Chapter 93

The Whole World Will Know

You have died.

Save point ‘Death’ has been initialized.

“AAAAAGGGHHHHH!!!!”

Sylas had talked with Tebek, or whatever his name may have been, almost fifty times now, dying over and over after the fact to redo it. He hadn't managed to squeeze much past their initial reaction but had gleaned enough new information to have warranted dedicating his time to it.

Namely, Tebek likely was a member of not just the Shadows, but another organization within the Kingdom that was favored by the Kingdom. From the way the man spoke, Sylas got the impression of someone living a high-life--it was similar to Derrek’s initial outburst when he locked the man up in the Shard, a reaction of a man who is used to looking down upon the world when that world bites back.

Additionally, Sylas had ascertained that the original Tebek lived in the capital--the man himself confirmed so on several occasions, often even in the bragging tone of ‘it will take me a few days to go from capital to your castle, that’s how amazing I am!’

Popping open a jug of wine and pouring himself a cup, Sylas fell into deep thought. Beyond just that, he also learned a biting piece of news--Tebek was a blademaster. It was a slip-up rather than the bragging point, something that the man immediately recoiled on. However, that severely narrowed the number of people he could be.

All else aside, however, the man being a blademaster also meant that Sylas could hardly go after him. No matter how confident he’d become with his mastery of the sword as well as other tidbits he was involved with, he wasn’t nearly arrogant enough to believe he could contend with the world’s elite. He was still a pup, a growing bud, and though he believed in his potential above all else, even with eighty years under his belt, he was still far away from matching it.

After all, for the eighty years that he fought, he used exclusively the swordsmanship that Tenner taught him in conjunction with the Heartseeker. And though he pushed them to the peak, he was never able to cross the next boundary of Heartseeker--superimposing ten strikes into one. The reason wasn’t layered in skill itself but, once again, Sylas’ physique.

The most he managed to do was six strikes--upon which his entire right arm ruptured from within, exploding due to the sheer pressure imposed on it.

The principles behind stacking the strikes were less complex than Sylas initially thought--it was just the case of building momentum by not going through with stabs completely. Though difficult, as it was quite a lot like purposefully holding back a sneeze, it wasn’t impossible. The problem was when that momentum stacked to a certain degree--to the point where Sylas’ body was simply incapable of enduring the pressure.

He sighed, shaking his head; though he wasn’t exactly the peak of physique, he had still completely reshaped his body. He went from weighing a hundred and a buck to around two hundred and twenty-thirty pounds, most of it raw muscle. It was a massive transformation, but one ushered entirely by the ‘catch-up’ so to say of the loop from which his physique persisted.

Additionally, he found it difficult to push it any further--it was as though he’d hit his genetic plateau, and that meant no moving forward. He wasn’t dispirited, however; if he was on Earth, maybe this would have been his potential peak. But this was the world of magic, after all--there likely were numerous ways of pushing the physique forward, and his next plan was asking Derrek for some tips and tricks.

Before that, however, he wanted to check out archery--namely the seemingly insane requirements that the skill asked of him. To alter an arrow's direction mid-flight... was impossible. Though Sylas wasn't wholly certain, curving the trajectory didn't sound impossible--but that was from the onset. Shooting straight and then moving the arrow...

“Maybe it has loopholes?” he mulled aloud. “Like shooting in fast winds, or shooting the arrow with another arrow--yea, right, that does sound like something possible. Fuck. Haah... maybe magic--no, wait, yes. Imbue the arrow with a trace of magic, and then connect with it. Sort of like with talismans.”

Rather than immediately rushing to test it, he decided to unwind. He'd been high-strung for months now and decided to give himself a day or two of just lazing about. He'd stopped paying much attention to the castle's progression; past the initial few days where he aided them with immediate recuperation, he left most of it to others while chasing his ghosts.

