NOVEL NEXT Chapter 234: Abyssos.
Aodhán's response to the watcher's question fell like a boulder in the silent chamber, and the watchers exchanged shocked glances. The karmic watcher leaned forward on his throne, desiccated bones creaking like dried wood.
"Did you hear the question, boy?" he asked, eyes darting to the Fated. "We are offering you a position beside the Fated himself."
Jethro puffed his chest out at that, eyes alight with pride, and Aodhán's scowl deepened even further.
He was grateful for the information the watchers had just given him. Truly.
Unlike the lies and half-truths he had learned from his research, there were no glaring holes in this story. No doubt, the watchers had altered it to paint themselves in a better light, but it still made more sense than the sanitized history Principal Zatya had told him.
Her version of the Attilan invasion had never made much sense to him. It had so many glaring holes and timeframes that never added up, and naturally, it had birthed so many questions in Aodhán, most prominent of which were the existence of the cursed artifact, its seemingly self-sustaining power, and the fact that Attilan had never bothered to check on Ragnarok's progress ever since they'd conquered them.
No agents, no presence, nothing.
Now he knew why.
Attilan didn't need to check on them, nor did they need to worry. As long as Lutia remained divided, the curse would stand, and the mental curse of the limit would remain. Why the four kingdoms couldn't just come together to create a joint rule or even elect a single emperor over Lutia, Aodhán couldn't understand.
They already had the central kingdom, which was a sort of neutral governing body. Why not take it a step further and be rid of the curse forever? Why risk the death and underdevelopment of thousands just to hold onto power that was keeping the entire continent stagnant?
It was ridiculous, but from all Aodhán had seen and learned about the leaders of Lutia and other prominent members of the nobility, reputation and pride mattered more to them than progress. Each ruler would rather cling to their stolen throne than sacrifice their crown for the greater good. The curse was as much a prison of their own making as it was Attilan's design.
Nevertheless, Aodhán had seen too much evil in the cultists to believe they were the good guys in this story. Even if merging the kingdoms into an empire was the only solution, there had to be other ways to carry it out besides war, rituals, and indiscriminate killing.
Their ways and methods were abhorrent, regardless of their cause, and Aodhán would rather die than join them. He had seen too much during his mission with Geneva—had seen the way they killed, kidnapped, and sacrificed people in the name of Sárán Beithir.
He couldn't join them. Not just because he didn't share their ideals, but also because he wasn't invested enough in Lutia's future to tie himself to a cause such as this, even if it was the only way.
He loved the people of Ragnarok—his family, the champions, his classmates, and many of the soldiers he had met so far. He would have given anything to save them all from the curse of the limit, but this wasn't a battle he could fight, nor would joining the cultists do anything to save those he cared about most.
Truth be told, he owed Lutia nothing. Not with the way they treated his kind; how willing they would be to cut him up and harvest the world tattoo on his neck. And after all he'd just learned of their history, well, he was even less enthusiastic. His aim in this world was to grow, advance, and seek adventure, not join in a millennial-long war with no right party.
His eyes strayed to the transmigrant girls standing like automatons behind the Fated, and his lips twisted into a firm line as he raised his gaze back to the watchers. His gaze hardened, and in that moment, he decided that Lutia would have to save itself without him.
He couldn't go back after all, even if he escaped this place alive. The truth of his status as a transmigrant was out, and no shelter waited for him in Ragnarok, nor any of the other kingdoms, for that matter.
Their search for him was not because they cared for him, but because they couldn't afford to let him join up with the cultists and add his strength to theirs. These were the same people the cultists wanted him to join to save?
Ridiculous.
More than ever before, Aodhán was glad he had tweaked his icon phrase when he had. This would have been the worst time for his phrase to start acting up.
I rise when I can.
But Aodhán wasn't rising this time. In fact, he wanted to fold his hands and watch Lutia meet the fate they deserved. This was a chance for him to start anew and have the life he had always wanted in the first place.
Adventure, growth, and power.
Firming his stance, he answered. "I heard your question, watchers, and once again, I have to decline your offer. I do not wish to join the order."
This time, the watchers' reactions were even more dramatic. They froze on their thrones, seemingly unable to believe that he would turn down their offer after all they had said. The Fated scowled at him in annoyance, and Isobá twitched from where she remained bowing beside him, her crimson hair unable to hide the hatred in her gaze.
"You do not seem to understand," the fate watcher spoke up. "The four kingdoms are currently searching for you out of their selfishness and greed, seeking to harvest what is rightfully yours. We are offering you a better path. A welcome rather than an executioner's axe."
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"And yet, I'm not here of my own free will," Aodhán nearly snarled. "Release me and my brother. Then we'll talk about a different path."
"Preposterous!" the Fated boomed, taking a threatening step forward. "You were kidnapped for your safety. Do you realize what it means to stand behind me and be linked to me?"
"No, I do not," Aodhán snarled this time, eyes hard as his gaze strayed back to the girls. "But from what I can see, it doesn't seem to favor them much."
"Nonsense." The Fated scowled. "Jian and Kira are perfectly happy."
"Yet, they can't seem to tell me that themselves," Aodhán retorted. "They are echoes of who they once were, their minds not quite present in reality. They are conduits to aid your failing spirit."
"Shut up!" Jethro shouted, his face red with panic and anger. "That's a lie! My spirit is in pristine condition. Jian and Kira make sure of that."
"Do they?" Aodhán smiled, feeling a sudden power shift as core sense armed him with knowledge he couldn't have gotten otherwise. Ever since his gaze had landed on the Fated, core sense had been gathering information, delving deeply into the Fated's core and spirit.
