The Ascender's Legacy [A CHAOTIC STORM LITRPG]

After the first-year trial ended, a much larger high striker was rolled onto the stage, and the second-years filed out to queue before it. Unlike the first-years, they were fewer in number and far less segregated into small groups.

Sure, cliques and groups were still evident, but compared to those of the first-year students, they were negligible. The second-year students treated each other as friends, having had over a year to bond with each other.

Aodhán did a head count as the second-years filed out and was surprised to see that their numbers seemed to have reduced since the last time he'd counted. His narrowed gaze scanned for missing faces and spaces where familiar figures should have been.

He took the headcount once again, certain that he must have made a mistake, but when the result remained the same, his confusion deepened as he turned to look at Daruk and Andrew. "There are only eighty-five of them in the queue. Weren't there about ninety last term?"

"Eighty-nine, actually," Daruk replied with a similar frown. He had been present the last time Aodhán had taken a head count during one of their first arena matches, but Aodhán was right. Four students were missing.

"Perhaps they're too busy to attend," Yurin offered, but Daruk shook his head.

"That's not possible. The selection trial is a compulsory event. Every student is duty-bound to attend."

Aodhán counted a third time, his bewilderment growing with each familiar face that failed to appear. He was aware that at the end of each school year, student numbers were typically reduced to eliminate the weaker students. Those whose FPA had not reached the required cut-off mark were also expelled. But this wasn't the end of the year. This was only the second semester.

A thought occurred to him, and he asked, "Are students usually expelled between semesters?"

Daruk frowned. "In cases of grave misconduct, yes. But I doubt such a thing could happen without anyone hearing about it. I don't think they were expelled."

"They weren't expelled," Andrew responded hesitantly, speaking up for the first time since Aodhán brought up the topic. He glanced at the queue of second-year students for a moment and then sighed. "They most likely couldn't keep up any longer, and so, they were advised to withdraw for their own safety."

Yurin frowned. "What do you mean they couldn't keep up?"

"Exactly what it means, Yurin. They'd reached their limits." Andrew responded sharply as though the topic made him deeply uncomfortable.

A beat of awkward silence passed, and Aodhán sighed.

He couldn't blame Andrew. Talk of the limit made him uncomfortable, too, but it wasn't a topic they could shy away from, especially when it had such a drastic effect on their futures.

He glanced back at the stage, and as his gaze passed over the students, he suddenly remembered the two students who had refused to take the oath on the day of the ceremony and how they'd been escorted out.

Frowning at the sudden memory, he scanned the audience, searching for them.

He found them a moment later, both huddled together, discussing something amusing between themselves. He hadn't known them at the time, and so he hadn't cared much for what would become of them.

But he knew them now. He knew their names: Tallulah Zegler and Bakhtin Arede. They were his friends or, at the very least, acquaintances. He had fought with and against them. He had shared laughs and countless experiences with them. He cared for them now, and he couldn't believe he had forgotten something so vital about them.

Tentatively, he scanned both their cores and grimaced in disappointment.

Bakhtin was doing a bit better, having pushed himself up to the 22nd tier, but his metal core was so clogged up with impurities that it flickered like a candlelight caught in a terrible storm. Tallulah's core was even worse. It was so dim it was nearly completely black, gleaming only with slight flashes of red and orange. She was currently at the 21st tier, but Aodhán doubted she would ever make it past tier 25. Bakhtin, on the other hand, could probably make it to tier 30 before his core gave up.

Tamping down the sadness that threatened to rise within him, Aodhán looked away from them and exhaled deeply. But the emotion refused to leave. It clawed at his chest, seeking an outlet. His eyes grew blurry, tears gathering within them and threatening to spill over, but Aodhán couldn't allow himself to cry here."

This was a reality he wasn't prepared for. A cruel awakening that shattered his naive assumptions. Somehow, he had convinced himself that everyone he knew would advance to the end, that they would all make it no matter how hard it became. He'd imagined them all graduating together, perhaps even fighting side by side in whatever conflicts awaited beyond these walls.

But that was just wishful thinking, wasn't it? The brutal truth was that not everyone would make it, impurities or not. Some would grow tired of the endless struggle, their spirits broken by repeated failures. Some would die in training accidents or duels gone wrong. And some—like Tallulah and Bakhtin—would simply reach the immutable limits of their cores, no amount of determination able to push them past that unforgiving ceiling.

