Chapter 386

Adulation (V)

He was always a sickly boy, as far as he could remember. His first memory, in fact, was of being yelled at by his father because he got sick again and they had to spend a lot of money on medicine. Early life was a fleeting haze of pain and agony, which he mostly spent bedridden and envious of others. He’d often peek through the solitary window he had in the room at the nearby courtyard where kids his age would swing wooden swords at one another, rancorous laughter often being the melody of the day.

He tried it, in secret, a few times to swing the sword himself—but he couldn’t. His body would give in and he would keel over in pain, only to be found by his attendants who cursed him out under their breaths. When was the first time he thought about dying? He remembered—he was eleven. His older sister came for a visit with her husband for the first time after wedding, and his father ordered him to attend the meeting despite being ill of health.

Though he couldn’t recall much, he did recall feeling faint as they brought out the meals and passing out soon after, waking up to the roaring anger of his father and his mother who was shielding his sickly body with her own. His father, blind in rage, broke his mother’s arm that day and nearly killed him, barely restrained by his uncles.

Watching his mother cry in pain, he wanted to make that pain go away—and he remembered thinking that the pain would go away if he hadn’t been there to cause it. Such thinking wouldn’t go away, not for a long, long time.

His first attempt came when he turned sixteen—after a rather vicious beating dolled out by his drunken father, he went to the nearby river and tried to drown. However, a random pair of passersby saved him and brought him back home—which simply earned him a few more beatings. He thought he would spend the rest of his life as such until, one day, he became courageous enough to shove a sword through his throat and end it all.

The worst came soon after, however—in a war between two provinces, his older sister and brother-in-law, alongside their two children, all died. His mother, laden with grief, poisoned herself shortly after, leaving him alone with his father—a man who lost all reason, and in a delirious attempt to anchor himself to some reality, blamed it all on the seventeen-year-old boy.

He blamed the war, the deaths, everything on him—and beatings continued to grow worse and worse until, one day, his father shattered his spine and paralyzed him from waist down. By then, he was numb—numb to it all. The pain. The suffering. The hollowness in his chest, the void that kept growing. He didn’t hate his father—he felt nothing.

For all the while, he figured his death would likely come at the hands of the man who fathered him—but, after becoming paralyzed, he hardly saw the old man again. Instead, he was rarely to be found in the house, often spending weeks in brothels and gambling dens, wasting away every last pine of gold that their family had until they were forced to sell their home. He, naturally, didn’t get even a copper coin of it, and was thrown out on the street.

Some of his former attendants took pity on him and took him in, intermittently letting him stay with their families. He was a hollow shell of a man, a puppet more so than a living being, but even in such state he felt the twain in his heart.

On the 88th of Mak’va, donned as the Year of the Miracles, the skies cried like wardrums and the world shook, as though it was coming to an end. Mere moments later, spread across the world, seven massive towers appeared, donned in unknown stone and oozing the kind of mysticism that was an ancient legend by that point.

One by one, folk began entering the towers and leaving them with strange, magical powers—some could shoot fire from their fingertips, others could leap as far as half a mile in a single step, others yet could cleave boulders with swords. And, perhaps most importantly, those who went in sick… came out whole.

He didn’t have any hopes—he’d already resigned himself to a life as a cripple… and yet, he couldn’t ignore the whisper in his soul, the seductive voice of a debauchers inviting him. And so, one day, with a help of a few people, he entered the tower… and became a Conqueror.

His life turned upside down over night—he could walk again, and he felt the kind of strength he only read about in the old legends. He could lift large boulders over his head, could take a sword to his gut and survive, and could run for what felt like an eternity without growing tired. All his ills seemed to have been overturned in a single night.

It didn’t take him long to track his father—the old man was still alive, spending days in a drunken haze by begging for a few coins that he would use on booze and whores. In fact, the old man didn’t even recognize him—simply extending his arms and begging for a few coins. He gave him a few and then killed him. He felt nothing, still, watching the wretched, smile-laden head roll through the dirt, reddening it with blood. But even if he felt nothing… he had to close that chapter of his life, for a new one was beginning.

It didn’t take him long to rise through the ranks—he was talented, smart, and beyond hardworking. While others were still adjusting themselves to the reality of being able to use magic or the reality of monsters, he was clearing floors one after another. He thought himself invincible—but he wasn’t. Nobody was. Eventually, he hit a wall—a wall he couldn’t destroy by himself. He tried, for many years at that, but he realized it was pointless. So, like all others, he formed a group. And they moved forward.

Floor by floor, their conquest continued—and his growth was indisputable. During his Second Awakening, he got a Heroic Class, growing two more arms on his back, becoming the most brilliant Soul-Splitter the Tower had seen. Each one of his weapons was a legendary item that could buy a Kingdom on its own, and he was unmatched. Nobody could stand up to him.

He eventually even found his way to the Primal World where, after a bit of struggle, he reached the zenith of it—the Third Awakening, and he awoke as another Heroic sub-class of the Soul-Splitter—Reaper. He’d become Death, the one thing that he once desired and feared the most.

But even with all his achievements… his world hit a wall. 77th Floor—no matter what they did, they were unable to defeat the Guardian. Everyone, him included, stagnated. First they tried it with just him being the thrice-Awakened—then with another one, then with another… eventually, they managed to form a raid with 10 thrice-Awakened, but… they were still beaten. He wasn’t discouraged—he was still the strongest, after all. He was inching ever closer to another barrier, he felt, and should he ever pass it… they would pass the 88th floor.

He thought the trip to the strange world would simply be a formality, something he would use to warm up for the future. After all, he was the strongest. The fastest. The smartest. He had risen from the ashes of hell and rose to the top. He was the star, and he would always be one. Until he met that man floating in front of him.

Ordinary-looking, aged, eyes hollow of greed and ambition. A Mage who was not a Mage. A twice-Awakened boy who was a monster of a man. Had it not been for the strange woman, even his soul would have been wiped from the existence. He used his strongest skill, skill he had never used before—for the cost was too much to bear—but it was for naught. He would have lost, he knew the moment the man spawned the star. It was a star—perhaps not the fully-formed one, but even an infant star was still a star.

No matter how strong he was, he could not withstand a star—nobody could, not in the Towers anyway. A feeling of deep awe and reverence was thus born—for the man in front of him was not just a man, not just a Conqueror. He was someone from an infant world who could defeat him--a feat that seemed impossible just a day ago. And yet, it was the reality.

Staring at the slightly tired face of a man who can’t be older than fifty was... strange. H’vanel had never felt anything like this--not when he was a sickly boy, not when he was given the second chance, not when he became the shining star of his world. It was a feeling that couldn’t truly be put to words, for it wasn’t a singular one--but rather a combination of many things that resulted in that singular moment. Perhaps a bard could untie his heart and find the words, but he was no bard--he was a brute who only knew his blade. And today, his blade failed him. That was when the woman broke the silence at last.

“Now,” her voice was soft and melodic as she turned toward the young man. “That was a bit dangerous, wasn’t it?”