This was the idea implicit in everything. This was the final idea that had been revealed. Murdering everyone was the greatest good that this being could conceive. It was so holy in fact that it elicited a sexual thrill, in both the mother and the son. They joined each other, above them, walking upon the wind he saw there for that purpose, continuing to stab the knife into herself; living still because he saw her that way. He kissed his mother's supernatural vagina, in the fashion of – they saw his three tongues warp around her clitoris swollen to burst, this whole time dormant. They watched those tongues 360 degree unscrew it from its hatch - they heard the tendon-click accompanying; same time his lapping that sheathed ocular passage.

They watched it, the vomitous rite, for it was profoundly religious - the mother's sexual ecstasy, and the son's pride, they watched this too, his erection stabbing her side, forming an new orifice he fucked along side it, flashing out behind the organ-sewn cape that flapped in a supernatural wind behind. Forced to - they watched this, they watched this -

And as Pry-Boak [cL^YoP] yelled his own battle cry, and the final purpose for which he fought, “Goodness!” his own mode of seeing reality pitiful, next this, but not without - he'd announced this; it was the only weapon with which he had to fight.

It was the final virtue voiced, before the heroes leapt at them -

- but in that same instance before blows could rain upon this macabre, and pornographic ritual it -

Clua-Sryh's clit-eye opened

and it -

“Beauty!”

“Truth!”

“Love!”

“Goodness!”

Each of them in their own way were already destroyed by Old Works. They were done with compromise. They were done with conformity. They were done with accommodation. They were done with new ideas. That weren't even new: the oldest conceived. They were done. They were anyway done. These were the things for which they fought. These four conceptions.

“Beauty!”

“Truth!”

“Love!”

“Goodness!”

Art's sword screamed off his back as he flung himself at the thing, running up and leaping with all the power that five hundred thousand years of narrative had forced into a body over countless lived lifetimes. A body that had fought infinite demons, slayed beasts of every hue, all scales, and capacities; scourged by the very unnamable structures of reality itself.

He'd fought/he'd fought, and he understood now. But in this damned and evil existence, these adventures, with their intermittent passages that included the things for which they all fought, had been the only good that – for many... almost everyone – that billions of dreamunits had ever -

“Beauty!” leaping, his sword met -

Out the corner of his third forehead-eye the Ontological Wound saw in Art's mind: