The Ascender's Legacy [A CHAOTIC STORM LITRPG]

Abyssos, as Aodhán soon deduced, was another pocket dimension located within this insane realm of crimson clouds and ash. How the cultists managed to build one pocket dimension within another, Aodhán couldn't understand, but that wasn't the only thing confusing him. In fact, it was one in a list of hundreds.

One matter that particularly nagged at him was the question of how the realm itself was created and sustained without him sensing even a pinprick of spatial or dimensional energy in the air.

It was an oddity that ate at his senses. To create, sustain, and cloak a pocket dimension this large, the cultists would have had to pump a colossal amount of spatial and cloak energy into the dimension. Such a large amount of energy should have been impossible to hide, and yet, Aodhán couldn't sense anything—not while Isobá had dragged him across the realm, nor now, directly within the watchtower with the watchers bearing down on him like false gods.

The only explanation for this seemingly self-sustaining space was that the realm was being maintained by a Calamity (considering its size), but from what Aodhán could see, the cultists only had three Calamities, all of whom sat before him, wheezing and rasping as they fought off death with all their strength, not to mention that none of them had a spatial or cloak affinity.

For a moment, Aodhán wondered if perhaps this was an inner world rather than a pocket dimension like he had thought, but he quickly discarded that idea as insubstantial. The inner world of a Calamity couldn't hold another Calamity, let alone three.

Another possible answer was that the Order had been created using an aspect, but that would also require constant channeling, and from the decaying looks of the watchers before him, Aodhán doubted they were up to such a huge task. There had to be something else at play, or perhaps someone else.

However, as troubling as these mysteries were, Aodhán was more concerned with his current predicament and the fate he had chosen for himself as Isobá pushed him out of the chamber and led him to his fate.

The fact that none of the watchers had grumbled at his decision only made everything worse, but there was no going back now. He had chosen his fate; he would have to survive it.

From the little the watchers had explained, Aodhán deduced that the pocket dimension was both a source of entertainment for the cultists and a source of potential harvests for the Fated, who needed their victims to be near death or recently dead to steal their seals and innate skills.

It was an efficient and clean way to carry out the brutal task. Rather than torture and kill the people themselves, they simply allowed other captives to do the grunt work and then stole the dead away for the Fated.

It was pure evil, and Aodhán couldn't help the scowl that formed on his face as he remembered the karmic watcher's words.

"We are not evil, child," he had rasped out after nearly passing out from a violent fit of coughing. "We gave you a choice, after all. And even though you picked the hardest path, we are still merciful. If things become too… rough, you can always call on us to save you, and we will."

"I'll never do that," Aodhán muttered to himself, his scowl deepening as Isobá yanked him forward once again.

"I'm walking as fast as I possibly can in these chains," he grumbled as he stumbled, but Isobá barely paid him any mind as she led him toward a holding cell as the watchers had instructed, guiding him down a spiral staircase that descended into deeper darkness. When they finally stopped, Aodhán found himself in a chamber so utterly black that even his enhanced perception could hardly make out his own fingers.

He looked to the left and then to the right in growing unease, eyes widening as a voice suddenly echoed before him, "A new captive, Devoted?"

"A special one," Isobá replied, and chains jingled as she yanked his restraints once more. Aodhán staggered forward, completely at a loss for direction. He couldn't see anything, but he knew the moment his chains changed hands.

Cold slithered across the metal links and seeped into his skin. His body shivered as the temperature dropped several degrees, but this wasn't the effect of cold or ice affinity—instead, it was the bone-aching chill of death essence. It wrapped around Aodhán like a suffocating shroud, slithering over him like a fleshless entity seeking purchase.

A hiss cut through his thoughts, serpentine and harsh, as the creature came to stand before him. So close now that Aodhán could finally make out a faint outline in the darkness—a writhing mass of shadow and bone that seemed to shift and blur at the edges, as if death itself had taken form and learned to walk.

Aodhán yelped loudly and nearly fell backward had the chains not been yanked back at the last minute. His eyes widened, and he stuttered, "You're… you're a Specter!"

Aodhán would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised to see such a creature here, but the cultists had already broken a thousand Lutian laws. What was one more?

The specter laughed at him in fascination as it pulled the chains closer, the sound as dry as autumn leaves crumbling underfoot. Aodhán didn't know much about specters, but he had read enough to understand they were beings of cunning and violence. Failures of their own experiments—so fundamentally mutated by the death affinity that they now existed in a state between life and death. Not dead, but not alive either.

They were one of the reasons the death affinity was so abhorred and even banned in Lutia. Light necromancy was the legal limit for the death-awakened according to the law. Anyone found practicing high necromancy or death transformations was executed instantly.

The specter reached out a skeletal finger to touch him, and Aodhán hastily staggered backward, but he managed only a few steps before the chain went taut. He glanced to the side, and that was when he noticed that Isobá's core was gone. She had vanished, leaving him here with this coreless being that seemed fascinated by his terror.

"You're a fascinating one," The Spectre rasped, then yanked Aodhán's chain once more. "Come with me. Let's get you to your cell."

Aodhán resisted, but his efforts were futile because the Spectre simply pulled him forward as if dragging a reluctant child. Unable to fight the inexorable pull, Aodhán stumbled along, eyes scanning the oppressive darkness for even a pinprick of light.

He found none, and for the next few minutes, Aodhán simply followed the specter blindly. At some point, he tried asking questions, but the creature ignored him completely. Not that it mattered—Aodhán couldn't even make out its form in this suffocating blackness.

Everything changed when the grinding screech of metal against metal split the silence, followed by the deep, ominous creak of heavy hinges as an iron gate swung open somewhere ahead.

The specter pulled him through the gate a moment later, and the oppressive darkness that had plagued him for the last several minutes was suddenly lifted. This new space was by no means bright, yet Aodhán blinked, nearly blinded as his eyes adjusted to the dim illumination.

His vision stabilized moments later, and he grimaced as he took in his surroundings. It was a dungeon—one that was just as seedy and moldy as he'd imagined it would be. Metal cells lined the stone walls, which were slick with moisture and filmed with grime. The stone ceiling was studded with dim red crystals that cast everything in an eerie crimson glow.

Including the specter.

It hovered just ahead of him, a drifting silhouette barely tethered to the world. Its form was vaguely humanoid—almost like a translucent shroud draped over a skeleton. From certain angles, it nearly looked corporeal, but it was stretched and wrong, with bones made entirely of inky darkness and a featureless face save for black hollows where its eyes should have been.

It wasn't particularly grotesque, but Aodhán still found it deeply unsettling, even more so now with the crimson light passing through it in waves, revealing flickers of jagged silver and shadowy bones that pulsed like dying embers.

The specter hissed at him, but no sound emerged from its hollow throat, and that was when Aodhán realized how eerily silent the dungeon was. There were no agonized screams or furious cries to be heard—just deep, uncomfortable silence that pressed against his eardrums like the weight of a thousand unspoken screams.

Aodhán swallowed nervously, forcing himself to focus on his surroundings rather than his mounting fear. Raising his eyes to the grimy ceiling, he focused his core sense in scrutiny and discovered the abundance of silence runes lining the dungeon's corridors. Every sound made within the space was snuffed out immediately; even the soft tap of his feet against the wet floor produced absolutely no noise.

The situation was different within the cells, however, because Aodhán found screaming and crying people as he passed by. Their voices never reached him, though—not even when some grasped the iron bars and stretched desperate hands toward him. It was as if they were screaming into an endless void.

Aodhán shuddered, eyes wide as he took in the occupants of each cell, noting their disheveled and panicked states. However, it wasn't until he saw a captive devouring flesh from a mutilated clone that Aodhán finally lost control. Bile rose within him, burning his throat as he staggered to the side, doubling over with a silent retch. Nothing came out, but the convulsions wouldn't stop. He gripped his knees, mouth open in a scream he couldn't hear, while the specter paused only briefly to glance back at him before continuing its slow glide down the corridor.

