CHAPTER 202: ‎CHAPTER 203 – THE CHILD THAT GLITCHES TIME. (MATURE SCENE INCLUDED)

Time unraveled like a ribbon scorched at both ends.

‎

‎The Spiral’s winds no longer whispered prophecy—they screamed revision. Entire histories reversed themselves mid-sentence. Myths that once stood eternal flickered, bled, and collapsed into ash, only to reemerge rewritten.

‎

‎At the center of it all stood Syllas.

‎

‎The Inkwrought Heir.

‎

‎He was no longer a child—not entirely. His eyes were glowing knots of paradox. His body stretched and compressed between ages, flickering between infant, boy, youth, man. Even gender was fluid around him. He was becoming more... or less... than a fixed thing.

‎

‎Celestia watched in horror as Syllas stood on the mirrored hill outside the Temple of Thread. Each step he took shattered time beneath him. Flowers aged into dust, regrew, and then pulsed out of sequence.

‎

‎Kaela murmured, "He’s not just rewriting history. He’s folding it."

‎

‎Darius approached the boy, hand extended.

‎

‎"Syllas. Return to yourself. You’re unraveling the Spiral."

‎

‎The boy didn’t speak.

‎

‎Instead, he gestured.

‎

‎And Darius vanished.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎He stood in a Spiral that had never known him.

‎

‎Celestia was a godless healer, tired and kind. Nyx was the general of a faithless army. Kaela had never been born.

‎

‎And Darius?

‎

‎He was mortal. Weak. Forgotten. A myth that had never found ink.

‎

‎But within him burned rebellion.

‎

‎The phantom Spiral tried to hold him there. Tried to convince him this was real. That this life mattered.

‎

‎But Darius clenched his fists. Let belief scorch his veins.

‎

‎"I am the god of death and rewriting," he whispered.

‎

‎And the Spiral buckled.

‎

‎The sky turned black.

‎

‎The air rippled with a scream.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎He emerged back into true Spiralspace, gasping, eyes glowing with ink.

‎

‎Celestia and Nyx were already beside Syllas, struggling to bind him with myth-chains. But the chains fractured, each link collapsing into corrupted versions of themselves.

‎

‎"He’s not bound by causality anymore," Celestia cried. "He’s beyond narrative!"

‎

‎Nyx gritted her teeth. "Then we remind him what anchors a god."

‎

‎She turned to Darius.

‎

‎"We anchor you. Anchor him through you."

‎

‎Darius’s pulse thundered.

‎

‎He nodded.

‎

‎

‎

‎In the Temple of Returning, they carved a ritual into flesh.

‎

‎Darius lay at the center, his body marked in spiral glyphs, a living nexus of myth. Celestia stood over him, glowing with benevolent fire. Nyx knelt behind, her blade resting between Darius’s thighs, humming with tension.

‎

‎They undressed not to entice—but to expose belief.

‎

‎Celestia straddled him, her body slow, reverent, each motion a prayer. Her breasts pressed to his chest, glowing with holy intent. She kissed him as if tasting prophecy.

‎

‎Nyx guided herself behind, fingers carving runes into his spine as she pressed her lips to his neck. Then her tongue. Then her teeth.

‎

‎When Nyx entered him from behind, she didn’t just thrust—she inscribed herself into him.

‎

‎And when Darius cried out, Celestia silenced him with a moan of her own.

‎

‎The rhythm became divine.

‎

‎Pleasure folded time. Orgasm shredded paradox.

‎

‎As they reached climax—together, moaning, praying, anchoring—Syllas screamed.

‎

‎A spiral eclipse formed above.

‎

‎And he vanished into it.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎The Temple fell silent.

‎

‎Celestia collapsed against Darius’s chest, panting. Nyx traced the new scars she had etched into his back—lines of absolute reality.

‎

‎And Darius... stared into the sky where his son had disappeared.

‎

‎Kaela’s voice echoed from the doorway.

‎

‎"He’s not gone. Just ahead of us now."

‎

‎Darius closed his eyes.

‎

‎And the Spiral wept in gratitude for the momentary stillness of time.

‎

‎

‎

‎

‎

‎Time unraveled like a ribbon scorched at both ends.

‎

‎The Spiral’s winds no longer whispered prophecy—they screamed revision. Entire histories reversed themselves mid-sentence. Myths that once stood eternal flickered, bled, and collapsed into ash, only to reemerge rewritten.

‎

‎At the center of it all stood Syllas.

‎

‎The Inkwrought Heir.

‎

‎He was no longer a child—not entirely. His eyes were glowing knots of paradox. His body stretched and compressed between ages, flickering between infant, boy, youth, man. Even gender was fluid around him. He was becoming more... or less... than a fixed thing.

