Chapter 36 - Clouds of Imagination

In the present day...

Eliael stood within the hidden laboratory of the royal palace of angels, observing the Spheres of Alitus that rested delicately upon a pillow of crimson silk, near the great glass tube where Bakabali's unconscious body floated, suspended in microscopic waves of green liquid. He had grown older, his frame sturdier, his hair longer and brushing against his ears, with a small beard forming neatly along his chin.

"They look truly extraordinary," Eliael murmured in admiration. "The crystalline structure is unlike anything I've ever seen. The internal lattice doesn't repeat, it's quasihedral, with a remarkable absence of periodicity. Astonishing, really. It's so precise, so perfectly symmetrical, as if someone had carved each one by hand with divine craftsmanship."

"Well, you're looking at the man who did," came a familiar voice from beside Bakabali's containment tube. Lazrael stood there, dressed in his usual servant's attire. Like Eliael, he was watching Bakabali as if gazing into an aquarium, studying a rare and endangered aquatic creature.

"I thought as much," said Eliael with quiet awe. "Only you could create something like this, Lazrael."

"I see you've been keeping yourself busy today," Lazrael replied without turning, his eyes still fixed on Bakabali's form.

"With that servant outfit? Now that I know you better, it doesn't suit you," Eliael remarked.

"True," Lazrael said, his tone calm and even. "But I find a strange comfort every time I wear it. It's like putting on a mask, to shield others from what I truly am."

Eliael studied him differently this time, as though trying to see beneath the mask itself.

"Seventy-four percent of Bakabali's body is combat-ready," he reported. "It may take another seven or eight years for the rest to fully mature."

"Seventy-four percent," Lazrael echoed. "Let's hope that's enough when the time comes."

"The barriers could open any day now," said Eliael. "I wonder if we'll be forced to use the Spheres of Alitus."

"The Spheres of Alitus, hm?" Lazrael's tone grew suddenly grave. "Let's hope we won't have to depend on them too much."

"I've been meaning to ask, why Alitus? What does that name mean? Or rather, who was it?" asked Eliael curiously.

At that question, Lazrael's expression darkened for a fleeting moment before returning to his usual stillness. "Alitus is a transliteration of Agh'Urunda, the God of Demons. The Spheres of Agh'Urunda, if you choose to use them, fill your body with an unimaginable quantity of Lagus. The odds of surviving the process are nearly zero. But the darker your nature, the higher the chance the Sphere accepts you as its host."

"A symbiotic relationship, then?" asked Eliael.

"Hardly. You won't be yourself anymore. You'll be what the Sphere wants you to be. A true symbiosis requires both sides to give and take equally. The bond you'd form with a Sphere is purely infernal, you'd be nothing more than a slave to Agh'Urunda's will."

"The Spheres of Agh'Urunda... The Petals of Darkness you once mentioned, and the Guardians of Hell, fragments of his memory, all parts of him. Who was he, really?" Eliael asked, his tone intensifying, emphasizing every word.

"As I said," Lazrael replied calmly, "the God of Demons."

"What I mean is, why was Agh'Urunda so dangerous that he had to be experimented upon like this? Who was his enemy?"

"Of course, Seraph Edin'Borghia and the Dragons," said Lazrael. "They defeated Agh'Urunda and banished the demons into the Tower of Vergil. The Dragons realized how powerful his essence was once fragmented, and they used it to their advantage. But even that wasn't enough against Edin'Borghia's power. In the end, Agh'Urunda became nothing more than a monument to their downfall."

"How did you create the Spheres?" asked Eliael.

"With one of his Petals," Lazrael replied.

"One of his Petals?" Eliael repeated.

"I created a series of objects with that Petal's essence, cages, spheres, weapons. There were meant to be seven in total, but I managed to extract the full essence of one, unlocking its true potential. It happened centuries ago, when I worked alongside demons. The Dragons discovered their existence and tried everything to seize them. I know I frightened you that day eight years ago, when you saw me covered in blood... but what I did then was simply reclaim what was mine. One can't leave enemy territory unchanged," Lazrael explained.

