Chapter 575 The Arrival of Loki The Plagiarist of Words That Were Never Written
The Philistines of the sky are not shattered by sound, but by delay. In that city, time seemed to freeze, slowing down until it stopped for 3 seconds, as if the breath of the universe held back its curiosity. The cold wind scratched the surface of the skin, conveying the damp aroma that came from the ruins and indelible memories. In the absence of sound and movement, there was only the echo of words yet to be spoken.
From the gap between minutes and meaning—Loki appeared. With a smile that held thousands of years of secrets, he reached for presence like a shadow painted in moonlight. His mysterious aura enveloped and overshadowed every soul around him, giving a silent yet profound touch to the tense atmosphere.
His cloak did not flutter in the wind; his body seemed insubstantial, becoming a living calligraphy of all the lies yet to be written. The symbols of the mantra etched on his chest—woven since Fajar cried—throbbed like a fetus in the womb of time, vibrating in a rhythm that could only be understood by those who merged with destiny. His soft voice, like a whispering wind, caressed the ears and seemed to carry a warning of the journey to come.
Beelzebub embraced Elyra tightly, providing warmth in the biting cold that gripped them, shielding her from the chill of the night. Beside them, Fitran stood firm, ready to sacrifice anything. The flames of his soul sparkled like a fire that never extinguished, reflecting the determination and loyalty etched deep within his heart.
Loki stepped forward with confidence... not on the ground, but across statements. Each of his steps formed words like a flow of ink, as if each footfall marked a new Chapter in the story still buried. He shed layers of reality, allowing the truth to shine brightly in the darkness:
"I did not come to kill..."
"I came to rewrite before you even understand what you have birthed." Loki's voice echoed with arrogance, resonating among the shadows that danced nimbly in the dim light, as if softly whispering to every corner of the cold, rigid room.
The symbols compressing the truth before it could take shape hung in the air, striking the senses like the aroma of incense enveloping an ancient ritual. Every word that slipped from his lips became a mantra, touching the souls hiding in the shadows of the dim reality.
His spiral form appeared inverted, with a vertical line dividing it, standing in stark contrast to the darkness, and at its end, it branched in two directions:
– One towards silence
– One towards duplicity.