The worst part was the randomness of it all. It could be anyone. It could be Andrew with his steady reliability, or Yurin with his fierce determination, or even Aldric with all his feigned nonchalance. Any of his friends could wake up one day to find their core flickering, their advancement stalled forever, because, unlike him, they had no core sense to view their cores.

He should have seen this coming. All those limited individuals in the advanced and evolved class hadn't chosen their fates. Even nobles with infinite resources and the best tutors money could buy still hit walls they couldn't break through. They could get into a fight one day and never heal, just like Councilor Balor. Just like countless others.

His emotions surged within him, but he forced them back, sinking his mind deeply into {Eye of the Storm}, and an instant later, calm enveloped his mind, a soothing river against the tide of painful reality.

He drew a shuddering breath and returned his attention to the second-year students now gathered around the stage. He could feel Daruk, Andrew, and Yurin watching him intently, their concern palpable. They were dying to know what had shaken him so badly, but they held their tongues, and he didn't offer up the information either.

The issue of the limit always made him sad. It was such a massive waste of potential. Yet rather than tackle the curse of the Red Witch and destroy the artifact with which Attilan had cursed them, Lutia was too busy fighting one war after another, putting the lives of innocent soldiers at stake. Even the kingdoms that weren't at war were doing absolutely nothing to change the status quo—at least nothing significant. Instead, they kept to themselves, content to fight over land, clans, and noble titles.

A thread of anger coiled within Aodhán, and against his wishes, his eyes strayed back to Bakhtin and Tallulah. A dangerous thought began to form: "How can I help—"

Aodhán crushed the thought immediately, grimacing as ethereal chains slithered around his core in warning. He shifted his gaze away and forced his mind to focus on other matters, but his core phrase had already taken hold, and it rose within him like an undulating chant.

I ADVANCE TO HELP! I ADVANCE TO HELP! I ADVANCE TO HELP! I ADVANCE…

The mantra erupted from within his spirit, undeniable and absolute. It flooded his mind like the whispers of chaos in the origin planes, drowning his rational thoughts in an overarching compulsion to help. And the terrible part was that Aodhán couldn't deny the truth of it. He desperately wanted to help Bakhtin and Tallulah, even knowing there was precious little he could do.

Tallulah was already too far gone. Her core was like a dying ember, and nothing he could say or do at this point would save her. But Bakhtin—there might still be hope for Bakhtin. If Aodhán could just find a way to cleanse those—

The ethereal chains tightened painfully, sending a lance of pain so sharp through his spirit that Aodhán was unable to hold back a loud curse.

"Fuck!" he shouted, hands rushing to clasp his stomach, as if to hold his entrails within lest they fall out, but his stomach was unmarked and uninjured despite the pain.

"What's wrong?" Daruk asked while Andrew and Yurin leaned over in concern, frowns marring their features. They weren't the only ones, though. Alesh Vilaris and the Urdanias, who were seated behind them, also leaned forward, their expressions twisted in varying forms of concern.

"Are you alright?" Daruk asked again, and Aodhán nodded, not wanting to make a scene.

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"I'm fine. Don't worry. It's just a muscle pull."

Alesh laughed. "I get that all the time. You just need to stretch the muscle a bit."

"Yeah." Aodhán laughed shakily. "It should relieve me in a bit."

Assured that he was fine, Alesh and the Urdanias returned their attention to the stage, but his friends kept staring at him worriedly, their expressions still scrunched in suspicion and concern.

Aodhán ignored them, keeping his eyes intentionally forward as he raised his own mental chant to counter the call of his icon phrase: I DON'T WANT TO DIE! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! I DON'T…

It helped a little, clashing against the rising tide of ideal urgings. But his Icon phrase was too powerful. The whispers invaded his mind like an army of Sunstonian dogs, relentless in their advance to help while he tried to reason with them. Himself. His own phrase to see reason and realize that helping Bakhtin and Tallulah meant sacrificing himself and his own advancement. Would he even be able to get the words out before his core exploded?

Without quite realizing it, he turned to look at Bakhtin and Tallulah again. They were still huddled together, and now he could see what he'd missed before—the subtle intimacy in their posture, the way their hands intertwined, how Tallulah's head rested naturally against Bakhtin's shoulder. He had always assumed they were just friends, housemates thrown together by circumstances. But it seemed they had taken that relationship to a different level.

Bakhtin whispered something in her ear, and Tallulah's face lit up with a radiant smile. She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, her laughter carrying over the general noise of the crowd. In that moment, she looked utterly content, completely at peace with her world.

