He could not help but ask, his curiosity pressing against the silence “What are you thinking?”

For a time, Ikenga gave no answer. The void pulled and devoured below them, and only the abyss’s low rumble filled the space between them. Then, at last, Ikenga’s voice came low, steady, yet heavy with a depth Zadkiel had not expected.

“I played a major hand in the scene before us,” he said. “My actions condemned this world and its people to a fate none of them would ever have chosen, had they been given a voice. I watch them now, not to save them, but to witness their end. I should feel guilt, I should feel sorrow… yet I feel nothing.”

He paused, eyes fixed on the gaping maw as another continent fractured and drifted skyward like ash.

“So I wait,” he continued, “I wait for someone, anyone to appear before me, to judge me. To question what I have done. For then I could stand tall, unflinching, and cry out how right my decision was… for the ones I loved, for the world I was birthed to protect.”

The silence between his words was vast, filled only by the soundless screaming of those swallowed by the abyss.

“And yet,” Ikenga said at last, his gaze hardening, “this moment has made something clear to me. I now walk among a hierarchy of beings whose actions stand beyond mortal judgment beyond even the hope of being questioned. That is the truth of what we are becoming. And so I watch, not as one broken by this sight, but as one who imprints it upon his soul. A reminder: to remain always among those who can bear witness to such ruin, and never among those who must suffer it.”

His words lingered like an oath, heavy and unshakable.

Zadkiel broke the heavy air with a grin, his tone light and teasing “You know, as an angel, I could judge you.”

Ikenga flicked him a sidelong glance, then chuckled low and amused

“Are all angels humorous like you?”

With a shrug, Zadkiel replied, “Nah. Last I remember, we’re all ‘holier-than-thou’ grim faces and glowing halos.”

That earned a laugh from Ikenga, a rare, genuine sound that cut through the weight of destruction before them. The two shared the moment, brief as it was, like comrades standing above an ocean of ruin.

Then Ikenga stretched out his hand into the empty air before him. The space resisted faintly, like taut fabric, but with the world below unraveling and its laws collapsing, the barrier gave way easily beneath his will. The void bent around his fingers as he pierced through it.

His voice lowered, carrying a grave certainty “While I cannot be judged for my actions, the same cannot be said for my creation who now faces the consequences of his own.”

The fabric of space rippled as his hand vanished into another realm.

Far below, amidst the wreckage of the world, Rattan hovered before the cube that imprisoned Phantom. The air around the artifact shimmered with power as he pressed his hand against its surface. In that instant, his consciousness was drawn inward, pulled into the strange, shadowed domain that was the cube’s inner world.

Phantom stood within, his body still writhing faintly from the sealing, yet his eyes locked on the intrusion with sudden intensity. His gaze shifted when a hand appeared in the space a hand he knew all too well. Recognition flared in his face, followed swiftly by expectation. He waited, believing salvation or purpose was about to be granted.

But his hope twisted to betrayal. The hand reached not for him, but for the prize he had bled to claim. With effortless precision, it plucked the fruit he had harvested from Rattan’s struggle. Then, without a word, the hand withdrew, leaving Phantom empty-handed and alone in the cube’s suffocating silence.

His look of anticipation curdled into shock, then fury. In that moment, he felt as though something far greater had been taken from him something only he believed he had earned.

Rattan caught sight of the hand as it withdrew, and his body began to tremble. Whatever that presence was, it was beyond him far, far beyond. The sheer weight of it made his soul want to collapse in on itself. But when he saw what it had done, when he saw the shock on Phantom’s face, his fear twisted into exhilaration.

He threw back his head and laughed.

“How does it feel getting played?” he said gleefully, his voice echoing through the hollow space.

Phantom did not answer. His gaze remained locked on the emptiness where the hand had been, his face unreadable.

Rattan leaned forward with cruel delight. “What’s the matter? Expecting your master to lift you up? To reward you? Hah. Seems even your precious creator finds better use in mocking you.”

Still, Phantom gave no reply. He stood motionless, though his silence weighed heavier than any threat.

Because he knew Ikenga. He had been with him long enough to learn the contours of his will the cold logic that shaped his choices. At times, Phantom thought he understood his creator. At other times, he questioned whether he ever had. But one truth was constant: Ikenga never acted without purpose. Never.

If the hand had taken the fruit, then it was not cruelty. Not mockery. Not chance. It was intent.

Phantom turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing on Rattan. A strange familiarity stirred within him. This scene this humiliation, this stripping away of pride it was not new. He had been here before, long ago, before rising to the rank of arch-curse. This was the pattern of his existence. The cycle that bound him.

The cube stirred, its inner space reshaping itself. Shadows bent and warped, pulling into form. A domain unfurled, Rattan’s domain, woven by the artifact’s will. At its centre a throne of black stone surged upward, jagged and heavy. Rattan strode toward it and sat with arrogant ease, his laughter still carrying.

The throne rose high above, placing him on a perch from which he could look down upon Phantom. The posture of a victor. The posture of a judge.

Phantom’s lips twitched into the faintest shadow of a smile.

Rattan leaned forward on his throne, eyes burning with hunger “I realize now… no matter what fate befalls my world, it can still be saved by my hands. As long as I hold your gift, the gift to be anyone I choose, then nothing is beyond me.” His voice dripped with greed, each word trembling with ambition.

Phantom only shook his head, his expression almost pitying.

“You have forgotten one of the oldest principles of a mage: never engage an enemy you do not yet fully understand.”

Rattan sneered, but Phantom’s tone sharpened, cutting through his arrogance “You think you understand me. You think this cube has me bound, that you have me cornered. But from your very posture, from your very state… it is clear you have no idea what I am.”

The world inside the cube groaned, reality twisting on itself. In the blink of an eye, their places reversed.

Now Phantom sat upon the throne, cloaked in Rattan’s likeness, every detail stolen down to the smirk. And there stood Rattan below, forced into the place Phantom had been. His breath caught as he stared upward, disbelief crawling over his face.

Phantom looked down upon him with eyes that were no longer human. His voice echoed with a resonance that shook the cube itself.

“If you truly understood me, you would know this: to face me, you must be absolved of emotion. No pride. No fear. No desire. Only then might you stand against what I am.”

The throne pulsed with dark energy beneath him, each word binding itself to the fabric of the cube.

Rattan’s greed faltered, a tremor running through him. Rattan’s trembling gave way to a defiant grin as the cube’s simulated domain pulsed around him. Threads of light and circuitry spread across the floor like veins, weaving into glowing constructs gears, pillars, lattices of shifting arcane design. His Aetherium Weave flared to life, magi-tech scaffolding erupting behind him like the framework of a god’s machine.

“You speak of emotion,” Rattan said, regaining his composure, “but my strength lies not in my heart, it lies in the web I weave. My constructs don’t tire, don’t envy, don’t doubt. They only obey. And through them, I am everywhere at once.”

The throne dissolved beneath Phantom as glowing chains, spun from Rattan’s Weave, lashed upward to bind him. Constructs took form skeletal machines with glowing eyes, all linked to Rattan’s will.

Phantom, however, only smirked. His shape flickered, the outline of his form becoming hazy, like an image from a cracked mirror. One moment he looked like Rattan, the next like a demon, the next like nameless admirers with faces twisted by jealousy. Each new face whispered with venom: “Fraud, Manipulator, A thief of glory.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep