Unrecognized Interruption

Chapter 6

The wind stirred by the flapping of wings, wings not in harmony, began to form a small vortex in front of the house. Leaves drawn into it no longer fell; they hovered in place, trembling, then slowly turned gray, as if drained of life.

And that pendulum?

It pulsed faster now.

As though pleased.

Nebetu'u's sling bag hung from her side, made of a leather that came from no known creature. The skin pulsed gently, as though still alive, adorned with ancient scripts that moved on their own like worms beneath the surface. With every shift of the creature, the bag rustledmetal and paper brushing against each other in a dry whisper.

Its contents were no mere tools, but ritual weapons prepared for a battle between two layers of reality.

Nebetu'u stood amidst the chaos, her asymmetrical body like a motionless vortex, immovable. Two heads, one with a split retina, one with a smile stretched far too wide, stared forward, unfazed by angelic screams or demonic growls.

"We are not judges," whispered the female head, her voice melodious like wind singing through bones.

"We are the scale," growled the male head, his tone deep like a landslide.

Nebetu'u took no side.

Nebetu'u was a warning.

And tonight, both angel and demon would learn.

There is something older than heaven and hell.

Something colder than mercy.

Something hungrier than a curse.

Its name is balance.

"It is only rightful."

"A phrase recorded... for those too soft-hearted to deliver a proper greeting."

"Debshita."

Nebetu'u stepped forward. The living leather pouch at her side quivered violently, as if sensing a threat. Before the formless being of light could obstruct her, her right hand, fluid like a river, slipped into the bag and gripped a handful of black sand.

This was no ordinary sand.

Each grain was made of buried memories, crystallized fragments of nightmares, dust from everything the universe had chosen to forget.

"You arrived far too recklessly," the two heads of Nebetu'u spoke in unison, their voices harmonized by fury.

Without warning, she hurled the sand at the being of light.

Thhhhrrrmmm!

The grains exploded midair, forming a dark cloud that gnawed at the sky. The radiant figure screamed, its voice like a thousand shards of shattered glass, as the sand began to eat away at its form.

Its glow faded like a candle in the wind.

Its chant was cut off midway.

Its shapeless figure torn apart, consumed by sand particles that each whispered,"You are not the first. You will not be the last. But you shall be forgotten."

The being tried to resist, emitting bursts of sacred light. But the brighter it shone, the faster the black sand devoured it.

Then silence.

The light vanished, not destroyed, but erased from the memory of that realm. Even the air that had once trembled at its presence now stood still, as if nothing had ever arrived.

Nebetu'u tilted her head as she observed the void.

"Next?" the female head whispered, her slender finger tapping the leather bag.

The bag responded with a hoarse laugh, echoing faintly, eager to release its next weapon.

For Nebetu'u was not a killer.

Nebetu'u was a purifier.

And tonight, all that disturbed the balance would be cleansed.

"Let impurity tremble, tearing itself apart with no hope for mercy."

"Kularamansash."

"Honor unto Him, no ambiguity shall remain."

"Gabhrah."

Roaaarrrhhh

In the sacred silence that followed, Nebetu'u walked slowly, as if moving apart from the mortal world. Every footstep weighed by dense air, thick as incense, absorbed into the stone floor that had recorded a thousand prayers.

Those eyes, accidentally glimpsing into a holy chamber, caught a figure bowing in unwavering surrender.

Holy dust floated within dim light, dancing through beams that pierced the narrow windows. They bore witness, silent particles of time immortalizing the consistency of the servant; body unmoved, the folds of fabric always the same, the rhythm of breath flowing with the cadence of devotion.

Who was this being? No one truly knew.

But here, before the presence of Hina Esa, numbers held no meaning. What remained was pure sincerity, devotion crystallized, harder than the stone altar upon which the forehead rested.

The form shifted constantly, like a shadow behind a veil of fog. For a moment, it was a woman with long hair cascading down her back; then it became a sturdy man; before shrinking and melting into a bird singing a warm tune, sweet like drops of honey at dawn.

Its transformations never stopped, flowing without pause, as though time itself had no authority to halt such a sacred and peculiar metamorphosis.

He floated in the center of the room, his body suspended in a posture of prostration, like a Buddha statue lost in meditation. Every curve of his figure radiated a piercing serenity, as if he did not simply exist there, but had become part of the air, the dust, the breath exhaled from lips unseen.

From time to time, a cool breeze drifted in without source, sweeping across the skin like a brush of wet silk, carrying the hush of a distant waterfall echoing in soft cascades.

A voice emerged with each word spoken, only to vanish before comprehension could catch it.

The words came broken, sliced by wind, or perhaps by a consciousness unwilling to grasp them whole. They might have been spells. Perhaps prayers. Or simply the murmurs of nature, fated never to be translated. Yet amid all that uncertainty, one truth pressed through with clarity; in each transformation of form, each bird's chirp, each sweep of chilled air, there was language.

A language too ancient to be spoken aloud, yet too deep to be dismissed.

The will to flee dissolved without a trace, a plan erased before action. The body once poised to retreat turned still, frozen like sculpture, held by something far beyond fear.

Far older than fear itself.

Then, from a dimension unseen, Mala Qudshi was jolted from her slumber.

A bell rang.

Its sound did not merely fill the ears, it pierced the marrow, vibrating through bones like tightly wound strings plucked by unseen fingers. The toll shattered the fabric of space and time, turning each breath into a tremble, every blink into a confession of an inevitable presence.

Sharper than any gaze. More condemning than any whisper that had ever lurked behind the walls of thought.

Someone, or something, struggled in defiance.

Hands that should have risen to block the ears lay limp at the sides. A voice that might have screamed remained trapped in the throat, locked in place by a force without a name.

Mala Qudshi did not take form.

She was the quaking itself, the sound of death ringing with no origin, the beating of wings belonging to no bird.

And within the chaos, only one certainty remained.

The bell had rung for him.

The bell had tolled.

From the man's head, his left ear began to ooze a thick green slime—a dense liquid dripping like sap from a wounded tree, trailing down his neck and leaving behind a fluorescent trace across the skin.

To be continued…