"Through your teleportation method, right? How does it work?" asked Eliael.

"It's a long story. I promise I'll teach you one day," Lazrael said.

"I see," murmured Eliael in understanding.

"The truth about our ancestors and enemies remains uncertain in many ways," Lazrael continued. "What matters now is that we don't depend too much on the past, but instead, we give this world one more day to hope. That's why we exist. You, me... and Bakabali."

"You're right," said Eliael with conviction. "And I'm closer than ever to my dream, to become the most knowledgeable deity that has ever lived, no matter how diabolical the means we use."

"We?" Lazrael blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Ah, yes, of course."

"What's wrong, Lazrael?" asked Eliael.

"Just thinking about how much you've changed. You were terrified and confused the first time you came here. Now you're composed, focused. Tell me, what went through your mind that day, when you saw that mountain of corpses?"

"I thought that the soul of the living was nothing more than a metaphor," Eliael replied.

"A metaphor?" Lazrael asked.

"The bodies, they still had all their organs, their blood spilling like fountains, and yet their faces were calm, almost peaceful, as if they still possessed everything within them. Their skin pale, their features serene. The bodies of divine beings don't decay with time. They remain like mannequins of exquisite craftsmanship, displayed as proof of our supposed perfection. But in truth, we share the same fate as those who worship or despise us. We're never whole. Something is always missing, even when our bodies are completely hollow inside."

Lazrael looked at him with faint surprise, impressed by the depth of his words.

"What is it that we're missing?" he asked.

"Our desires," Eliael answered. "Their true face."

"Our true desires..." Lazrael repeated softly. "So, we wander through life not knowing what we truly want, pretending that we do, and to justify that lie, we deceive ourselves?"

"Exactly," said Eliael. "The gods lie to themselves before a mirror only they can see, hidden from every other eye. I can say I desire knowledge, that I want to be the wisest being alive, but deep down, I don't know what I truly want. I'd wager everyone feels that way... even you, Lazrael."

"A fascinating theory," Lazrael murmured. "So, we're empty even before our bodies are empty. Interesting... I've never thought of it that way."

"You've experimented on the emptiness of others," Eliael said, "without realizing that you yourself are empty. You don't know what you're searching for, beyond the fleeting satisfaction that dissolves as soon as it's achieved."

Lazrael's gaze drifted toward Bakabali once more. "And what about Bakabali and the Uanamangura? What do you think of them?"

"They're the true gods," Eliael answered quietly. "They are not empty..."

Voidanos lay stretched across his bed, the first hours of daylight casting their gentle glow beyond the windowpane. His gaze lingered on the ceiling while his hands rested behind his head atop the pillow. The candle-lit lamp stood unlit, yet the brightest corner of that simple room was the massive bookshelf to his right.

A light breeze whispered through the slightly open window, stirring the air as if giving life to the books themselves. It seemed as though Voidanos was meditating with open eyes. Gradually, his eyelids began to draw closer, his grasp on reality softening. In that perfect alignment between waking and dream, the doors to his untamed imagination swung open.

Stars, multicolored sparks, and entire kaleidoscopic fields bloomed within the boundless darkness of his inner vision. At the edges of this chromatic expanse, tiny hands began to sprout, each wrapped in a luminous energy, like a cloud suspended in the highest reaches of the sky. The hands detached from the branches of imagination and drifted freely through the void, fluttering like birds with fingers for wings. They released shimmering droplets, white trails that spiraled around the vibrant core of color.

A surreal painting carved itself within his consciousness. Then he drifted out of it and saw his own room filled with those same hands, wandering across every corner. Some hung playfully from the lamp, others scampered across the desk at the foot of the bed. A few danced together in midair like children playing under the indifferent gaze of Voidanos, who paid them no real attention.

