Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse

Chapter 3773: The Coronation of Folded Time!

My distinction as the Origin Prime Osmontian Infinitum bore the brunt of it.

The pressure of endless folded time did not tear my Lineage apart.

No.

It tried something else.

“Ho?” My eyes sparkled.

It pressed upon the authority contained within my Lineage, tried to eat away at the very complexity and purity that fueled it, the lifeblood of its existence.

The Authority that powered up the Existential Dimensional Lattices of my Lineage.

The moment I sensed it, I understood something and smiled.

This was why others failed.

Why, after a few hours, even the strongest Primarchs faltered.

The Cradle was not simply crushing their True Sources.

It was grinding down their authority.

The very essence that maintained the complexity of their Lattices, the regenerative fountain that allowed them to maintain their existence in this suffocating realm, it was siphoned, worn away.

And slowly, inevitably, they would be hollowed out.

Until they collapsed.

Until they were ejected.

Even if they built Lattices, even if they forged resistances, their energy, their authority, could not regenerate fast enough.

They could not endure.

Their energy, their mana, could not sustain them with all the layered epochs.

That was the fate of others.

But me?

The Cradle pressed harder.

Epochs battered me.

A thousand years in a second.

Ten thousand in the next.

It was heavy.

But where others would see their authority wither, mine…

HUUM.

Mine regenerated.

Because the authority of my Lineage, and the authority of every True Source I bore, was fueled by something the Cradle could not deplete.

Follow new episodes on the ””.

My Mana.

My Infinite Mana.

What the Cradle thought to unmake, to erode, it only reforged.

This ordeal actually put my authority across epochs of time to erode it and wear it down.

Hah.

I was an engine powered by multiple different faces of complexity and purity.

An engine running on endless mana at its core.

And this ordeal wanted to cause an increase in complexity and purity by depriving what made me of its fuel to propel me to surge over epochs?

With my Mana being Infinite, there was no exhaustion of fuel. While my Lineage, my True Sources, my Complexity and Purity, would still bear the pressure of epochs of folded time, but with no exhaustion.

No hollowing.

Only reinforcement.

Only evolution.

The authority of my Lineage burned brighter.

The Infinite Mana spun endlessly through my weavings, through my Living Wheel, saturating and strengthening every fold, every structure.

And so…

As others were ground into ash by the weight of folded time, I…

I was carved sharper.

Made finer.

The Infinite Mana did not just allow me to endure.

It empowered me to devour.

The very battering of the Cradle reforged my Infinite Mana, subsequently honing my Manadynamics and the True Source of Infinity to terrifying degrees, even if capped by the nine Lattices I had already forged.

But more importantly, it granted me the one luxury no one else in the Cradle could afford.

I could endure.

Indefinitely.

I smiled.

A simple, terrible thing.

And with that smile, I turned my attention away from my Lineage and the already Primarchial True Sources.

I had work to do while given such a glorious environment.

I began with the newly gained complex True Sources first.

Chronospirit unfolded first as I exhibited this True Source over my skin.

The Cradle’s folded time crashed down upon it.

It was not even at Primarchy as it held nothing to protect itself.

An entity with less would have been crushed instantly.

But I fed it my Infinite Mana.

And it grew.

It flourished.

It absorbed the epochs, the ages, the endless fall of collapse, while only the fuel of Mana burned.

Within moments…

| Primarchy Initiated: Chronospirit. |

| Forming Existential Dimensional Lattices… |

Lattices unfurled.

Nine.

Glorious.

Fractal and infinite, shimmering in hues of deep violet and silver, the interplay of time and soul made manifest.

I moved on.

Pyrochron, time and elements emerged.

Epochs tore at it.

Flames that burned brighter than stars blazed across the folded eras, devouring, consuming, transforming.

| Primarchy Initiated: Pyrochron. |

| Forming Existential Dimensional Lattices… |

Again.

Nine Lattices.

A symphony of time-wreathed fire.

Aeonforge.

Conceptum Vitae.

One after another, the True Sources I had prepared were lifted under the relentless pressure of folded time, their structures evolving, elevating.

Each forged to Primarchy.

Each birthing nine more Lattices.

And still the Cradle pressed down.

Still it tried to unmake my Infinite Mana.

But it could not.

I was a paradox.

An impossibility.

The others, Resplendent Monads, Primarchs, watching from outside would not understand.

From their perspective, I stood still in the heart of collapse.

My body with its arms outstretched as it withstood everything.

But within?

I was transcending.

Living a thousand years in each breath.

My body, my existence, my True Sources, all bathed in the endless forge of Folded Time.

Every Lattice formed was another layer of dominion.

Another mark of inevitability.

The Cradle was a slaughterhouse to the weak.

To me?

It was a coronation.

A redefinition.

I was not merely reforging.

I was becoming.

Because what the Cradle offered…

I would not simply endure it.

I would ascend by it.

I continued.

No pause. No hesitation.

The Cradle of Folded Time pressed, ground, collapsed.

But it could not diminish me.

It only fueled me.

My Infinite Mana churned, endlessly feeding the authority of my True Sources as they bathed in the endless epochal onslaught.

I did not stop at Chronospirit, Pyrochron, Aeonforge, or Conceptum Vitae.

No.

There was more.

There was always more.

The True Source of Existence.

Of Summoning.

Of Aether.

Of Pride.

Of Khaos.

One after another, I stripped them of their limitations.

Elevated them to Primarchy.

And when they reached that apex, I pressed further, forming nine glorious Existential Dimensional Lattices for each.

The Lattices of Existence wove around me like a weaving of living reality.

The Lattices of Summoning pulsed with the call of entities beyond existence.

The Lattices of Aether shimmered with the pure substrate of all weaving.

