Chapter 507
But even as he plummeted, his senses—broad and far-reaching—stretched beyond the limits of ordinary perception. And there... he felt it.
Vellok.
A presence so alien, so commanding, it was like a beacon in the cosmic sea. It pulled at something deep within Ikenga, not in body, but in memory.
He guided his attention upward—toward his other eye, the one affixed to the moon—and with a subtle command, it turned its gaze downward. Through this celestial lens, he beheld the full, dreadful beauty of Vellok’s true form: chained in radiance, wings like broken divinity, and that hand—freed only briefly—glowing with impossible allure.
And then came the sound.
That bell tone—soft, sacred, enduring—reached him even as he fell, weaving through space like a hymn. Upon hearing it, Ikenga closed his eyes, caught not in fear, but in memory.
It came to him like incense drifting into a dream: Sunday mornings, when he was still a boy. Walking past the rusted iron gates of a modest church. The sound of the bell then was not unlike this—gentle, rhythmic, filled with something both ancient and intimate. It had marked the beginning of worship, of quiet awe.
The echo of that sacred chime mingled now with the distant howl of the wind against his falling form.
"Demons... and now angels. What else does this world have to offer?"
Ikenga mused inwardly, his voice quiet amid the roar of reentry.
He opened his eyes, the heat of descent glowing across his face. And there, just before him, loomed the massive Abyssal Portal—a gaping wound in the world’s fabric, leading to Zarkov’s domain.