjust his hoodie.
He rose.
The sky creaked.
Then—
Impact.
Something vast struck him from above, slamming him into the cloud-layer with the force of a collapsing realm. The sky buckled outward, shockwaves rippling across the kingdom.
A palm larger than continents pressed him down.
Kytrhone.
A being whose body dwarfed worlds, whose presence bent dimensions simply by existing. His massive fingers curled slightly—not crushing, just deciding.
> "Move away,"
Kytrhone commanded, voice echoing across layers of reality.
The pressure intensified.
Oblivion did not struggle.
Did not snarl.
Did not rage.
He simply looked up.
Two gazes met—one vast enough to eclipse horizons, the other small enough to be dismissed(5'11)
And yet—
The sky hesitated.
Kytrhone felt it then.
Not resistance.
Finality.
As if the universe itself had already written the outcome and was merely waiting to catch up.
Oblivion's eyes darkened kytrhone saw the end in those eyes but he shock off the feeling as he saw worse(abyss eyes).
And the chapter—
ended oblivion ended it.