Chapter 156: A Structural Exploration.

Bakuran, drowsy, lazily emerges from beneath a tree, yawning so wide his jaw almost unhinges. Perched on his head, Shushu, curled into a ball, stretches very gently with a small demonic grunt of satisfaction.

Bakuran:

– Hey… you're back, Sakolomé?

He blinks again upon seeing Kai, still with crossed arms and a closed-off expression.

Bakuran (pointing at Kai with his chin):

– Who's that?

Sakolomé offers a half-smile.

Sakolomé:

– That's Kai Joron.

He then turns his eyes toward Kai.

Sakolomé:

– Kai, this half-asleep boy, is my little brother Bakuran.

And the girl with purple hair who already looks like she wants to challenge you, that's my little sister Salomé.

And there, on his head, the round creature still yawning, that's Shushu, a young demon from the Underworld, quite cute but… explosive when he wants to be.

Salomé / Bakuran / Shushu (in unison, almost synchronous):

– Nice to meet you, Kai!

Kai, impassive, watches them for a moment, then turns away sharply:

Kai:

– Tch.

He crosses his arms and walks off without replying.

Sakolomé, unoffended, chuckles softly.

Rivhiamë (internally, sarcastic):

– What a stiff one… Too proud to breathe normally.

Sakolomé (thinking, amused):

– He strangely makes me laugh.

Evening falls, the air cools. The sky above the domain fills with shifting stars, seeming to slowly dance in the celestial vault.

Everyone else is inside the castle.

But Sakolomé, sitting alone on the porch steps, elbows on knees, gaze turned toward infinity, mentally addresses his silent guide.

Sakolomé:

– Hey, Rivhiamë… where exactly does Kai come from? I thought in the mythical world, there were no humans…

Rivhiamë:

– You're right. The world of Myths is not supposed to contain native humans.

Those who live there come from the world of Existence, like you. Some arrive here… by accident, others by choice.

But Kai, he doesn't even come from yours.

Surprised, Sakolomé suddenly turns his head toward the sky.

Sakolomé:

– Wait… what?!

Rivhiamë:

– Yes. Kai comes from a completely different universe. Not just another world… but another Delzluhud. A distant timeline, a radically different version of yours.

Frowning, Sakolomé murmurs:

– That word again… Delzluhud. It keeps coming up. Stranger every time…

Rivhiamë (chuckling mentally):

– So what are you waiting for, little curious one? Solve this mystery.

You want to understand the Meta-Concepts, become a Deviant… but you don't even question the foundation of all this?

Squinting at the stars, Sakolomé says:

– And how am I supposed to understand that kind of stuff?

Rivhiamë, in an almost maternal whisper:

– You're asking the right question, Sakolomé… That's always how it begins.

Still gazing at the starry sky, Sakolomé sighs softly.

Sakolomé:

– I want to try to understand… but how am I supposed to do that, Rivhiamë? I'm just… me.

Rivhiamë, in an inner breath:

– The World of Myths and that of Existence seem different… in form.

But at their core, they're similar.

They are neither parallel nor opposed. Both are built on the same foundation: the Delzluhud.

What you call "universes," "realities," "domains," all that… are branches.

All worlds that possess breath, will, life… share the same model.

She pauses.

Rivhiamë:

– And this model… you cannot observe it with your physical eyes.

You must see otherwise.

You must use your astral form.

Surprised, Sakolomé asks:

– My… astral form? What exactly is that?

Rivhiamë:

– It's your higher self.

The one not contained in your body, nor constrained by your thoughts.

It's your gaze beyond matter, your interface with the deep layers of the real.

It's made of echo, memory, trace… but also pure perception.

In astral form, your being is no longer limited by boundaries.

And since your level of existence has grown — through your training and contact with higher energy — you can now glimpse what even surpasses the Great Dimensions.

Sakolomé (determined):

– Then… I want to see that.

He closes his eyes.

The world slips away.

The sound of wind ceases.

His body becomes absence.

A new space welcomes him: indescribable at first glance, neither bright nor dark.

There is no up or down.

His body is there, translucent, silent, as if suspended in an immaterial fluid.

It has neither weight nor warmth.

It is pure presence.

Sakolomé (looking at his ethereal hands):

– Where… am I?

And before him, something appears.