She had no idea how close she was to losing everything. How close they both were to having their dreams—and their future together—ripped away by the cruel nature of core cultivation.

Unlike him, people couldn't actually see their cores. They could sense them, but even then, not nearly as clearly as he could. Still, she should be feeling the strain of her advancement by now. The way she pulled energy or willpower from her core should feel uncomfortable. Less seamless. Even Bakhtin should be feeling it. And if that was the case, did they ask each other about it and just assume it was normal? Had they read nothing about control and advancement ease?

"You're staring at them again," Daruk commented softly, his gaze worried.

Aodhán swallowed sadly and looked away. "I just wish I could help—"

Pain lanced through him once again, sharp and quick like the stab of a dagger. It was still a warning, but the pain cut through his spirit like a hot knife through butter, and Aodhán doubled over, his legs collapsing under him as they gave out completely.

He barely suppressed a scream, eyes wide and fists clenched as pain racked his body. "Oh, fuck," he groaned, unable to take the pain any longer, and turned his face to Daruk. "I'm not fine."

"We can all see that," Yurin responded instead, his face scrunched in confusion and concern. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I…" Aodhán gasped, hesitant to speak with so many people listening, but Daruk was no longer taking no for an answer. He gripped Aodhán's jaw and forced his face upward. "What is going on?"

"My icon phrase is acting up," Aodhán finally replied.

His friends understood immediately, and Yurin's eyes widened. "Oh no, you can't mean… damn! This is the worst timing."

"Can you suppress it?" Andrew asked urgently.

Aodhán shook his head. "I've been trying to do that for a while now, but the urge keeps rising, and the oath chains are rattling."

Daruk's eyes widened in fear. "Okay, that's bad. We need to get you out of here now."

"That won't stop it," Yurin hissed. "He's already aware of the problem. He won't be able to rest until he actually solves it."

"Or change the damn phrase." Aodhán gritted as his gaze darted to Bakhtin and Tallulah again.

Chains rattled dangerously, and he cursed again. "Fuck, I need to get out of here."

He jumped out of his seat immediately and raced out of the arena as if his insides were on fire. Eyes followed his movements, students and staff—but Aodhán barely spared anyone a glance as he darted out of the huge entrance.

It wasn't until he created a storm platform that he realized that Andrew, Daruk, and Yurin were running alongside him. Daruk grabbed him tightly, the firmness of his grip somehow grounding his panic. "What is your plan?"

Aodhán hadn't thought that far ahead, but answers came to him regardless. "I want to spend the rest of the day meditating. I think I can tweak the phrase in a better, less frustrating direction so this nightmare can end. It's the only option I think I have."

Daruk nodded. "Then we'll come with you. The first-year segment of the trial is over anyway."

Yurin and Andrew agreed, and a moment later, they were zipping off to Aodhán's room. Distance, however, provided no reprieve from the growing urge, and when they reached house 14, Aodhán was fighting to hear himself think over the undulating chant.

He raced to his room, the boys hot on his heels, and instantly headed to his training room. Varéc flew out of his spirit a moment later, his huge body dominating nearly half the training room and filling the air with a cloud of chaotic storm essence.

Andrew and Yurin paused at the sight of Varéc this close, but Daruk barely spared the familiar a glance before rushing into the training room, prepared to help Aodhán in any way he could, even though he was the least experienced with the whole icon situation.

Summoning a churning cloud of storm to fill the training room, Aodhán forced his body into a meditative position and exhaled deeply, willing his mind to quiet down so he could think.

It didn't.

He struggled against the undulating chant, resisting its whispers with all that he had, but after ten minutes of fruitless mental warfare, he finally stopped fighting and instead leaned into the whispers, acknowledging them and accepting them.

They rushed into his mind like a flooding river, and Aodhán let them. He didn't surrender himself to them; he simply let them pass unhindered. Storm clouds roiled all around him, thunder rumbled, and lightning crackled. They enveloped him in a loving embrace. This was where he belonged. Among storm clouds.

As the sense of belonging rose within him, the whispers subsided—not diminishing, just relegated to a quiet corner of his mind. He exhaled slowly, eyes closed as the wind dragged its fingers through his hair. Lightning crackled across his skin, arcing in playful patterns that traced the golden marks on his body. Thunder rumbled quietly, as if coming from miles away, and Aodhán smiled.

His spirit calmed, and Aodhán finally turned his attention to the swirling thread of storm humming through his core.

