Chapter 428: Setting the God Ablaze

Lost and disoriented, a figure of ill-defined shape maneuvered through the narrow, needle-like gaps amid a labyrinth of thorns, intermittently illuminated by thin rays of light. Its resolve seemed to be caught in a tremulous dance, daring to stretch across the insurmountable chasm of madness and foolishness.

How long had she wandered this realm seething with tumultuous chaos? How much exposure had she suffered from the unholy corruption of the primordial deity? Was she still intact, a coherent entity, or merely a shattered remnant teetering on the verge of being devoured and subsumed into this anarchy?

Agatha found herself adrift in a sea of indistinctness, unable to distinguish anything – even the borders that separated her physicality from the enveloping pandemonium. To her, her form appeared akin to a splotch of ink gradually spreading in water, the outlines exhibiting a blurry, liquid-soaked texture. It felt less as if she was advancing step by step through this oppressive darkness, and more like she was drifting forward, immersed in a dense medium echoing her own corporeal substance.

She sensed everything was pushing towards a certain limit. The elementary particles of life—she couldn’t affirm their role in the creation of all existence, but it was clear they had molded her present form.

Ice melts into water and dissipates into the air; the replica crafted from these foundational elements was fated to return to the metaphoric “ocean” represented by these elements. The so-called “individual will” housed within this form was bound to transform into an inconsequential pinpoint of light in this chaotic “ocean,” serving as “sustenance” for other glimmering specks aimlessly wandering amidst the bramble of thorns.

She was simply a facsimile, a phantom. She held memories spanning a twenty-four-year life, memories of her birthplace, her comrades, and everything she cherished and loathed. Yet, what truly belonged to her in those twenty-four years of life could perhaps be distilled down to a mere three days or even less.

For reasons unknown, Governor Winston’s voice resonated abruptly within her consciousness, laden with tones of resignation and sorrow.

“There’s no meaning...”

A being of authentic existence inscribed such a statement on their existence within this boundless darkness. In contrast, a mere imitation possessing only three days of existence dared to traverse the darkness, aiming to confront the ancient god.

“How absurd...” Agatha murmured softly, her voice dissolving into the darkness, transforming into a subtle ripple. Concurrently, a relentless stream of data flooded her consciousness, a mysterious will constituted by binary “0” and “1” inundating her psyche.

She was acutely aware she stood at the brink of dissolving into this expansive consciousness. Even if this space contained the ancient god’s “transient thoughts” in a fleeting instant, its colossal magnitude was far beyond what her fragile psyche could withstand.

Yet, that was alright. She had made it.

She had journeyed through the enormous thorny wilderness and had reached the innermost depths of the darkness.

A vast “tentacle,” akin to a towering pillar supporting the sky, stood imposingly before her. The surface of the pillar, intricately embellished with enigmatic, dark blue lines, seemed to serve as a monument etching the testament of ancient truths against the gloomy canvas of chaos.

Agatha slowly lifted her gaze and reached out, seeking to make contact with it while particles of black fragments and dust twirled and hovered within her sight.

Her skin, a canvas mapped with a multitude of wounds, bore the evidence of a grueling passage through a merciless thicket. A black substance, unsettlingly similar to sludge, seeped from her, rising like a spectral mist, diffusing, and eventually dissolving into the surrounding emptiness. The floating fragments and dust of ebony were nothing more than remnants emanating from her essence.

In this instant, Agatha felt as though she were a hideous puppet, marred by a network of cracks, a sight so horrifying that even an ocean’s worth of bandages would fall short in offering any semblance of concealment.

Comparatively, the primordial god’s “tentacle” remained unaffected, wholly indifferent to her touch.

Taking a decisive step forward, she extended both hands towards the tentacle. The flames swiftly enveloped her entire form, but the scorching torment felt more akin to a revered tribute than agony. She flung her arms wide open in a gesture that seemed more like an embrace than a lunging attack.

Boom!

A terrifying roar echoed through the darkness as the two forces clashed, the flames engulfing the distorted space in a split second. Amidst the escalating symphony of the spiritual fire, the colossal tentacle instantaneously transformed into a blazing beacon, trembling violently within the conflagration.

Agatha felt her flesh rapidly decomposing in the fiery blaze. Her body, originally fashioned from corrupt substances, was now part of the purifying process that the fire orchestrated. But she harbored no fear. Instead, she strained to lift her head, casting a backward glance towards the path from which she had arrived.

The “thorny wilderness” was also ablaze. Amidst the swiftly spreading spiritual fire, it took on an uncanny, yet entrancing, likeness to a fiery tree crown.

“Farewell... Governor Winston...”

Agatha murmured to herself, tightening her grip on the tentacle within the fire, serenely awaiting the final chapter of her existence.

Yet, as her consciousness teetered on the edge of extinction, she suddenly registered an anomaly.

The fire had consumed both her and the tentacle. For the first time, within the passage sculpted by the spiritual fire, she felt a reaction from this “ancient god’s extension”.

In surprise, she lifted her gaze, studying the intricate designs on the tentacle’s surface, observing the flames as they danced upon it, and sensing the deluge of information rushing into her mind from the spiritual fire. It was as though countless eyes had opened on the tentacle’s surface, each urgently imparting pieces of knowledge and information.

Ultimately, the entire spectrum of knowledge and information coalesced into a whirlpool in her mind –

11101001... 11100101 10001000... 10010011...

Endless chains of “0” and “1” seized the remnants of Agatha’s consciousness.

But this time, she managed to decipher their cryptic narrative.

“Error... Clone...”

In a state of astonished disbelief, she pieced together the enigmatic message relayed by the ancient god’s extension, fathoming its intentions and subsequently unravelling an astonishing revelation.

With her gaze fixed on the tentacle she had set aflame, she wondered, “Could this... be merely another illusion?!”

In the following moment, the lingering spark of her consciousness was devoured by the relentless, emerald conflagration.