He looked back at the cannibal, noting the man's life affinity, then wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Chest heaving, he forced himself upright. Unwilling to look into the cells anymore, he sent his core sense rippling outward, trying to gather as much information about his potential opponents as he could.

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Cores blazed to his senses, multiplying as the range of his perception stretched deeper into the dungeon. With each addition, Aodhán's frown deepened.

It took him only a moment to count the captives within the dungeon, but when he was done, his frown had transformed into a scowl.

Blazing within the dungeon were a total of 137 cores, each far more powerful than those of average citizens. Everyone in here was formidable, and from the sheer intensity of some cores, Aodhán suspected several elites were among them. As if the collective power weren't intimidating enough, nearly all of them had reached the advanced class, with only a dozen or so remaining in the highly evolved category.

Aodhán swallowed hard. Not only were some of the other captives in the advanced class, but a significant percentage had crossed the 30th tier, placing them completely beyond his reach, no matter what he attempted.

His stomach twisted at the thought. A battle against any one of them would end in his defeat. It wouldn't even qualify as a battle.

Heart racing, Aodhán decided to tackle his problems one at a time, and the most pressing issue was finding Daruk.

With conscious effort, he pushed his dire circumstances to the back of his mind and began searching for Daruk's core. With only a dozen evolved individuals present within the dungeon, Aodhán located Daruk's core almost immediately, easily distinguishing it from another ice core at the same tier.

The first emotion that washed over him was relief, not that Daruk was in this situation with him, but that he was alive. If they were in Abyssos together, then maybe they could survive this. With Daruk's smarts and his ingenuity, maybe there was hope for them.

Instinctively, he hastened his steps, heading toward the direction of Daruk's core, but the specter yanked him back forcefully and began dragging him in the opposite direction.

"Damn it!" Aodhán cursed soundlessly as the Spectre hauled him toward a moss-covered cell and released a soundless hiss.

"Can't we go deeper?" He begged, but no sound left his lips, the words snuffed out by the silence runes.

Cursing mentally, Aodhán gestured instead, yanking on the chain to get the Spectre's attention. Only a dozen cells separated him from Daruk's location. Aodhán would have given anything to move even one cell closer. But the Spectre ignored him and produced a bunch of keys from nowhere. The keys shimmered oddly in its hand, like it wasn't entirely real, yet it clicked into the lock with mechanical precision, and a moment later, the cell door swung open.

With another soundless hiss, the specter shoved Aodhán into the cell and sealed the iron bars behind him. The lock clicked into place with a finality that seemed deafening after minutes of eerie silence.

Aodhán gripped the iron bars and lunged for the specter, but the creature simply phased through his fingers, drifting down the corridor like dissipating smoke.

He watched it depart, chest heaving and pulse hammering, before slowly turning toward his cellmate. His gaze settled on the sleeping figure, and he froze—completely unprepared for the disturbing perfection before him. Aodhán wasn't certain what he'd expected, but it wasn't a face so striking it might have emerged from an artist's fantasy.

Beautiful was not a word suitable enough to describe the boy. He appeared otherworldly, as if sculpted from dreams and legend—too flawless and unrealistic to belong in such a forsaken place. He bore a resemblance to Daruk with snow-white hair gathered in a loose knot, allowing delicate wisps to frame his face and eyes. Yet for all the boy's unnatural beauty, it was the essence swirling within his core that truly captured Aodhán's attention.

Unlike anything Aodhán had ever sensed, the boy's energy moved like smoke in the wind, both tangible and elusive at the same time. The more he tried to grasp it, the more it slipped through his senses, twisting in ways that made his mind reel, resisting understanding at every turn.

He must have made a sound, because the boy jerked awake, crystal-blue eyes blinking open beneath heavy lids. They widened with alarm, and in a fluid motion, he pushed himself upright, eyes sharp and hands poised to attack.

