The screams of a Primordial Architect echoed out across existence.
After a certain point, Noah found them to be akin to a melody. The pitch varied with each manipulation Alexander performed upon those crimson vessels of suffering, rising when Delta-Threads were stimulated, falling when C-Fibers carried their slow burning anguish through pathways that had been designed to transmit rather than receive.
There was rhythm to it. There was almost music in the way Beowulf's voice broke and reformed and broke again across spans of subjective time that compressed eternities into moments.
It was a symphony of revenge, and Noah served as its maim audience while Alexander conducted.
In the corner of his eyes, he could observe crimson gold blood flying every time Alexander tugged on the network of Existential Nociceptors. The fluid painted nearby regions of the destroyed battlefield in hues.
