Chapter 8
The wooden frame creaked, its legs stretching as the surface widened like jaws, ready to swallow at any moment.
Before Nebetu'u could gauge the threat, the kitchen utensils followed. Starting with knives, forks, and all things sharp and pointed, objects that should have stayed in the drawers now flew wildly, trailing the expanding table. Their blades glinted with malice, tips piercing the air in measured motions, as if guided by an invisible hand.
Nebetu'u remained still. No labored breath, no frantic evasion. The depths of their heart allowed the tools to come, permitted the giant table and kitchen weapons to strike, interpreting every attack as mere illusions with compressed lifespans.
Sure enough, the massive table and sharp utensils vanished just before touching Nebetu'u's body, dissipating like thin smoke blown by the wind. No traces, no marks, only a brief tremor in the air, hinting at agendas never truly committed to creation. Nebetu'u didn't even blink, denying the illusions even the slightest chance to tickle, let alone test their resolve.
Then, from an empty corner of the room, a flock of white pigeons suddenly appeared. They circled endlessly, forming a flawless ring, their wings flapping in unnervingly uniform rhythm. A sign they were governed by an unseen mechanism.
Excessive white light radiated from each beat of their wings, glaring sharply, almost blindingly. This was no spontaneous act; it deliberately drew attention to the crafted strangeness, emphasizing the precision of their movements. More like clockwork than living creatures.
For a fleeting moment, Nebetu'u was ensnared, nearly trapped in the illusion of the white pigeons, but it was brief, almost insignificant before their awareness snapped back.
Too late.
Three figures emerged abruptly, encircling them in perfect formation. Their faces were exact replicas of Mala Qudshi, the pious glint in their eyes, the chilling similarity of each smile, even their calculated movements. They acted in unison, their hands seizing Nebetu'u with an unshakable grip.
One on the right shoulder, another on the left, the last gripping the back of their head, forcing it down like an offering.
Prepared solely for the altar.
Before them, the true Mala Qudshi materialized, holding something gleaming, a ritual knife, or perhaps another illusion that felt all too real. The room's light seemed to dim, concentrating on the blade, underscoring its slow, deliberate motion.
Etched with undeniable intent.
Nebetu'u knew what was coming. This was no mere test, it was a sacrifice. An ancient rite, repeated endlessly within the spectacular dreams of prophets.
Even now, their body refused to resist. Not out of inability, but because, for reasons unknown, a part of them was curious.
What remains after the blade descends?
"Ease is never a priority."
"Return. Forgiveness is always open to every soul."
"Annoying."
Duffffhh!
"Playing hide-and-seek again?"
"Very well. Let me teach you how true holiness behaves."
Tsiiiiing!
Dwaarrrr!
Nebetu'u flicked their fingers, a subtle but decisive motion, releasing three sacred particles that shot forth like invisible arrows. The moment they struck the three clones, the false bodies convulsed violently, mouths gaping in silent screams before being hurled into the abyss.
Not mere death, but an endless cycle of destruction. To ordinary eyes, they vanished once. But for them, it was an eternal fall, repeatedly thrown into the same chasm, dying and reborn only to suffer the same fate.
No respite. No mercy.
The air cracked with a brief, thunderous roar as the real Mala Qudshi was flung back, caught in the same energy wave. Nebetu'u did not pursue, made no confirmations. They merely opened their eyes slowly, and the room stood empty.
No traces. Not even a remnant.
Only light flooded the house, too bright, too clear, as if nothing had ever happened. The walls stood unmarked, the floor pristine. Even Nebetu'u's own shadow was nearly swallowed by the overwhelming radiance.
They stood in the void, inhaling air that felt inexplicably cold.
Mala Qudshi was gone.
Nebetu'u exhaled sharply, irritation simmering between breaths. All of this, illusions, clones, false sacrifices, was nothing but noise, a cynical distraction in their eyes. A game meant to divert them from the true purpose; unmasking the holy entity behind the slaughter of Ush and their family at the site of a sacred relic.
With a calm yet deliberate motion, they tilted their head to the right, then the left. A soft crack echoed as tension unwound from their neck.
Then, the transformation began.
The man's face, the guise they had worn, the assumed identity of a demon, began to fracture. Not physically, but as if layers of illusion were peeling away, shedding from their skin like dark smoke scattered by wind. There was no pain, only the sensation of releasing something long burdensome.
Golden light erupted from Nebetu'u's body, flooding the room with indescribable beauty, every contour of their form a flawless masterpiece. Their radiance rivaled the first dawn of creation.
Their skin gleamed like divine-forged metal, their hair cascaded like a river of light, and their very silhouette warped the air around them into something sacred. Compared to them, Mala Qudshi's holiness suddenly seemed mundane, almost bland, like a candle's flicker straining to match the sun.
Then, without warning, Nebetu'u vanished.
Not in the sense of disappearing, but in a moment of explosive energy, invisible yet felt to the depths of the soul. To lesser demons, the sensation would have been agony: claws tearing at their essence, their innermost layers violently reshaped before the terrifying tremors resonated deeper.
Such power could not fade silently.
The room, once bathed in golden light, now stood empty, bearing only the resonance of their departure, like a celestial hymn cut short at its most sublime note.
'Impossible. How can a lowly insect molt into something so radiant, as effortless as flipping a palm?'
'An illusion—a deceptive panorama meant to ensnare purity?'
"This entire vessel worships you."
"Stop."
Tsraaak!
Elsewhere, Mala Qudshi stood cloaked in light, their composure faltering. Their unshakable divine glow now flickered like a candle in the wind. They masked unease behind icy eyes, but the faint tremor in their fingertips betrayed them.
They had witnessed Nebetu'u's transformation. This was no ordinary demonic shift, it defied the laws of nature, transcending what should have been unbreachable. This wasn't metamorphosis. It was a denial of cosmic order itself.
'A sacrifice…'
There was always a price. Yet Nebetu'u had twisted the logic, turned what should have been an offering, or perhaps not, into a weapon. The angelic visage they now wore was no blessing, but a warning; that the forbidden could be wielded, that the profane could be harnessed as power.
To be continued…