But it was Khaos…

Ah, Khaos.

I let its Lattices shine.

Obsidian and violet, unfurling around me like a storm given shape, wild, endless, ungovernable.

I let it radiate.

A declaration.

A throne of contradiction seated atop the ruin of collapsed time.

Even now, through the layers of the Cradle, I could feel it.

The eyes watching.

Beyond the Cradle, beyond the shattered mountain ranges of Votharion, in the Middle Wheel Platform outside…

He was there.

Bob.

And as I stood, my Lattices of Khaos gleaming with inevitable grandeur, I could almost see him through the layers of space and time.

And then…

A shift.

A slight tug.

A whisper from Absolute Fictional Transcendence, control slipping just a little, enough to tilt the Fable.

The viewpoint shifted.

My viewpoint gradually stilled.

—

Outside.

The Middle Wheel Platform.

The fractured mountains of Votharion loomed high, casting endless shadows over the platform’s vast, broken plains.

And amidst it…

Bob stood still.

His massive 500-inch Null Form, grotesque and terrible in its beauty, was unusually rigid.

His ashen expression told everything.

Before him, across the Cradle, the faintest gleam of violet-obisidian light was visible.

A cascade of Lattices.

Lattices he recognized.

Lattices of Khaos.

His Khaos.

His breath was heavy, though not from exhaustion.

From something deeper.

Something colder.

Thauron stood beside him, ever massive, ever regal in his collapsed monument of a Null Form.

The Null Monarch chuckled, low and deep, like an ancient glacier cracking.

“Do not let it bother you, Little Bobby,” Thauron said, voice laced with amusement. “Otherwise, you will have lost long before you ever stand before the Stranger.”

Bob’s gaze darkened.

“He’s not just a Stranger,” he muttered. “His name is Noah Osmont and he-”

Thauron cut him off with a lazy wave of his clawed hand.

“For me,” the Null Monarch said, voice almost playful, “he is only the Stranger. Names are irrelevant. It is the narrative that matters.”

Bob’s massive tentacles shifted in agitation.

His voice was lower when he spoke next.

“That stone you left behind still floats.” His many eyes, hidden under the mass of his tentacles, flickered toward the distant Votharion Mountain, where the sleek, obsidian stone remained suspended in the air, untouchable.

“Why?” Bob asked. “Why offer it to him? He’s the one who holds the key to the-”

Thauron’s form stiffened slightly.

A warning.

“Be careful what you say,” Thauron said, tone suddenly sharper, cutting through the dense air like a razor through silk. “Even here, even now, some things should not be spoken lightly.”

Bob bit back the rest of his sentence.

He exhaled slowly.

And Thauron smiled again, a colder smile now.

“I have my reasons,” Thauron said. “Besides, it is not for you to worry. Focus on what you came here to do, Little Bobby. Collect your Sigils. Become a participator…”

He leaned in slightly.

“…not merely a spectator.”

Bob stared at the Cradle a moment longer, at the glow of the Lattices shining over Noah’s distant, invisible form.

And then he turned away.

Back to work.

Slowly.

Methodically.

Time passed.

Hours bled into one another.

And outside the Cradle, on the shattered plains and cragged slopes of the Middle Wheel Platform, the onlookers watched.

Kalysta among them.

Her Null Form stood still, but the shock was clear in the tilt of her stance, in the glimmer of astonishment that flickered across her gaze.

No words escaped her lips.

But her thoughts?

Her thoughts were a storm.

Because from their perspective, from the eyes of the many watching Primarchs and Resplendent Monads, Noah Osmont stood motionless within the heart of the Cradle of Folded Time.

Motionless.

Still.

Glorious.

For a few hours now.

The endless weights of folded epochs pressed against him.

Crushing.

Grinding.

The same epochs that would have ejected even the strongest of them within three hours.

But him?

He stood!

As if time itself bowed to his stillness.

As if the Cradle’s impossible pressure was nothing to him.

The onlookers could only watch.

Could only hold their breath.

Because what they were seeing was impossible.

Unthinkable.

A being who bore the weight of collapsed eras without trembling.

The Stranger.

None of them could guess how long he would stand there.

Or how much he would become.

—

Across the broken obsidian peaks of the Middle Wheel Platform, atop a ridge streaked in scars of collapsed paradox, three distant forces watched.

Entities who did not merely traverse the Folds.

They ruled parts of them.

They were Fold Dwellers- those who had carved domains in the Gravewake.

And here, today, they watched something… unprecedented.

The first group perched high on a floating isle, its surface cracked by eons.

Three figures stood at its edge.

Primarchs- their Null Forms pristine, elegant, refined like masterworks.

The leader of the trio- a tall, imperious figure, wore a Null Form of genetic architecture, flowing lattices of spiraling DNA structures spinning around their form. They stood cloaked in streams of liquid data, a signature of the Genefolds.

A place where Living Things had long since merged the essence of Paradox and Flesh.

“Interesting,” murmured the Genefold Primarch, their voice resonant and sharp, carrying the certainty of calculated perfection. “No Null Form above 3 inches. Yet the weight of Folded Time barely presses him.”

The other two Primarchs shifted behind him- more cautious.

One spoke, hesitant.

“Do you believe he can be… recruited?”

The leader did not answer immediately.

Their weavings flickered as they considered.

“Potential is a knife,” the Genefold Primarch finally said. “Properly wielded, it can carve thrones from stardust.”

He watched the still figure of Noah as more and more Lattices of newly forged True Sources shimmered around him. His figure looked like a glorious emperor very few could compare to!

“The question,” the Genefold Primarch murmured, “is whether the knife thinks it’s a sword.”

No decision was made.

Not yet.

But interest?

It burned sharp in their gaze.