"I don't want to fight," Aodhán said quickly, raising his hands in a show of peace. The boy was at the 29th tier, about six tiers above him. Aodhán couldn't afford to make him an enemy.

His actions made the boy relax a bit, but he kept his guard up. "I don't want to fight either." His voice was smooth, if wary. Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing in confusion. "You're in the evolved class?"

It wasn't exactly a question, more a statement dressed in doubt—curious, admiring, and quietly condescending all at once.

A faint, crooked smile touched his lips before he added self-assuredly, no longer threatened. "You must be a commoner. No noble-blooded Calodan chief would let a son your age stay stuck in the evolved class."

"You don't know my age," Aodhán replied evenly, his opinion of the boy lowering slightly. "And I'm not Calodan."

The boy raised an eyebrow, giving Aodhán a once-over before shrugging. "So how old are you, then?"

Aodhán frowned. "Is that really how we're starting this conversation? I don't even know your name."

The boy chuckled, then stood and offered a hand. "My name is Arkhan Veldr, bastard son of Eirik Veldr, keeper of the Glintspire peaks."

Aodhán blinked in surprise and accepted the handshake. "I'm Aodhán Brystion, and I'm from Ragnarok."

"Nice to meet you, Aodhán." Arkhan offered a smile before lowering himself back onto his side of the cell. "It's good to finally have someone to talk to. The silence was starting to get unbearable."

Aodhán settled across from him, leaning his back against the cold stone. "How long have you been here?"

Arkhan shrugged. "Hard to say. Two weeks, maybe. Without sunlight or any sense of the outside world, it's impossible to tell the passage of time."

"And you've been alone all this time?"

"No," Arkhan replied quietly. "I had a cellmate for a while. He showed up the day after I did. Died a few days later."

Aodhán's eyes narrowed. "Died? How?"

Arkhan's lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "Bad dreams, I fear."

The air thickened, and Aodhán sat up straighter as unease crept through his body. No one here had access to their skills or techniques, but core abilities such as his core sense or Ayisha's Foresight were far from restricted. Others might have laughed off Arkhan's macabre joke, but Aodhán was too tense for that.

Cautiously, he asked, "Can dreams really kill people?"

Arkhan leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, you have no idea. Did you know that if you die in a dream, you die in reality?"

Aodhán most certainly did not know that, and the certainty in Arkhan's voice didn't help his suspicions either.

He'd never encountered the dream affinity before. Never studied it, never fought anyone who used it. He barely even knew it existed outside of theory. But something about Arkhan's voice—its quiet certainty, the steady way he spoke—made it clear this wasn't mere superstition—it was something real. It was experience.

If it were true… if a person could be hunted, wounded, or killed in their dreams, then battles could be decided long before they even began. It was a terrifying thought.

And with that thought, a new fear took root inside Aodhán. How could he rest now? How could he lie down and close his eyes, not knowing if he'd wake again? How could he ever trust that his dreams weren't being manipulated externally?

With that new fear gnawing at his resolve, Aodhán decided it was in his best interest to start asking questions. The dream affinity wasn't one he was familiar with, and if he was to protect himself against it, then he had to know more about it.

***

Cyrus paced his cell, anger simmering within him with each moment that passed. He was alone in his cell, and the absolute silence was driving him nuts. The air hung thick and stagnant, reeking of mildew and something else—something metallic and sour that made his stomach churn.

With no access to his core, he was practically human. It was the sink all over again, and Cyrus couldn't stand it.

He glared at the tiny space, feeling slightly claustrophobic as if the walls themselves were closing in, suffocating him with their unyielding grip.

He hated cramped spaces, but more than that, he hated not knowing what was going on. He had made a mistake challenging Aodhán, but he had just been so pissed. So angry and insecure that he'd needed to prove something to himself.

And where had that landed him? In this ascendant forsaken space without light and sound, surrounded by cultists on all sides. He wanted to kill them and tear them apart like Aodhán had almost done to him.

