Creation Of All Things
Chapter 243 - 243: Veylor's Obelisks

Celestial Plane

The golden strands of fate dimmed one by one.

Aurora stood from her throne.

The light behind her blinked, then warped—as if even causality itself hesitated. Her long cloak of starlit mist trailed behind her as she stepped down from the floating dais, boots clicking lightly on the invisible glass that stretched over a cosmos of spiraling lights and fragmenting realities.

With a flick of her hand, a circular sigil pulsed outwards—carved not in magic, but in absolute causality. It raced across the multiverse like a flare no entity could ignore.

One by one, the chosen responded.

First arrived: Alfred, flame trailing behind his crimson boots, his hands still warm from whatever battlefield he'd left behind. His coat fluttered open, revealing the silver sigil of the Origin Pantheon across his chest. He didn't smile. Not here.

"Felt that all the way from our origin universe," he said, his voice sharp. "This isn't just a warning, is it?"

Aurora didn't answer. She waited.

Then came Aria, descending like snow through starlight, pale frost whispering from her hair, her skin glowing faint blue. She landed beside her brother without a word. Her eyes met Aurora's. She saw the tension. She said nothing. Just stood still.

Next was Alice, a ripple of folded space unfurling like a torn curtain in the air. She stepped through in black boots, arms crossed, violet hair tied back. A playful smile tugged at her lips—but it died the moment she saw Aurora's face.

"Who messed with your threads this time?" Alice asked, voice quiet.

Aurora just looked at her. "Everyone."

Joshua came fourth. He didn't walk. He arrived. Reality around him thinned as he emerged, half of his body still wreathed in mathematical symbols and light equations. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept since creation began.

"I felt the rupture," he said. "At first, I thought it was Adam." His voice dropped. "It wasn't."

"No," Aurora said. "It wasn't."

Jordan arrived silently, not even a breeze behind him. The God of Adaptation had no grand entrance—he simply was, his figure blending into the background of the divine hall until his voice carried.

"If this meeting is happening," he said, "then the worst outcome is already possible."

Aurora nodded.

Finally, Alexandria arrived—no portal, no noise, no flare. Just shadow condensing into form. Her presence was subtle, deliberate. The Goddess of Free Will never walked where the road was paved—she made her own.

Her eyes locked on Aurora's.

"So," she said. "It's started."

The divine hall formed around them.

A circle of elevated thrones made of pure will, each one floating above a swirling disc of light connected to their core domain. In the center, Aurora's thread loom still turned slowly, its silver wheel cracking faintly with every pass.

They sat.

But the room was not calm.

Not this time.

Aurora lifted her hand.

The loom stopped.

In an instant, the space behind her opened—a projection of the multiverse spiraling in slow motion. Dozens of threads pulsed. Most faded. A few screamed.

One glowed black.

"I've watched this for weeks," she began. "This path. This outcome. I've turned a thousand futures inside out, rewound hundreds of timelines, rewoven countless causal nexuses."

Her eyes hardened.

"They all end the same way."

The projection zoomed.

Worlds shattering.

Gods dying.

Laws breaking.

Life ending.

A black ripple, like a virus, spreading across every plane of existence.

"That's not a possibility," Alfred said. "That's certainty."

"No," Aurora corrected, her voice flat. "It's design."

Joshua sat forward, fingers already moving, tracing runes into space. "I've tried locating the point of origin. The causal branch. The moment it started. But it's missing. Someone's hidden it from everything. Even from me."

"That's not supposed to be possible," Aria said coldly. "We're not just gods anymore. We're the Origin Pantheon."

"And yet," Aurora said, voice low, "we're blind."

The room fell silent.

Alice leaned forward. "You said there's only one thread that doesn't collapse."

Aurora nodded.

"Yes. One future. One timeline. One outcome where the multiverse doesn't fall."

Alfred clenched his fist. "And?"

Aurora hesitated.

"It's not visible anymore."

Joshua's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I could see it once. A path where the being who started all of this was stopped. A timeline held together by one constant."

She raised her hand—and the vision shifted again.

That constant?

Adam.

His image appeared.

Still. Silent. A golden figure standing alone above the worlds—hands open, power flowing freely.

"He was always the center," Aurora whispered. "In every stable reality. Every future that survived… Adam was the anchor."

"But now?" Alexandria said softly.

Aurora's voice was colder than space.

"I can't see him anymore."

Everyone went still.

Not dead.

Not missing.

Not hidden.

Gone.

Outside the vision of a goddess who ruled causality itself.

"That's not possible," Joshua muttered.

"It shouldn't be," Aria agreed.

"But it is," Aurora replied. "I've searched all realms. All echoes. All fractured versions of him. There is no presence. No remnant. No divine trail. He has left causality entirely."