His eyes turned to the library beside him, where dozens of hands were flipping through countless pages, tracing inked letters like colonies of ants foraging through the terrain of words. The fluttering pages swelled into clouds, their pale "bodies" absorbing phrases until sentences themselves began to rise like mist, painting images within the soft folds of vapor, each cloud revealing scenes from the books it consumed.

The pages turned faster. The clouds grew larger.

In one of them, Voidanos saw himself soaring through the highest skies aboard a colossal ship with great white wings. He grasped the main sail, steering through golden clouds beneath a sunset-stained sky. The boy laughed aloud, his face radiant with pure joy inside the cloud that had taken shape before his real self.

"The Airships of Atristria... I've read this book twenty-three times. Actually, I've read all the works of that hybrid author, Klaus Phondel," he said with a dry expression. His eyes drifted toward another cloud where a different tale unfolded.

A vast plain covered in dry grass stretched before him. Humanoids dressed like the ancient tribes of the northern lands were riding creatures called Herads, beasts resembling bison, with golden fur, black stripes, and four eyes set between two twisted, cone-like horns. Each thunderous gallop shook the earth.

"HIIIIIYAAAA!" the riders shouted, urging their Herads into a fierce sprint. Beyond the horizon, between jagged mountains stripped of life, stood a dark, towering spire, so immense it seemed to pierce the heavens. The riders galloped toward it, but the tower began to split open horizontally, as though it were the gateway to another realm. Slowly, it parted in two, revealing a vast, endless darkness within. It felt like the door to a candlelit chamber where every flame had been extinguished.

Then, from that abyss, a titanic marble hand emerged. Its shadow covered the mountain peaks as the palm opened toward the riders. Fearless, they drove their Herads harder toward the hand, where within the open palm a faint image began to form, the serene face of Voidanos, eyes closed.

"In Search of the Darkness... That's the seventh book I've read by Ragnert Welsten. His stories are fascinating, but I feel like he's running out of ideas with time. Guess I'm turning into a critic," he muttered with disinterest.

His gaze wandered from cloud to cloud, painters, battles, surreal inventions, drinks, foods, medicines, breathtaking landscapes, weeping angels, exotic beasts, dominions giving speeches, an entire universe condensed into motion.

"Pffff... I don't know what else to do. I've read all of these books," he sighed, pressing his left hand over his chest. Instantly, every hand and cloud vanished from the room, scattering like startled birds. A sharp burst of scent, like vinegar, seemed to cleanse the air, as though driving the ants from his books.

"Well then, I'll head to the library near the academy. Maybe I'll find something new," he said, leaping from bed and rushing out of the room.

He crossed the living room, walked down the corridor, and dressed in his usual attire, a white shirt paired with a small brown vest. Around his neck, he tied a chain holding a pendant shaped like two copper wings resting beneath his throat. He opened the door, locked it behind him, and materialized his real wings, broad and tawny, before the front yard. With a strong flap, he lifted into the air, gliding above the rooftops of the kingdom.

From up high, he watched everything below, the dominions moving through cobblestone streets and grand neoclassical buildings. Others like him soared through the air, heading to work, school, or home. A smile spread across his face; the rushing wind filled him with vitality and delight. His eyes quickly found his favorite destination, the library.

"Heheh, I'm here," he murmured to himself as his wings dissolved into the air, allowing him to land lightly on his feet. He pressed his right hand against his chest, and a large leaf unfurled beneath him. Sitting atop it, he slid down like on a green ribbon of silk until his feet touched the ground. The leaf faded into nothingness.

"Perfect... here I am," he whispered, only then noticing the dominions around him staring and whispering judgmentally about his little display. Embarrassed, he crushed the leaf's remaining fragments into dust until they vanished completely.