His hands reached up to his neck, palming the holes still in them from where Aodhán's claws had punctured his neck and dragged him into this mess. The wounds had scabbed over, but they still throbbed painfully, a constant reminder of his humiliation.

"Fucking commoner!" he cursed, his voice cracking slightly on the words. "Always making a mess of everything and dragging other people into it."

It wasn't exactly true, but it made Cyrus feel better to think badly of Aodhán. He tried to summon more rage, more righteous indignation, but his hands trembled with exhaustion and fear.

For the next few hours, he paced, circling the small space with aggressive, restless steps. But eventually, his strength waned, and he finally sat down to sleep, hoping that by the time he woke up, this mess would be over.

More likely than not, his father was already making moves to find him—and with all the resources at his disposal, it shouldn't take more than a few hours.

The Valerion name opened doors and was respected even by the royal family. His half-siblings would show up for him, despite the love-hate relationship between them. That's what family was for. They would save him.

Artemis would come for him.

After all, how hard could it be to find a few cultists?

***

Daruk, on the other hand, sat in his cell with his eyes closed and brows furrowed, trying, rather unsuccessfully, to meditate through the thunderous snores of his cellmate: a burly Calodan woman with a bloodline manifestation so severe, it nearly rivaled Aodhán's.

She lay sprawled on the cold floor, her body encased in the carapace of a dust-colored insect, blending seamlessly with her dust-colored hair and skin. Runic tattoos covered every inch of her exposed skin, curling around her arms like a wind's trail across a desert.

It was beautiful, unlike the woman herself, whose features were as harsh and sunblasted as the desert she'd likely grown up in.

Daruk sighed softly, frustrated with himself for getting distracted again.

But the truth was that he couldn't meditate. Not here. Not after all that had happened in the past few hours.

With another quiet exhale, he gave up trying and turned to thinking instead. And there was no shortage of things to think about. What was happening outside? What fate awaited him here? What did the cultists want with all the people they'd gathered in this dungeon?

His eyes flicked to his cellmate, watching her chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of someone truly at peace. They had spoken a bit when he'd first arrived, and though he'd asked a few questions, it quickly became clear she was just as clueless as he was.

Still, she didn't seem to be the least bit concerned. Rather than worry unnecessarily about it, she apparently spent her days sleeping and had urged him to do the same, saying, "The scorpion sleeps beneath the sand, but its sting waits for the sun."

How she could sleep so soundly in such a situation, Daruk couldn't understand, but he couldn't do it. He understood what the proverb meant, but he wasn't quite sure he had the patience—or the sting—for that kind of waiting.

He was no scorpion. He didn't want to sleep through whatever came next. He wanted to be ready, awake, and watching when it did.

And so, he watched, seeing and hearing nothing, yet not giving up.

After some time, the woman stirred, one golden-crusted eye opening to peer at him. "Still thinking too loudly," she murmured, her voice gravelly with sleep. "Your worry changes nothing."

"Maybe not," Daruk replied quietly, "but someone has to worry. Someone has to plan."

She studied him for a moment, then closed her eyes again. "The sand scorpion doesn't plan. It simply knows when to strike."

"I'm not a scorpion," Daruk replied, echoing his earlier thoughts, but the woman had already gone back to sleep, her breathing deepening smoothly.

Daruk stared at her for a moment, slightly envious of her capacity to sleep in this situation, before returning his mind to the issue at hand.

For the rest of the night, Daruk kept his mind moving. He thought of his family—Aldric, Yue, his mother, and his father. He thought of home, of warmth, of the dream he once had of rising to a life of nobility and comfort, and just how far he had deviated from it.

He thought about Aodhán—where he might be, what he might be facing, and whether he was still alive. But most of all, he thought of how to get himself and Aodhán out of here and to somewhere safe. Somewhere far from Ragnarok. Far from Lutia, to a place where his identity would be safe.

If they made it out of this mess alive, Aodhán could never return to Lutia if he wanted to keep his life. He would have to start over on a different continent entirely.

And Daruk feared he might follow him.