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22 – Sightless Knowledge and the Eternal Darkness

Time is a burden for those who forget. But for those who remember, it is a curse. For Rhaem’thar, however, it was neither. He had been born beyond memory, a sage who saw time without eyes. Worlds had crumbled, civilizations had turned to dust, yet he had continued to gather knowledge from the ashes of everything. He was a face without a face, an echo within silence.

When Rhaem’thar awakened from his eternal slumber, the sky still looked the same—but the world had long since changed. The very fabric of the atmosphere felt different. An energy woven with shadow pulsed through the veins of the earth, defying the old laws, whispering of a new order being born. At the center of that order, a single name resounded endlessly: V.

The ancient god stood at the heart of his own dimensional library, where colossal stone pillars spiraled upward in solemn silence. Books without pages whispered among themselves, and inkless quills scribbled notes upon the void. Here, knowledge lived—and at times, it was dangerous. But he was old enough to battle knowledge itself.

As his long fingers touched an invisible tome, unseen particles of light scattered across the space. Words fractured by timelessness merged with echoes of ancient energies. Unraveling the nature of V’s powers was no simple task. But Rhaem’thar’s eyeless sight was sharp enough to pierce through illusions draped over truth.

When he traced V’s essence, he could not define it by ordinary energy. It bore no trace of Asgardian divinity, nor did it resemble the magic of Midgard. It was more primal, more ancient. As his mind reached deeper into V’s core, a coldness wrapped around his form. A silence beyond sensation enclosed his existence, pulling him into another reality.

And suddenly, there was nothing.

He was in the void. A place where no light could reach, where no sound could echo. No ground, no sky—only infinite darkness. Rhaem’thar did not recognize this void, but what he felt was a fear he had forgotten for thousands of years.

From the darkness, a presence emerged—not a body, but a sensation. Not shadow, but the progenitor of shadows. Not silence, but the sovereign of silence. Those who had whispered its name had gone mad; even those who forgot it fled from it in their dreams.

Oblivion.

The source of V’s power. Forgetfulness incarnate.

For the sake of knowledge, Rhaem’thar spoke:

“I am Sightless Knowledge. The memory of thousands of worlds. Tell me—what are you the echo of?”

Darkness replied without an echo.

“I am no echo. I existed before sound. I touched V’s essence, I whispered to him. His power is a shard of me.”

Rhaem’thar bowed his head—not in submission, but in understanding.

“If shadow is his blade, are you then his scabbard?”

“No,” said Oblivion, its voice like thunder woven into a dream. “He has already shattered my scabbard. Now, shadows obey him. But he is still mine. For once darkness touches, it never truly lets go.”

In that moment, Rhaem’thar understood something. V’s power had not merely been born from rage, pain, or exile. The true root was that the primordial darkness had chosen him.

“Why him? Among thousands of beings, millions of souls… Why an Asgardian? Why this exile?”

Oblivion’s voice came now as if from the rooftop of the universe:

“Because he forgot. Who he was. What he was. Why he fell. Those who forget—they are mine. And when he lost everything, he walked toward me. And I welcomed him. The emptiness inside every exiled god was made to be filled by me.”

Rhaem’thar trembled for the first time upon hearing these words.

But he did not kneel. For he too was a god. And like all gods, he was destined to rule.

“You have your shadows. I have my knowledge. You may have forged V with darkness. But his mind remains malleable. Time will show who will claim dominion over him.”

Oblivion’s silence was brief. Then, a whisper followed—like a threat coiling around existence.

“You do not understand me, Sage. You cannot rule him. He can no longer even rule himself. He only walks. And each step he takes echoes my name. He is not a being; he is an echo. My echo.”

Rhaem’thar did not flinch. He stepped forward into the darkness and whispered:

“Echoes, too, can be guided. Knowledge is the compass within darkness. You are the night. I am the direction.”

Oblivion was silent.

It was not acceptance. But neither was it denial.

And in that moment, Rhaem’thar opened his eyes again—or rather, rediscovered the self that gazed without sight. He had returned to his dimensional library. But one truth was now etched into his mind: V was not merely a god. He was a vessel. And the source that filled him was a void feared even by the gods.

The god who had returned steadied his trembling hands and dismissed the scrolls suspended in the air. He silenced the whispers of dark remnants. But the echo within his mind still murmured:

“Those who forget are mine…”

Rhaem’thar walked between the stone pillars and ascended to a high platform. From there, he could see the patterns of the heavens. The constellations had changed. The light had dimmed. The world was now under V’s yoke—and that yoke bore the traces of Oblivion.

Yet the expression upon the faceless god remained unchanged:

Desirous.

Ambitious.

Born to rule.

“You may be the master of darkness,” he said to himself, “but I am the master of knowledge.”

And knowledge does not go silent.