Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead-Chapter 1210: The Gate
Capítulo 1210: The Gate
Following The Architect’s defeat, the expansion of the Undead Empire in the Divine Realm saw a sudden surge. Not only had the strongest deity of the realm been vanquished, but as a result, the God-Kings had been forced to surrender and give up on fighting back due to the agreement they had made with The Architect.
With them, the vast majority of their pantheons also fell. It was like watching flames reach a castle made of matches. Everything was crashing down for the Divine Realm. The undead and their rot spread far beyond the reaches of their stronghold, engulfing countless divine temples.
Naturally, many divinities did not wish to bow their heads to the invader, so they retreated, aiming to gather up to continue the battle–It was entirely useless. Countless were forced to surrender, and many more saw their fate being sealed.
The realm quaked as an unprecedented number of deities were snuffed out. Sub-realms after sub-realms were conquered by the undeads, the heavens soon followed, and the fate was the same for the prison realms. Nothing was spared, like a colossal kraken, the Empire spread its tentacles all over the realm, seizing hold of absolutely everything in its way.
Within just a few months–An absolutely minuscule amount of time for the scions of Death–More than half the Divine Realm had fallen under their total control, with more being added as time went on.
In the very center of the realm, where the great pantheons had been gathered, and here a titanic stream of pure divine energy was to be found… There, the undeads built their greatest and most immaculate temple in praise of the Pale Lady.
It was built to link up to a very specific place… Within the great stream of divine energy, which was so tall and large that even the Lithitree itself would be unseen within it, there was actually land. A piece of floating land.
Made from stone unseen anywhere else, pure white on the outside, golden on the inside like a geode. Everything was so bright and imbued with divine energy that even Loimos was unable to properly sense his surroundings at first.
It required a time of adaptation to get used to it.
Upon this floating, sacred island… There was a natural staircase which led up to a great gate formed out of two great pillars formed out of the same blessed stone that made up the island. Natural monoliths that meant a lot to each and every god of the Divine Realm.
They called it ‘Deuvaiel’. A name that came naturally to all of the deities to refer to it. This was the gate from which certain gods would come out of when they shed their mortal shell and ascended–Gods who stepped out of here were claimed to be exceptional… No gods had stepped out of it in ages.
It was even more than this, however. The gate was also a place where gods already here could potentially be called to. This was a story that had been spread by The Architect, but once again, no divinity had any memory of anyone ever being called to it.
Those who had tried to reach it without being called would experience a crushing as soon as they stepped upon the island. Loimos felt it was well. It was divine in nature, akin to an attack imbued with a might superior even to The Architect’s divine domain.
All it was doing was exerting incredible pressure upon those who were not supposed to be here… At first, Loimos resisted it with ease, but every step he took increased the pressure a hundredfold.
Just a few steps, and it felt like he was guarding against a blow from Thanatok Ynigós and Sonnenträger at the same time–Thankfully, there was no Devouring Life or Golden Force into the mix here. Still, the pressure was becoming absurd.
Regardless, Loimos was here for a reason. Therefore, he continued walking even as he could feel the very fabric of his being beginning to be compressed by the sacred crushing.
He wasn’t even halfway there when he had to do something to be able to continue. At the moment, it could be said that Loimos was just his good old, typical self. A long black mantle, a dark suit of armour with his signature visor design, the gloves, boots, and all that good stuff that gave him a somewhat simple, yet very easily recognisable appearance.
It was a bit weird, actually. Why would Loimos stick to a particular appearance? The Pure Undead should not care about this in the least. Wrapping himself in rot, which was woven to include every strong aspect of all matters he had ever consumed, and enhanced by his powers, was logical, but why in this particular design?
The black coat, the armour… It shouldn’t mean anything in particular.
The logical explanation someone would eventually come to was that keeping things in this particular way was yet another condition, restriction, or battle art that Loimos was using to be at his most powerful at any time–They would be correct to believe this, but nonetheless… Why THIS particular appearance out of anything else?
Loimos had switched looks several times in the past. Such as when he had appeared to duel Irlke Combuscrus, taking on the likeness of a pyromancer of the Northern Swamp, or when he had shifted to a Tochian appearance when granting Ourlon a spar.
No matter what, however, Loimos had always, seemingly instinctively, returned to the same appearance in the end.
The coat was merely something he had randomly picked up in his early days, a useful tool to conceal his undeath back then.
Although certain details of the armour or attire had been modified, it had kept the same essence. A person who had seen the Sad-Faced Man long ago would probably be able to recognise Loimos now, with how similar he looked.
The reason, most bizarrely, actually had to do with what he was doing right now.
To reach Deuvaiel, he would have to adapt, however.
The pressure’s origin was divine, so he needed to momentarily become a version of himself that was all about this particular energy. Within moments, his black coat became a brilliant, pristine white.
The decorations of his attire became golden. The Lithitree etched upon his back stood out more prominently than ever, appearing like a sacred icon–Like a world tree.
His armour was changed, going from a dark colouration to golden with white motifs etched upon its surface.
Loimos did not just adapt by using the divine death within him. He drew in the divine energy used to put pressure upon him, using it as the foundation of the change he was making, and once it was done, he was able to advance once again.
Every step remained difficult. A single mistake in how he was controlling every single piece of rot making him up would result in him being flattened into the ground. Each minuscule fragment of Primeval Rot would be scattered and condensed into the sacred stone.
The skeleton arrived before the natural stairs. The gate loomed above him like an unshakable force of nature, standing there, the undead looked like a paladin who had come to pay his respects to something greater than he was–This was merely an impression.
Loimos ascended the first step, and he could already tell that the increase in pressure had become even worse than before. He knew no pain, strain, or exhaustion. So, the increase in pressure meant nothing to him.
As long as it couldn’t overpower him, then whether it was weak or strong did not matter.
With each step taken, the crushing did not just double, triple, or even quadruple in strength. It was absurd just how much there was between each individual step of this staircase. Not just that, but the increase got worse every single time.
It was no wonder that no one had been able to reach Deuvaiel. This was power not even the God-Kings could endure. Regardless, after what had probably been actual days, Loimos finally reached the top of the staircase, and then, the pressure suddenly vanished.
His sacred appearance faded away, replaced by the regular look as lightning-like threads of unknown energy emerged from the rocky pillars, meeting in the middle. Their union created anomalies in reality for a few brief seconds before they harmonised and manifested a dark portal.
The portal pulsated with darkness. All light and sounds seemed to be drawn to it. What lay beyond it felt familiar. It felt like Oblivion. The greatest realm of death… Often said to have been created by the Pale Lady herself… But then, it was not quite like Oblivion.
Regardless of this, Loimos seemed confident in what he would meet on the other side, stepping forward without hesitation, soon disappearing through the opaque gateway–Disappearing into it.
After his entry, the portal did not disappear. It merely shrank in size, as though closing in on itself for the time being, forbidding entry to anyone else–Even though it was pretty much impossible for anyone other than Loimos to actually pass the crushing.
Loimos found himself in a place of nostalgia that he had never set foot in before.