The Fated was strong—that much was indisputable—but he wasn't strong enough to be a threat to Ragnarok yet, not to mention the five kingdoms. More importantly, his core was unstable from all the affinities it was juggling, and his spirit was straining under the weight of all the seals and innate abilities he had stolen.
The girls were pillars sharing that burden with him, lessening the pressure on his core and spirit, but even with all their power, it wasn't enough. If the Fated didn't increase the strength—not just cultivation—of his spirit soon, his advancement would reach an irrevocable limit enforced by the system itself to correct the imbalance between his core and spirit.
Aodhán doubted the watchers were aware of how far things had deteriorated, but he suspected the Fated knew, and his reaction only confirmed it.
Aodhán's smile widened, bending into an expression of pity and disgust as he continued. "You're dying, aren't you? Your spirit is so strained and overloaded that you need my help to lift that burden. You're not doing me a favor. You need me, but I'd rather die than join the order and aid your strength." He looked at the watchers and spat, fury rising within him once again. "You are all weak and dying."
Pain resounded against his cheek before the last word could even leave his lips, and Aodhán was sent flying. He smashed against the opposite wall an instant later, groaning as his bones shuddered violently.
A hand gripped his neck tightly, and Aodhán looked up to see Isobá sneering down at him, teeth bared in anger. "You little fool, you will apologize—"
"Leave him be, devotee." One of the watchers rasped out, and Isobá released him instantly, but it was obvious that the Fated was against the order. He stalked forward, fiery essence flaring around him as he pointed a furious finger at Aodhán.
"How dare you make up such lies about my spirit?" he spat. "It is an honor for you to serve me. To be linked to me. A bearer of a destiny so mighty it shakes reality to its core. You should be ecstatic at the prospect of serving me!"
"I will never serve you." Aodhán spat out blood and pushed himself back to his feet, surprised by his own determination. "To be linked to you is to die—to serve only as fuel to boost your strength, and like I said earlier, I'd rather die than be reduced to that."
"If it is death you crave, then I will gladly issue it," the Fated replied coldly. "But that is a waste of your potential. Yes, you will fuel my strength, but more than that, you'll fuel the grand workings that reshape this broken world. You should consider it the highest honor that your existence is elevated by a connection to me—true greatness."
The grandiose words couldn't, however, disguise what Aodhán could sense so clearly, and with a dark chuckle, he asked, "You speak of honor and contribution. Tell me, what happens to these girls if they die while still connected to you?"
A pregnant pause, and then an explosion of fury.
In barely a second, the Fated had Aodhán in a chokehold, eyes gleaming with anger as fiery energy crackled around him.
"You dare question the methods by which the Order operates?" He spat, his grip tightening with each word. "I am the inheritor of Sárán Béithir, the chosen instrument of this world's inevitable salvation. Your pitiful concerns are dust before the magnitude of my purpose."
Aodhán choked from the Fated's grip on his neck, but rather than backpedal in self-preservation, the rage simmering within him exploded, and he snapped.
The tension of the past few hours crystallized into unshakeable resolve, and he sneered back at the Fated. "I do not need to question anything. The truth is as clear as day to me. If they die while still connected to you, you gain the strength of their spirits. You are using them just like you want to use me, and once you're done with us, you'll kill us off and absorb the power of our spirits into yourself, all in a bid to save yourself from the irrevocable fate that looms before you."
The Fated turned as white as a sheet, and his grip on Aodhán's neck slackened in shock. But he wasn't the only one shocked by Aodhán's words. Even the watchers were stunned. However, their shock didn't lie in the truth he had revealed about the bonding of transmigrants but in the fact that an unfavorable fate loomed over their Fated.
"Is this true, Jethro?" the fate watcher asked, bones creaking as she leaned further off her throne. "Are you in danger of a limit? What is wrong with your spirit?"
"Nothing!" Jethro shouted, but the word came too fast, too sharp. He glanced back at Aodhán, and his crimson skin turned even redder with rage as he jabbed a finger at him. "This transmigrant is a liar. My spirit is fine. I have followed Sárán's path step by step. His greatness flows through my very veins. I am in no danger of stagnation."
The words came out firm, but there was a flicker of strain beneath them—not full panic, but the irritation of a man who felt the walls closing in. His eyes swept the chamber, expression darkening with unease. "This transmigrant seeks to sow fear and discord in my heart. He wants to undermine your trust in me with his poison. But his words are lies."
A murmur of unease rippled through the thrones as the watchers exchanged glances before turning their gazes to Aodhán, expressions tightening in suspicion. That suspicion quickly morphed into anger, and the karmic watcher rasped out, "We have enlightened you on our history. We have offered you protection, yet you stand before us and lie."
"You have rejected our warm welcome and have made it clear that you hate the illusion of choice we have offered you." Bones creaked as he shifted, karmic essence swirling around him like a corrupted halo as he fixed a hollow gaze on Aodhán. "For that reason, I'll make things painfully clear. You have three paths before you. Join us now and be a trusted ally forever. Reject us and be harvested, or be thrown into Abyssos and still die. Whatever path you choose still leads to us, but only in one do you get to keep your life."
He smiled then—a toothless grin that managed to be more unnerving than a set of canines. "With that understanding, I shall ask you once more. How would you like to join the Order, Aodhán?"
Power surged out from the karmic throne, the scent of decay rising alongside it, and despite his earlier bravado and courage, Aodhán's throat constricted in fear. Death loomed over him like an executioner's axe, but it ultimately wasn't a hard decision. With the first and second options being a solid no, there was only one real option available to him.
He looked up at the watcher and asked, "What is Abyssos?"
There was a beat of silence before the chamber suddenly erupted with eerie laughter, and the karmic watcher smiled widely. "Oh, how I love when captives want to be broken first."