The Jester of Apocalypse
Chapter 92: Cycleless

Defying the heavens, violating balance, and the concept of infinite perfection.

Some claimed that the heavens, infinite in their wisdom, created harmony above and beyond one, several, many, and all.

What was an individual to a society? What was a society to a civilization? What was a civilization to the myriad species of the realms above and below? What was life to all that was unliving?

And finally, what could all that was matter to all that wasn’t?

Defying the heavens—an act of sacrilege, yes, but a necessary one; a holy rebellion; a selfish defiance, a cruel betrayal of the Great Gifts—meant violating this harmony. To rise above one’s due station as an insignificant speck of dust in the grand scheme and strive to be more was to spit on what you were given and take more.

To take from others below, above, and beside you, and the unliving; and ultimately, to bring into being that which wasn’t.

The Great Philosophers of each era had dedicated their lives to deciphering heaven’s punishments for the traitors. No set number existed, as no man dared deem themselves wiser than the heavens in all their glory, but a vast number had been discovered.

The ultimate heavenly punishment, the fate that awaited every cultivator, was losing the right to ever have peace. Yet, this was the one people accepted most easily. After all, peace was never a certainty. Being powerless meant waiting to become a victim, so deciding to take matters into one’s own hands was easy.

It was the other consequences that had mere men begging on their knees.

The way mortal beings witnessed the passage of time was merciful. It was cyclical, eternal, beginning from the humble exchange between night and day and ending in the grand orchestra of seasons.

Time only passed on a small scale. Only in seconds, minutes, and hours did one feel the temporal tides wash over them.

Yet, the cycles were eternal, neverending.

The day usurped night, and night banished the day.

The treachery of fall felled summer’s empire; the backstab of winter stole fall’s rebellion away; the heroism of spring conquered the winter, and its prosperity bloomed into summer’s reign. Sᴇaʀch* Thᴇ NʘvᴇlFirᴇ.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.

Repetition, sequence, eternity.

The unforgettable, unerasable signature of the year’s cyclical change marked events far more clearly than mortal means. Even then, the past was meant to be forgotten, and the future was meant to be unknown.

One was forever until one wasn’t. Then, the cycle of being would continue through their offspring, and theirs in turn, and on and away.

The cruelest, most merciless punishment the heavens could give was rescinding one's right to eternal life.

Cultivators needed less sleep, and they no longer needed it in daily intervals. The cycle of the day was the first to be taken away.

They could roam the realm, appearing great distances away at will, yet they no longer had the privilege of witnessing the epic, neverending battle of seasons. Thus, another cycle was gone.

Their young no longer continued their life in their stead. But the same way they had betrayed the heavens, their young would, too, ungratefully seek to claim what they believed was rightfully theirs.

Only when the flow of time turned linear, some claimed, that one lived a life shorter than eternity.

***

Dukean recalled the teachings he had read throughout his life. They gave him no comfort. They weren’t meant to, to begin with.

He had always considered himself resolute. Understanding what it meant to defy the heavens was a core principle of their family, something his father carved into his mind from an early age.

So he had to ask himself—what kind of abomination were they committing to deserve punishment as severe as this? He was trying to meditate, but it was becoming impossible. The constant anxiety was unbearable, and he felt as if his mind was being torn apart.

Cycles? What fucking cycles?

There was no such thing as a cycle here, yet, in a cruel twist, repetition dominated his life.

Perpetual darkness, above and below, permeated this realm of nightmares. Continuous cold, a bone-piercing chill that permitted no comfort, crept into every corner and filled every cell of his body.

Eternal darkness couldn’t be called eternal night.

Eternal cold couldn’t be called eternal winter.

Those names belonged to the sacred cycles. This realm was an unholy, disgusting abomination, the ultimate sin against heaven’s perfection.

Perception of time was something many took for granted in their daily lives. However, only when that privilege was taken away did it truly become clear how big of a role it played in keeping people sane.

He broke out of his meditation. As he succumbed to temptation, his spirit power flared, creating a bit of fire, temporarily casting away the darkness and the cold. It wasn’t even seconds later that the others were rushing into his room, shamelessly gathering around him like bewitched moths.