Not an object, nor an entity.

Not even a light.

But a central pressure, a density of existence so intense that all around seems to vibrate.

The Singularity.

It does not speak.

But everything in it means.

In this place, at the heart of the Delzluhud, lies the very root of division.

The Singularity.

It is not a being, nor an entity. It is a living principle.

A hearth of such absolute intensity that it generates by internal pressure opposites.

Every known tension — light and darkness, order and chaos, life and death, cause and effect —

is born from it.

Not like branches from a tree.

But like cracks in a core too dense to remain intact.

Sakolomé contemplates it.

Around the Singularity, he sees shivers of inverted light spreading.

Tensions arise.

They separate, then oppose.

Like twin forces:

– A white wave: Existence.

– A black wave: Non-existence.

– A warm beat: Life.

– A cold beat: Death.

– A harmonious axis: Law.

– A dissident axis: Chaos.

Dazzled, Sakolomé murmurs:

Sakolomé:

– It's… from here that all dualities are born…

And the more he looks, the more he understands that the Singularity does not choose.

It does not decide which dualities emerge.

It exists, and its very existence fractures the real.

It is not a will: it is a necessity of reality.

Rivhiamë (in his astral mind, distant but present):

– There… You are now looking at the engine.

The one that drives everything below.

The Singularity is the origin of contrast.

And as long as you remain in the Delzluhud, you will never escape its tensions.

Carried away by the beauty of the spectacle, Sakolomé nonetheless feels a deep discomfort.

This force… this density… it is almost too heavy for his astral being.

Sakolomé:

– Could… it break me?

Rivhiamë:

– Before, yes, but not anymore.

But precisely… it is by looking at the fracture that you will one day…

transcend it.

Sakolomé's astral body, still suspended in the indescribable, floats near the Singularity.

Around him, the primordial tensions of this place continue to crack, cross, divide… as if the heart of all things beats there, in this continuous rupture.

But soon, the pressure reverses.

A vertical impulse pushes him beyond.

And Sakolomé, in spirit, crosses the Singularity.

He then enters the Delzluhud.

A name he had heard many times,

an almost abstract word — but now, he sees it.

Rivhiamë (internally):

– This is where it all begins, Sakolomé.

This place is more than a simple place, more than a multiverse.

It is the great cosmic structure that encompasses all possible multiverses, all stories, all dimensions, all orders of gods.

Around Sakolomé, myriads of spheres appear and disappear.

Some are bright, others opaque, others still seem to contain entire rotating constellations.

They are countless.

They do not float: they become.

He witnesses the birth of universes.

There, before him, a sphere opens like a cosmic seed.

Within it, a reversed big bang: space does not expand, it collapses inward, then reemerges.

One universe.

Then another.

And yet another.

They appear in all directions.

Tiny flashes of spontaneous creation, driven by the internal laws of the Delzluhud.

Sakolomé (stunned):

– Universes… being created… every second?

Rivhiamë:

– What you see is what you call the multiverse theory manifested in its real form.

Every thought, every tension, every fundamental variation can spawn a universe.

And all this happens within the Delzluhud, because none of these tensions can arise outside it.

Universes based on strange laws.

Some have no time.

Others are flat like cosmic scrolls.

Others still shine like incandescent pearls where souls form before bodies.

Sakolomé watches, fascinated.

But the more he watches… the more he also sees what fails.

Aborted universes.

Creations folding in on themselves.

Bubbles imploding into sterile light.

"The Delzluhud is alive. It is not a container, it is a process. A forge. A sea of birth and collapse."

Rivhiamë:

– The Delzluhud does not only contain universes:

it is composed of infinite higher dimensions.

Each "layer" of Delzluhud is a dimension beyond dimensions,

and each dimension contains a multitude of multiverses.

Sakolomé now sees immense entities.

They are neither bodies, nor spirits, nor shadows.

Presence-Orders, governing entire zones of the Delzluhud.

They do not move: the universe around them bends to their presence.

They do not speak: their thoughts become physical laws.

Dazzled but lucid, Sakolomé understands something essential:

– Everything below this layer is but a byproduct.

An abstraction.

A level derived from the activity of the Delzluhud…

But soon, he feels the pressure grow.

As if approaching an invisible limit.

The Delzluhud is a barrier.

