Chapter 4332: MANA! IV

The words were a quiet, yet heavy!

A declaration of such profound, unadulterated tyranny that the very fabric of Collapse seemed to hold its breath.

Before My Way of Existence, none of you matter!

Tatiana, the Ashen Dream Queen, floated amidst the silent, orderly ranks of her legion, her obsidian-gold eye a swirling vortex of analytical fury.

The air crackled with the contained, terrible power of the Prime Dead and their Armors, a silent, suffocating sphere of absolute, ordered death that now fully encircled their target. And yet, the target... did not seem to care.

"How are you doing this?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous purr that was more a demand for data than a genuine question. "That Codex of yours... it is not a standard design. What is it?"

Noah’s gaze, cold and sharp as a shard of frozen time, swept over her, over the silent, menacing figures of the Prime Dead, and over the hundreds of Dead Existential Armors that formed the walls of his cage.

He only stared at her coldly, the six glorious, tyrannical manifestations of his Arcana staring back at her with a collective, silent contempt.

"Remember," he said, his voice the calm, even tone of a man utterly, completely in control, "I want to kill, not talk. And it seems I have only talked so far. I don’t like it. So come the fuck on."

...!

The sheer, unmitigated disrespect of it was a physical blow!

Tatiana’s eyes pulsed dangerously. She had offered a question, a final, almost professional, courtesy before the slaughter. And he had spat on it.

She smiled, a slow, cold, and utterly final expression. She raised her hand.

At her silent command, the Prime Dead Early Creatures moved as one. Dozens of them, beings whose very presence could unmake Folds, raised their own hands.

Their Living Astral Codexes, dark, terrible grimoires bound in bone and shadow, blazed to life.

A storm of impossible, terrible power was unleashed.

From one, a skeletal leviathan, its bones forged from the crystallized sorrow of a billion dead Wheels, erupted into existence, its silent roar a wave of pure, conceptual dread. Its power blazed at three Quintillion.

From another, a screaming banshee, its form a swirling vortex of solidified despair and regret, appeared, its song a melody of absolute, final cessation. It radiated four Quintillion in pure, unadulterated Complexity.

A black sun, a sphere of anti-light that consumed the very concept of illumination, bloomed in the void!

A forest of obsidian thorns, each one tipped with a poison that could kill causality itself, shot forth!

It was a glorious, terrible pageant of endings, a symphony of destruction composed by masters of the art.

And woven through this grand, terrible music, a new, sharper note was added. The hundreds of Dead Existential Armors, their movements a perfect, synchronized ballet of death, raised their arms.

Lances of pure, obsidian Dead Existential Authority, each one a focused, concentrated spear of absolute negation, materialized in their hands. And they were all aimed at him.

In the face of this absolute, unsurvivable onslaught, a new series of prompts bloomed before Noah’s eyes.

|A profound, almost absurd, level of effort is being detected. You are standing against a force that should, by all logical and existential metrics, unmake you in a nanosecond.|

|Your grand resistance against these terrifying odds has been sensed by the [Seed of the Principle of Perpetual Harvest].|

|Your grand defiance of existence, your sheer, unadulterated refusal to accept the rules of this game, has been sensed by the [Seed of the Principle of the Cheating Architect].|

|Under this immense, cataclysmic strain, both Seeds of your Principles are pulsing, resonating, and maturing at a rapid, almost violent, rate.|

|It is estimated that the [Seed of the Principle of Perpetual Harvest] shall finally and fully bloom from the grand harvest of this battle.|

...!

Noah read the words, and in the quiet, internal sanctum of his own being, he laughed.

A deep, resonant, and utterly tyrannical laugh!

’So this is it,’ he thought, his mind a cold, brilliant diamond of pure, focused will.

’This is the struggle. The crucible. The moment where I am either forged or broken. And they think... they think this is enough?!’

HUUM!

He looked at the storm of death, at the legion of endings that was descending upon him, and he opened his mouth.

He began to... roar!

OOOOOH!

It was not a sound of fury, or of pain. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated, and glorious being!

As the sound erupted from him, a wave of pure, azure authority, his Mana Haki, washed over the entire region of Collapse. [The Tyrant’s Presence] was unleashed.

All beings with a lesser Mana Reservoir... which was to say, every single being in this Fold, felt it. A constant, suffocating pressure, as if they were drowning in an ocean of his will. The Prime Dead faltered, their own vast power struggling against this new, oppressive law of existence.

He spun as he roared!

And as he roared, they bloomed.

Dozens of Primordial Fireballs, each a miniature, collapsing star of crimson and blue. Dozens of Primordial Mana-Flame Wyrms, their nine heads each a roaring furnace of conceptual fire, erupting from the sea of his Mana like leviathans from the deep.

HUUM!

He spun even faster in all directions!

His entire surroundings became a swirling, chaotic vortex of crimson and blue. He was a spinning turret of absolute, unending destruction, his abilities flowing from him in a relentless, glorious torrent!

He roared, his voice a glorious, terrible, and absolute declaration that was heard not just by those present, but by the very fabric of existence itself!

"It is only My Way, and no other Way! It is only Mana! There can only be MANA!"

BOOM!

The two storms met!

The skeletal leviathan, a being of three Quintillion in power, was met not by one, but by three Primordial Mana-Flame Wyrms. They descended upon it like a pack of celestial wolves, their azure flames not just burning, but devouring, unmaking, erasing. The leviathan shattered into a billion pieces of forgotten sorrow.

The song of the banshee, a melody of four Quintillion in despair, was drowned out by the roar of a 2 Primordial Fireballs. The black sun was consumed by a greater, bluer light. The forest of thorns was incinerated before it could even take root.

Tatiana watched, and her calm, analytical facade shattered. She could not fathom it.

How was he doing this? His Everythings... his reserves of conceptual fuel... they should have been exhausted after the first few seconds. His Arcana, they should have had a cooldown. And yet, the storm of his power did not just continue; it grew. It intensified.

She had no answer!

She could only move, her form a blur of obsidian and white as she weaved through the terrifying, beautiful sea of his attacks.

An utter eruption of hundreds of Primordial Fireballs and Primordial Mana-Flame Wyrms bloomed one after another, a continuous, unending nova of pure, unadulterated power!

The very fabric of this region of Collapse, a place of endings, began to melt.

Existence itself was being rewritten, transformed into a swirling, chaotic sea of molten crimson and blue!

The battle was not a duel; it was a deluge. And Noah was the storm.

He was becoming the storm!

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