He'd occasionally chat with Ryne or Valen or Derrek if he ran into them but mostly avoided it as the conversations tended to... replay. With all three, they'd all express that 'nobody was blaming them', and one or another form of determination. If anything, that was the point that struck Sylas the hardest. Though it was clear that all three were bent and broken, and that their mental states were far from stable, they were... determined.

A fifteen-year-old girl who barely saw a shadow of the grand world was determined to live out her life, to find her purpose and her use. Though she should grieve and cry and curse and get spoiled... she pushes forward.

Looking at them felt like looking at a mirror whose reflection was mocking him. He was the only one who came out of that mess without any visible scars, yet the invisible ones mounted. In part, he was joyous--joyous that they were so strong. But... also sad. Sad that the children weren’t allowed to grieve, to be selfish.

A few loops ago, he had a conversation with Ryne that he’d had quite a few times before--one in which she begged him not to leave, that she’d be useful to him. That even though blind, she’d find a way to contribute. A fifteen-year-old kid shouldn’t be proclaiming their ability to be useful, especially so after such a tragedy.

“Is it even worth it?” he mumbled, sighing. Everyone praised the Witch, saying that though her methods are inhumane, her results were unmatched. But Sylas... wasn’t convinced. Was Ryne unmatched? The girl was one abandonment away from becoming an emotionless, cold, jaded, shadow of her current self. All her talent in drawing up talismans and the knowledge and all the ability that came with it... were they worth it?

Sylas was certain that his idea of how Exorcists were made was beyond skewed--after all, though he joked with Ryne, he was no Exorcist himself. And he had genuinely been trying for a long, long, long time. Even if those eighty years weren’t fully dedicated to just talismans, at least half of it was. Forty years of trying to learn talisman inscription... and he wasn’t yet an Exorcist.

In fact, despite knowing Ancient Characters far, far, far more than Ryne, she was still better at drawing them, even with just the three months she had to learn. There was something far more fundamental in the way she’s ‘made’, something that seems to bleed knowledge, even about the things she knows nothing of.

"Price of progress..." he said, taking a sip of wine. Everyone made sacrifices for the greater good, it seemed. And children were no exceptions.

Sighing, he stood up and walked over to the window, climbing through and climbing up the slippery, wet stone to reach one of the castle’s slanted rooftops. Clearing some snow away, he sat down at the ledge, taking in the view. He’d become fearless, he realized. But it wasn’t an entirely good thing.

Though it was cold, he ignored it, continuing to drink the wine. He’d become numb to the taste. It wasn’t just the wine--he’d become numb to the most things, he’d come to realize. He was becoming more and more single-minded in his pursuit of something phantasmal, something ethereal. It was as though he was chasing a ghost that would award him some inner peace. But ghosts weren’t real.

Taking a sip, he looked up at the ashen sky, closing his eyes and letting the cold and wet snowflakes belt against his face. There was a future in this world, that much he knew. And he was a part of it. For how long... he didn’t know. But one thing was for certain--he’d died so many times by now that he was sure he wasn’t limited by the number of lives, but by his usefulness. Eventually, he’ll complete his mission--whether that was putting Valen on the throne or something else, and his immortality would run out. He’d be a man burdened by a thousand lifetimes, afforded the final one.

He wanted to push for that future, a future in which he served some kind of purpose. Future in which his life meant something more. A life that breathed hope into others, if not into itself. But for that to happen, he knew he’d have to let go of many things and cross many thresholds he thought he never would, not even when he first appeared in this world. Beyond just becoming smarter in the way he handled the loops and extracted information from them, he’d have to change himself--even more so than currently.

He was still hesitant, he knew. Even with Tebek--the man who wholly deserved every bit of pain and torture he inflicted. Initially, he still felt reserved over it. A pull within his soul telling him to stop. He knew that he’d have to kill that voice, drown that empathy. The young Prince’s road to the throne would be paved in blood, and he was best equipped to protect him. He failed to do so once already, and couldn’t afford to do it again.

Lying down, he let the cold of the snow freeze his back as he relaxed. He'd take the determination of a cripple and make him a hero. And the whole world will know. The whole world will know.