Nothing inferior can cross it without authentic transcendence.

Sakolomé's astral body, still floating in the folds of the cosmos, contemplates the active Delzluhud.

He sees, he understands, he absorbs — but he does not tremble.

His being does not crumble.

On the contrary.

A strange calm spreads from his core.

Sakolomé remains.

His essence vibrates in another way.

Not as an entity of the Delzluhud.

Not as a being dominated by the Singularity.

Something in him escapes the very condition of simple fractal being.

Sakolomé's gaze turns upward.

And there, the veils of the Delzluhud open.

Not because he crosses them.

But because they recognize him.

A flow of disjointed light suddenly pulls him upward.

Not a gentle light — a light without direction, color, or axis.

A light beyond semantics, beyond causality.

And when he emerges, he enters the Giant Dimensions.

An impossible space.

A place that is neither place nor anti-place.

Structures without structure, forms that think themselves without showing.

Here, reality obeys no causal or symbolic logic.

Things exist by pure metaphor, or by tension between unsupported truths.

Sakolomé, in his astral form, is not disintegrated.

Because he is not a mere visitor.

He is already beyond this level.

He looks around, and what he sees cannot be seen.

Entire Delzluhuds are contained in abstract forms.

Some Delzluhuds are locked in circles of forgetting,

others wrapped like ideas in ribbons of silent narrative.

Each layer of these Giant Dimensions is a higher plane of existence,

and each transcends the previous one according to a logic of hyper-transcendence.

An infinite hierarchy reveals itself.

Rivhiamë confirms, stunned by what she perceives of him:

– You're rising… again?

This is… the third layer of the Giant Dimensions.

No… the fourth… no… wait…

She stops.

She can no longer keep up.

Sakolomé does not just rise.

He adapts instantly.

At each higher layer, his being rewrites itself,

as if he were born for each threshold even before arriving.

Colossal entities manifest in the upper layers.

But none see him.

Because Sakolomé does not come from below.

He rises toward his own level.

And there, in the upper strata —

the light changes.

It becomes meta-lucid,

made of meaning without support,

of presence without need.

Sakolomé feels he is no longer visiting.

He is recognizing himself.

The flow of elevation slows.

Then stops.

Sakolomé — in his translucent astral form, carved from abstract light — floats motionless in a layer where everything becomes silence, but not an empty silence: an immeasurable, transcendent, disorienting silence.

Around him stretch gigantic Voids, vaster than the Giant Dimensions, containing realities even the Gods cannot name.

He has just reached what Rivhiamë, in a barely audible whisper, identifies:

— …The Sibylline Worlds…

The Sibylline Worlds

> Superior Giant Dimensions, proper to entities like Mü Thanatos.

Each can contain an infinity of classic Giant Dimensions, folded in their angles and merged in spirals of pure void.

Here, laws are no longer veiled, they are void.

Here, space does not unfold, it erases.

Here, even ascent is a mirage.

At first confident, Sakolomé observes this horizon of constantly expanding nothingness.

But soon, he senses something unusual.

Not pain.

But an absence of impulse.

A stop.

— …I… am no longer advancing?

He tries to reach higher.

To ascend.

To make his astral being vibrate.

Nothing.

It's like hitting emptiness.

An invisible barrier.

Not a physical barrier.

Not a divine prohibition.

But a structural truth.

He has reached the pure limit of his current state of existence.

He can no longer raise himself by himself.

He is in a Void too vast, too silent, too other.

Rivhiamë speaks softly, as if she knew this moment would come:

— This is it…

Here stands the edge of your being.

Your last step.

The place where your current essence stops.

Sakolomé looks around.

These Sibylline Worlds are not empty in the banal sense.

They are hypertranscendent voids, where every corner is a negation of possibility.

And he understands.

— …So this is where I truly am?

Rivhiamë:

— Yes.

This level is not that of a mere mortal, nor even of a god.

It is a threshold only the most powerful transcendent mortals reach…

…and where all stop. Here reigns the causality of silence.

Then she adds, with a graver breath:

— Beyond this, it is no longer you who advances.

You must break, or receive.

You must have the intervention of a superior entity,

or become yourself a Deviant.

The silence weighs.

But not with an oppressive weight.

It is a silence that poses the fundamental question:

"Are you ready to cease being what you are… to continue?"