Chapter 183
The voice posed the most intimate question, one that shattered self-image itself, questioning the very worthiness of its own title.
"Am I… truly worthy of being called the Creator?"
The voice doubted every aspect of its essence.
Deep within itself, far beneath layers of divinity and cosmic responsibility, it felt like nothing more than a childish Goddess—a child trapped by the burden of being the One Supreme, a role she had never fully understood nor been prepared to bear.
That final question was no longer directed at Theo, nor at the world, but was instead an echo of the deepest doubt that had finally found the courage to speak, reverberating alone across a silent green field—unanswered, and perhaps never to be answered.
'Have I been holding everything in for too long?'
First Arc, Mid–Ninth Episode.
The sky at six in the morning was a pale bluish-gray dome, a backdrop far too vast for a former Angel lost in her own descent.
Aldraya walked aimlessly across the barren expanse, her footsteps leaving no trace in the dust, as if her body were merely an illusion slowly fading away.
The morning mist, which should have danced lightly, instead hung frozen in the air, forming crystalline dewdrops that reflected fragments of dim light.
Each cold, shallow breath she took emitted subtle waves of vibration, tearing at the veil of reality around her.
The dry grasses that had once glimmered brown beneath the first light now dimmed one by one, in rhythm with the tears that fell from her petrified face—dying before they ever touched the ground.
The world around her responded to that sorrow in its own way, through fading light and frozen time, as though the universe itself were choking on a grief too vast to be voiced.
Aldraya's face was a monument of quiet ruin.
There were no creases of sorrow, no trembling lips.
Only a porcelain mask, internally fractured, with those cracks releasing pure clarity from the corners of her eyes.
Those tears did not arise from conscious will, but from a systemic failure—a final overflow from a soul that had exceeded its capacity.
They flowed with a slow, mournful gravity, each drop bearing the weight of forgotten memories and abandoned responsibilities.
Her pale skin was soaked by those traces, which instantly evaporated into fine, shimmering particles before vanishing—like confessions that were never spoken aloud.
Behind half-lowered eyelids, her unfocused pupils gazed inward, witnessing the ruins of the false heaven she had just left behind, witnessing a child trapped in the form of a deity.
The small ritual of her unease continued in total silence.
Her right hand clenched tightly until her knuckles turned white, then slowly relaxed, as if all strength evaporated along with the tears.
Then it clenched again.
That endless cycle was the only movement left in her nearly frozen body—a mechanical metronome measuring the heartbeat of a silent storm.
That storm was locked tightly within the cage of her ribcage and clenched jaw, chewing on unspoken words, swallowing every scream and doubt.
She was a living contradiction—a statue with a bleeding heart, an entity powerful enough to create worlds yet fragile enough to be undone by tears not even born of her own will.
That suppressed emotional force continued to radiate outward, making the air around her hiss softly, as though space itself were holding its breath, sharing the weight of the unbearable.
And in the midst of it all, Aldraya simply kept walking.
Letting herself leak, letting the world around her mourn, while still staring straight ahead—into the barren void that might be the only truth left.
'I must keep appearing capable of standing, at least to myself.'
Fiiiih!
'I must not fall. I truly must not.'
Feet that had traversed endless distances, crossing false spaces and desolate realities, finally reached their limit.
The first subtle tremor rose from her calves, climbed to her thighs—a small rumble rebelling against an iron will that demanded motion.
The tremor grew into an uncontrollable shaking, a micro-earthquake that shattered the foundation of a body that had stood firm for far too long.
Each subsequent step became a battle between gravity and resolve, between exhaustion seeping into the marrow and pride that refused to yield.
Until finally, without dramatization, without screams or gasps, her graceful knees bent and surrendered.
Her body pitched forward, collapsing into the cold, unforgiving earth in a motion that resembled surrender more than a fall.
She landed on both knees first, slightly forward, piercing the barren dust.
Her posture was no longer upright, but bent forward, forming a curve of complete submission.
Her head hung low, face turned toward the ground, as though she were bowing in worship or examining the cracks of the earth at an intimate distance.
Her back, once stretched like taut wings, now arched into a broken bow.
Every muscle in her body appeared both slack and rigid in an unnatural pose, like a wax statue beginning to melt under the heat of suffering long endured.
Her once-shimmering hair fell to cover the side of her face, forming a final curtain that concealed the tears that may still have been falling, mingling with the dust below.
'I abandoned social interaction, laughter, and real life, believing solitude to be the highest form of sacrifice.
But if all of that was wrong, what other request must I fulfill? Become an empty void without substance? Or vanish without a memory?'
Hhhh!
'If from birth I was already imperfect, if my path was wrong from the very beginning, then what is the point of enduring until now?'
That bowed head was no longer a sign of reverence, but a burden heavy enough to break the neck.
Dust from the barren ground now clung to her forehead and hair, a new crown of humiliation.
In that position, the questions came not as light bubbles of thought, but as heated bricks stacked one by one inside her skull, rebuilding her entire life into a monument of futility.
Every memory, every sacrifice, every second of total devotion was now replayed through a new lens.
A lens of flaw and insufficiency.
She imagined herself at four years old, small and stiff before the altar of the Almighty.
Were the movements of her tiny hands perfect even then?
Did the whispered prayers spoken with her still-lisping tongue reach the heavens with sufficient purity? Or did the tremor of fear and incomprehension taint every praise she offered?
The pavilion of solitude she had once sanctified as a fortress of faith now transformed in her mind into an isolation cell built upon misunderstanding.
Every wall seemed to scream, echoing every moment she might not have bowed low enough, prostrated long enough, or clenched her teeth hard enough while cursing the names that insulted her Lord.
She had believed self-exile to be the highest form of purification, but now, beneath the contemptuous gaze she had just received, she questioned whether that isolation was instead proof of her inability to engage with true glory—a fundamental flaw that drove her to choose a safe and sterile path.
To be continued…