Harel looked decrepit. Her hair was falling out, and her dry, red eyes were almost constantly open. Having lost considerable weight, her body looked more like that of some demonic cultivator who had failed a cursed ritual than that of a healthy young woman.

Hunter seemed fine at first glance, relatively speaking. Some surface symptoms of sickness were present, but nothing as extreme as those Harel had. However, whenever he lost focus, he immediately began mumbling something into his chin, whispering a conversation with an imaginary co-disciple he referred to as ‘Uldhore.’

The entire base they found themselves in was overdecorated, as Gabrias spent literally all his time building or crafting something, to the point where he barely ever slept. Trying to force him to go to sleep made him scream his lungs out until he began wheezing like a pig being slaughtered, and only when allowed to go back to work did he shut up.

They had to knock him out by force to get him to rest. Otherwise, his screams would compromise the already fragile sanity of everyone else.

Marven looked lethargic, and Dukean knew why.

The mighty cultivator had taken the role of a leader. The responsibility for everyone else fell on his shoulders, and he worked tirelessly to, at first, keep everyone sane and, now, to stop them from deteriorating further. He worked tirelessly, constantly trying to puzzle out ways to maintain the precarious balance they found themselves in. By now, he appeared beyond exhausted.

Often, he vented his frustrations to Dukean or came to the young boy for advice. At first, Dukean was glad that Marven gained trust in him. A short while after he started, Dukean hated his guts, as he almost constantly pestered him. However, soon after, yet again, he was glad that Marven was talking to him. Until he hated him again.

How funny, the young master thought. It was almost a cycle—a horrid, disgusting parody of one, juggling respect and hatred, but a cycle nonetheless.

Dukean laughed to himself, and the others looked at him in fright.

Harel joined him in cackling, and so did Hunter. Gabrias screamed, and Marven jumped to restrain and knock him out. The three others cackled merrily as the old cultivator struck Gabrias a few times more than he should have.

As everyone laughed at him, Marven looked almost ready to cry, but soon enough, he was laughing as well.

Thump…

As they heard the thump that notified them of food delivery, they drooled at their mouths and ran out like wild dogs, rushing to the pile of processed abominid meat. It was the only real source of joy and comfort they had in this place, even if they ate often enough that they weren’t too hungry.

Marven did his best to hold himself back as he grabbed Hunter and Harel by their necks, restraining them while commanding Dukean to cook the meat first.

The young master was also barely restraining himself from taking a bite, so he did a rather rushed job and burned the edges while the inside remained almost entirely raw.

Nobody would really care, though.

Once finished, Marven released the two rabid kids, and they all jumped on the meat.

It took much willpower not to devour Gabrias’ share as well.

Gabrias was woken up, and his screams were muted, this time by the meat that was forcefully shoved into his mouth.

They had eaten, and now it was time.

Marven commanded them to get into formation, and they did as he told them.

Hunter and Gabrias were paired up, as they were relatively close in strength, while Harel sparred against Dukean. They all held practice swords shaped out of obsidian.

Their power was far too far apart, yet Dukean dreaded facing Harel.

"Start!" Marven swung his hand, and the spar began.

Gabrias screamed, running at Hunter like a maniac.

Hunter got into a defensive position and yelled, "Uldhore, attack from the side!"

Gabrias tackled Hunter, and they wrestled on the floor. The bigger man clawer and bit like an animal, while Hunter yelled, "What the—ack—hell are you doing—aaargh—just standing there, dude? Help me! Help me!"

Harel cackled at Hunter, and she turned to face Dukean. She lifted her practice sword and dashed toward him.

The way she fought was simply frightening.

Dukean, naturally, had to hold back since he was far too powerful to make for a decent opponent against her. Yet, even with the fact that he was holding back, he would frequently be surprised and caught off guard by the things she did.

She rushed him like a heavensdamned lunatic, leaving many openings for him to capitalize on. Yet, if he did that, the attack she was invested in would spell the end of the fight, and if they were evenly matched, likely the end of his life as well.

It was such a psychotic, self-destructive fighting style that Dukean was confident she would dominate tournaments among combatants her age, but not for the right reasons.