"Then who the hell is behind this?" Alfred barked. "If it's not Adam—"

Aurora shook her head. "That's the worst part. I don't know. Every future ends with something rising that is not written. Something… that shouldn't exist."

"Then it's not just breaking the rules," Alice muttered. "It's rewriting them."

Jordan finally stood.

"Then we have a problem. Because the only one who could track that kind of presence isn't with us."

Alexandria's eyes darkened. "Or worse… he doesn't want to be found."

A heavy silence followed.

It was Alfred who broke it. "So what do we do? Wait around while this… virus spreads? Hope Adam shows up in time?"

"No," Aurora said, standing tall. "We act. We prepare. We investigate every rupture. Every untraceable signal. We follow the broken laws and listen to the places reality stutters. Because if someone is pulling the strings—"

"They'll pull them again," Alice finished.

"Exactly," Aurora said.

She looked to Alexandria.

"You're the Goddess of Free Will. You feel shifts before anyone else. I want you monitoring the choices that shouldn't exist. The decisions that no one should be able to make."

Alexandria nodded slowly. "I'll listen for the screams between choices."

Aurora turned to Joshua.

"You're closest to the laws. If anyone can build a model of where the anomalies are spreading from, it's you."

"I'm already on it," Joshua said, glyphs spinning in his eyes.

Aurora looked to Alfred and Aria. "You're our sword and shield. I want both of you tracking every known Tier Omega entity in every nearby universe. If someone powerful enough to tear through realities is out there—we need to know their habits, patterns, flaws."

"On it," Aria said.

"Can't wait to hit something," Alfred grinned.

Aurora's gaze turned to Alice. "You're the last fallback. If the worst happens, and everything begins to fold…"

"I'll start locking the safe timelines," Alice replied. "Preserve what I can."

Aurora stepped back into the center of the ring.

"I don't care if this is unwritten. I don't care if causality fails."

She looked at all of them.

"We are the ones who define existence."

She closed her eyes for a moment.

And then opened them—glowing with burning gold.

"Let whoever's behind this know: even if Adam's gone… we are not."

The threads began to move again.

Slow.

Tense.

Every line of fate now tinged with the unknown.

But the Pantheon stood.

And they would not let the multiverse die quietly.

Even if the one who once held it all together—

Was missing.

The Endlands

The Endlands stretched into infinity—ash-colored plains littered with the bones of timelines that never made it. Broken worlds floated like cracked marbles in the black, some still bleeding flickers of light, others hollowed out and echoing with the memory of what could've been.

And in the center of it all, beneath the corpse of a dead sun, Veylor stood still.

He didn't need to breathe here. Nothing did. This place had long stopped recognizing concepts like life or death.

His coat barely moved, even as spatial winds tried to twist around him. They failed. He was beyond such effects now. A shadow without tether.

Before him hovered a sphere—a collapsed timeline reduced to a single point of pure memory. It pulsed faintly, red and cold.

Veylor studied it.

The meeting had ended.

Aurora's words still echoed across all strands.

"Let whoever's behind this know: even if Adam's gone… we are not."

Veylor's lips curved slightly.

"Bold," he said to no one. "Wrong… but bold."

He didn't need to see the gods with eyes. He felt them. From here, he could feel every shift in narrative, every clash of causality. He wasn't watching them like a spy. He was observing them like an author scanning a page he already knew the ending to.

But still—he wasn't arrogant enough to assume they wouldn't be a problem.

He turned.

Behind him stood seven obelisks—black, taller than mountains, pulsing with runes carved in languages lost before reality began. Each one marked a contingency. A plan for every outcome the Origin Pantheon might try.

One glowed dimly—containment for Joshua's law-weaving.

Another flickered faint green—fate scrambling, in case Aurora rewrote possibilities.

A third, layered in silver light—freewill manipulation, designed to distort even Alexandria's judgment.

Veylor raised his hand and touched the fourth.

A pulse.

The rune turned blood-red.

This one… was a failsafe. A reset option if Adam ever returned.

He watched the rune closely.

Still cold.

Still dormant.

But not dead.

"Where are you, Adam?" he murmured. "You should've shown by now."

He turned back to the floating memory sphere and clenched his hand. The sphere unraveled, showing flashes of Nullbreed, now walking with purpose. The sigil burned on his hand, carving deeper with every breath he took.

He'd started moving.

Good.

The first piece was in place.

But the Pantheon…

They wouldn't sit still.

They were already organizing. Plotting. Resisting.

Veylor's hand waved across the black air. From his palm, a smooth screen of translucent darkness bloomed out like black silk. It displayed Aurora, seated once again on her throne, whispering with Alexandria.

"She doesn't see me. But she knows something's wrong."

The image flickered—Joshua writing a divine algorithm that mapped every multiversal rupture.

"You'll never find the origin," Veylor said softly. "It was never written."