Before him rose the grand library of the kingdom, where he often borrowed or bought books when possible. He opened the massive doors and stepped into the vast hall lined with towering shelves filled with every kind of book imaginable, fiction, non-fiction, reference, biographies, children's tales, adult novels, thrillers, romances, adventures, cookbooks. Some had ornate covers of leather and gold, others were simple and worn. Librarians moved about quietly, sorting volumes, while readers studied in peaceful corners of this temple of knowledge.

Yet what truly captured Voidanos' attention was a particular section, the fantasy shelves. His eyes literally sparkled, stars forming within his irises from excitement. Gliding forward as softly as a shadow, he reached the mystical covers he loved most.

"What to pick? What to pick? There are so many... I just hope I find an author I haven't read yet," he said, his voice bubbling with unmeasurable excitement.

"So, back to this section again, young man?" asked the librarian, who was arranging books from atop a tall ladder. He was an elderly man with short, silver hair and round glasses, wearing a lilac cloak embroidered with a large golden letter V.

"Hello, Mr. Kermis," greeted Voidanos with a warm smile.

"Well, hello there, young man, hello! Hahaha... You're the most loyal visitor this section has ever had," the librarian replied, chuckling kindly.

"Mr. Kermis, what book would you recommend this time? The one you gave me last time was incredible," said Voidanos eagerly.

"Hmm... Ah, you mean the one about the piano that speaks to children? That was a random pick, honestly. You've asked for so many recommendations that I hardly know what to give you anymore. Let's see what we can find," said Kermis, quietly unfurling his wings beneath the shelves as he scanned through the titles.

"I'd like to read something about... hmm..." Voidanos murmured, lost in thought.

Kermis glanced along the spines, moving from one cover to the next, searching for something that might suit the boy's peculiar tastes.

"What if I read about that gate... the one people crossed through, uh, what was it called again?"

"The Ao'Dek'Trista Gate? I believe we have something on that. But why the sudden interest?" asked the librarian, intrigued.

"I've always been fascinated by it," Voidanos said. "I first read about it in one of those books written by that hybrid traveler, the one they call the Dark Lion. He said, 'I visited a crimson tree at the heart of the dark elves' dominion. Within it stood a gate unlike any in these kingdoms.'"

Kermis nodded slowly. "You're quite well-informed for someone your age. I'm not sure of its state now, but that gate once served as a bridge between our world and a parallel one, existing for millennia. They say that whoever crosses through it loses their memory completely, and the same fate befalls those who travel from the other side. A tree filled with mystery... That's why so little is known about it. Perhaps we're not meant to seek such adventures. But tell me, would you truly wish to see that tree?" he asked in a slightly provocative tone.

"It intrigues me that anyone who passes through it forgets everything. I'd like to know what lies beyond the edge of imagination," said Voidanos firmly.

"Well, our world is rich enough with wonders of its own. Seeking too much elsewhere is often a waste," replied the librarian.

"What's that?" Voidanos suddenly asked, his tone shifting.

"Hm?"

A book began to slide out from the shelf by itself, gently floating through the air until it landed softly in Voidanos' hands.

"The Memories of Leviathan?" he read aloud, curiosity lighting his eyes.

"Ah... seems you can read the Human language. Written by, hm? There's no author listed here," said Kermis, frowning in confusion.

"It says here it was written by a detective..." murmured Voidanos, as his left hand, still holding the book, began to emit a faint golden glow.

"A detective, eh? That's a rare profession to see in literature. I wonder what connection this book has to Ao'Dek'Trista," said Kermis thoughtfully.

"I'll find out once I read it. Thank you, Mr. Kermis, for today. Have a good day," said Voidanos as he turned to leave the section.

"Oh... Goodbye, young man. I hope you keep coming back," Kermis said, waving warmly after the curious boy.

But then, as Voidanos walked away, a thought passed through the librarian's mind, one that never reached his lips.

"Filthy little monster. He frightens me every time I see him. I hope he dies soon."

Yet Voidanos heard it.

For the boy could read the thoughts of others, through the invisible tapestry of consciousness that spread across the library like threads of light, woven between books, shelves, and minds alike...