"I advance to help."

Aodhán had known right from the beginning that the phrase was imperfect, but he just hadn't had the time to amend it. The phrase was beautiful, even noble. It gave his strength purpose and clarity, and a part of him had clung to it like a lifeline—an anchor to separate him from the legacy of Az'marthon—the slaughterer of armies. Aodhán had wanted to be different. Needed to be.

But now, the phrase was like a hook lodged in his chest. Every time he saw someone in need, he just had to help. It didn't matter if helping the person was the right thing to do—he just couldn't help himself any longer. He hadn't been able to help himself with Yue. He hadn't been able to help himself at the Steppin' Plains. He hadn't been able to help himself with Aldric.

But at least those didn't carry any serious consequences or require any drastic sacrifices. This one, however, wasn't an urge he could afford to give in to. He couldn't help Bakhtin and Tallulah without putting himself in grave danger. Even if he escaped with his life, he would lose his core and his power. Aodhán couldn't allow that. To make such a decision would be the highest form of stupidity.

The whispers rose again at the sign of resistance, and Aodhán drew in a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, and a moment later, the whispers subsided once more. He remained still for several minutes, letting himself drift into a meditative trance before asking himself, "Why do I need to help?" Why does it hurt when I'm unable to?

The question simmered in his mind for a moment, and in that stillness, in that storm-wrapped silence, answers began to rise—slowly, like truths buried deep in water.

When he had first put together this phrase, it had stemmed from a place of naivety and altruism. He hadn't been able to save his parents all those years ago, and so now that he could, he wanted to help everyone around him.

It wasn't a terrible ideal.

However, he realized now just how imperfect it was. His willingness to help didn't stem solely from altruism or a desire to make up for that night in the forest. It also came from guilt. From shame and a desperate need for redemption. A frantic need to prove to the world and himself that he was nothing like Az'marthon, that he could be something else—someone else.

Every act of help had been a declaration: I am not him.

Every hand he reached out had been a refusal: I do not destroy. I can bring peace, too. I am not like him.

But that wasn't peace. That was compulsion. That was reactive. And it left him vulnerable, fractured, and brittle, always fighting against what he feared he might become instead of choosing what he wanted to be.

The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning—sharp and illuminating. He wasn't just helping because he wanted to help. He was also helping because he feared what it would mean if he didn't.

One thing was clear, though. He couldn't help everyone. Trying to do so would only break him and twist his strength into a cage. The world didn't need a martyr. It needed stability. And he… he needed to have a choice.

His breathing deepened, slow and rhythmic as his mind settled deeper into his meditation, and with it, the whispers of his icon began to shift—no longer a rigid command to help, but a murmur that invited him to reflect.

Time passed. Seconds. Minutes. Hours.

Aodhán wasn't sure how long he spent simply meditating on his ideal, but when he eventually opened his eyes, he had realized a few things—the first of which was that 'helping' itself wasn't the core of his ideal. It wasn't even the action. It was the why.

He didn't help because he had to or because he wanted to prove a point to himself.

He helped because he could. Because he had strength. Because his power was vast enough to shelter others. Because he had something to give.

A smile tugged at his lips, and he inhaled deeply. He wanted to help. That was who he was—with or without his guilt, shame, or need to prove himself different from Az'marthon. He loved helping people, but not as an obligation or a chain.

The lack of choice in helping those around him had nearly broken him today. It wasn't sustainable. And worse—it made him vulnerable.

He had to rise above it. Strength wasn't meant to be spent in frantic desperation—it was meant to be built, tempered, and offered. Given.

And when he gave it, it would be his choice.

The soft light of dawn bled into the training room in that moment, and Aodhán's smile widened. The words of his phrase were still forming, not yet whole. Not yet perfect—but the direction was clear. It wasn't a command but a conviction so true that Aodhán could almost grasp it.

Yet it remained just out of reach.

For now, something softer settled in his soul: "I rise when I can."

Not a burden, but a truth.

The whispers subsided, and the chaos within calmed.

Aodhán turned his gaze to his three friends, all huddled beneath Varéc's left wing, sleeping on a dense cloud of storm essence. Varéc opened a slitted eye and let out an embarrassed growl at being caught caring for his friends when he pretended to hate them most of the time.

Aodhán simply chuckled and pushed himself to his feet, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. Varéc growled at him in confusion when he saw no icon manifested on his wrist, but Aodhán just smiled.

"Very soon, Varéc. It's so close I can feel it."