When one was burned once in a fight against her, it immediately created a sense of hesitation that, throughout the contest, gradually evolved into a phobia of doing anything at all.

Initially, Marven maintained everyone’s fighting styles and trained them properly. However, as this damned place strained his willpower at ever-increasing levels, he decided to be more lenient. That leniency had long turned to negligence.

Willpower wasn’t an endless resource. It was like a muscle. If not allowed proper rest, it would eventually fail. There was nobody else to take over Marven’s responsibility of keeping things in check, so he had thoroughly burned out to the point where forcing himself to keep going had become impossible—a long, long time ago.

All of them frequently wondered when Neave would finally be done with his project. However, things weren’t guaranteed to improve with his return.

They kept fighting to the point where they likely should have stopped a while ago but kept going anyway.

The rush of combat kept the fear away, and like any other addicts, they couldn’t stop themselves from overindulging in their drug of choice.

Once they were thoroughly exhausted, everyone except for Dukean, that was, all went to sleep, falling unconscious one by one.

Marven took on the responsibility of tiring him out until he was also knocked out, and finally, everyone was asleep for the first time in a while.

The old cultivator immediately fell asleep as well. It was a risk, given that he held immense responsibility here, but it was a risk he was willing to take. Screw the consequences, he needed sleep badly, and he needed it now.

That marked the moment when everyone lay mostly defenseless and thoroughly exhausted on the ground.

***

Gabrias was the first among them to wake up. Screaming the moment he did, he rushed to go do something. Not even that was enough to wake the others up.

He walked over to a corner, turned, and entered a room. It was the largest one they had built—as well as the least important one.

It was a room that held many tiny houses and random structures. Gabrias had already constructed everything he was meant to, so he needed something to do. Thus, Marven dug out this space for him and let him do whatever he wanted.

So he did precisely that.

The buildings themselves were genuinely impressive. Even with rudimentary materials, Gabrias constructed firm buildings using every over-the-top, redundant construction technique he could think of, without sacrificing aesthetics, of course.

Some entrances had doors, and others had beaded door curtains made with polished obsidian beads. As for where he had gotten the thread that he hung the beads on, he collected loose hair, naturally.

Harel was losing a ton, and everyone was losing a bit. Their hair had grown quite a bit, too, but there was still a shortage.

So he ran back into the room with the sleeping cultivators.

Where could he get more hair?

Ah, of course! How could he have missed the obvious for so long? Why collect loose hair when he could get some straight from the source?

So, he promptly picked up a tiny obsidian dagger and got to work. It was far from a clean shave. The victims—all completely oblivious to the fact that they had just been violated—looked messier than plucked chickens.

If someone dropped wet candy onto a dirty carpet, they would get a relatively convincing recreation of the hairstyle his work created. Naturally, he didn’t miss his own head either. The ball of hair he gathered was a messy collection of random colors.

Given that he suddenly found himself with a large surplus of material, he decided to try his hand at making a curtain.

He worked frighteningly fast and, in a relatively short time, created some colorful cloth to be hung over a window. Once he attached his new creation, it draped down quite firmly, as it was rather heavy.

It was greasier than balls, too, and smelled off.

Gabrias shrugged. That would do fine for now!

He returned back to the room. Was hair really all that the others could provide him with? Everyone wore robes, too, which could also work as a construction material!

Gabrias approached Harel first and reached for her robes, but he paused. What was he doing!? That wouldn’t do. This was immoral. How could he strip a young lady of her robes? He wasn’t raised to be like this. He knew better.

So he got back up, turned…

And stripped everyone else instead.

Yes—even himself.

That resulted in a neat new carpet, which looked quite pleasant, if somewhat… avant-garde. He nodded in satisfaction and returned to the room.

Well, would you look at that, he was out of materials to harvest!

Actually… No. There was one more thing. Skin could be turned to leather. That was quite a high-quality material.

So he approached Marven’s sleeping body and grabbed the Glass Shard, pulling it out of its scabbard. Looming over the old cultivator, he raised the weapon into the air.

And turned around.

Heading for the exit out of their base.

As he deliriously walked out of their confined area, for the first time in a while, he felt no desire to scream. “I wonder if demon hide will make for a good construction material.”

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