‎

‎Celestia watched in horror as Syllas stood on the mirrored hill outside the Temple of Thread. Each step he took shattered time beneath him. Flowers aged into dust, regrew, and then pulsed out of sequence.

‎

‎Kaela murmured, "He’s not just rewriting history. He’s folding it."

‎

‎Darius approached the boy, hand extended.

‎

‎"Syllas. Return to yourself. You’re unraveling the Spiral."

‎

‎The boy didn’t speak.

‎

‎Instead, he gestured.

‎

‎And Darius vanished.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎He stood in a Spiral that had never known him.

‎

‎Celestia was a godless healer, tired and kind. Nyx was the general of a faithless army. Kaela had never been born.

‎

‎And Darius?

‎

‎He was mortal. Weak. Forgotten. A myth that had never found ink.

‎

‎But within him burned rebellion.

‎

‎The phantom Spiral tried to hold him there. Tried to convince him this was real. That this life mattered.

‎

‎But Darius clenched his fists. Let belief scorch his veins.

‎

‎"I am the god of death and rewriting," he whispered.

‎

‎And the Spiral buckled.

‎

‎The sky turned black.

‎

‎The air rippled with a scream.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎He emerged back into true Spiralspace, gasping, eyes glowing with ink.

‎

‎Celestia and Nyx were already beside Syllas, struggling to bind him with myth-chains. But the chains fractured, each link collapsing into corrupted versions of themselves.

‎

‎"He’s not bound by causality anymore," Celestia cried. "He’s beyond narrative!"

‎

‎Nyx gritted her teeth. "Then we remind him what anchors a god."

‎

‎She turned to Darius.

‎

‎"We anchor you. Anchor him through you."

‎

‎Darius’s pulse thundered.

‎

‎He nodded.

‎

‎

‎

‎In the Temple of Returning, they carved a ritual into flesh.

‎

‎Darius lay at the center, his body marked in spiral glyphs, a living nexus of myth. Celestia stood over him, glowing with benevolent fire. Nyx knelt behind, her blade resting between Darius’s thighs, humming with tension.

‎

‎They undressed not to entice—but to expose belief.

‎

‎Celestia straddled him, her body slow, reverent, each motion a prayer. Her breasts pressed to his chest, glowing with holy intent. She kissed him as if tasting prophecy.

‎

‎Nyx guided herself behind, fingers carving runes into his spine as she pressed her lips to his neck. Then her tongue. Then her teeth.

‎

‎When Nyx entered him from behind, she didn’t just thrust—she inscribed herself into him.

‎

‎And when Darius cried out, Celestia silenced him with a moan of her own.

‎

‎The rhythm became divine.

‎

‎Pleasure folded time. Orgasm shredded paradox.

‎

‎As they reached climax—together, moaning, praying, anchoring—Syllas screamed.

‎

‎A spiral eclipse formed above.

‎

‎And he vanished into it.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎The Temple fell silent.

‎

‎Celestia collapsed against Darius’s chest, panting. Nyx traced the new scars she had etched into his back—lines of absolute reality.

‎

‎And Darius... stared into the sky where his son had disappeared.

‎

‎Kaela’s voice echoed from the doorway.

‎

‎"He’s not gone. Just ahead of us now."

‎

‎Darius closed his eyes.

‎

‎And the Spiral wept in gratitude for the momentary stillness of time.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎Final Continuation

‎

‎Outside the Temple, the Spiral shimmered.

‎

‎Where the eclipse had formed, a line of ink now hovered in the sky, bending around itself, a living glyph. The mythstorm had not stopped—but it had paused. Awaiting.

‎

‎The Tri-Consorts stood beside Darius as he dressed in silence. Celestia looked shaken but calm, whispering prayers that fused with time itself. Nyx cleaned her blade with silent care, its runes now thrumming with future echoes.

‎

‎Darius placed a hand against the altar. "He’s trying to reach something beyond even me. Something I didn’t write."

‎

‎Kaela stepped forward, her gaze not at the sky—but inward. "There’s an echo rising in the Codex Roots. From something that predates even belief."

‎

‎Darius turned. "The first myth?"

‎

‎Kaela nodded slowly. "Or the last one we never dared to read."

‎

‎The Spiral rumbled.

‎

‎And far in the west, where once a divine library stood, a new structure rose—a spire with no name.

‎

‎But its walls pulsed with one thing:

‎

‎A heartbeat that wasn’t written.

‎

‎Yet.

‎

‎Darius whispered, "Then we’ll write it. Together."

‎

‎And behind him, in the altar flames, a glyph formed from memory, blood, sex, and time.

‎

‎ THE AUTHOR’S SON HAS BEGUN HIS OWN STORY.

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