NOVEL NEXT Chapter 239: Harvest Tournament Livestream
Back within the underground chamber, Elder Makin patiently waited until the last captive—a lanky Unorian woman with the cloak affinity—stepped through the portal before snapping it shut. A smile touched his face as cheers rose throughout the order.
The livestream of the harvest tournament had begun.
Dusting his hands in amusement, he geoportated to the watchtower, inhaling deeply as he arrived above soil. His smile grew into a grin as he took in the array of holographic screens revolving around the tower, displaying all 128 captives as they took their first steps into Abyssos.
It was a brutal first step.
The first level of Abyssos, despite being relatively easy, was a land of endless battles. Already, hordes and swarms ravaged the obsidian realm, attacking everyone they encountered without hesitation.
Not a single person was spared. As skills burst out in defense, Elder Makin felt a giddy excitement wash over him.
This was the first harvest tournament to happen in nearly a millennium. For the past three months, the Order had been preparing for this exact moment, installing holographic screens everywhere so that regardless of where a person was, they could watch the harvest unfold.
It was tradition, after all—even though it hadn't been held since Sárán's death.
Chuckling at the sight of hundreds standing idle on the streets, gawking at the screens in amazement, Elder Makin geoportated again. This time, he appeared within the tower itself. Runes scanned his presence, but he barely noticed them as he raced toward the Amphitheater located just beneath the watch room where the watchers themselves were situated.
The Amphitheatre had been built exactly for this reason, so the Fated, his elders, and a few promising devotees could watch the harvest together. To them, it wasn't just entertainment but a chance to watch the Fated grow more powerful right before their eyes.
It was an opportunity for the Fated to observe how the captives utilized their abilities before harvesting them, and the elders were here to aid them. Every captive the Fated was ready to harvest would be brought into this amphitheater. If they weren't sufficiently close to death—or outright dead yet—then it was the elders' job to put the poor, miserable souls to sleep.
Elder Makin couldn't have been gladder that the Fated had been found in his lifetime.
He reached the Amphitheater a few minutes later and, with a flick of his fingers, pushed the stone entrance open. His smile widened as a gigantic screen was revealed. The Amphitheater was an expansive chamber housing a holographic display so intricate it felt too real, as if one were standing within the screen itself.
At the front of the theater sat a small stage, shimmering with subduing and null runes. Chains lay scattered around the stage, and already Makin could see the telltale signs of blood—evidence that the harvest had begun.
What poor soul had already died mere minutes into the festival?
Makin's eyes scanned the screens in excitement, and he laughed when he spotted the frozen screen showing the Cloak awakened, who had stepped through the portal last.
"Oh, poor soul," he muttered with a smile, his gaze turning to the Fated himself, who was seated just beside the stage on a throne of iridescent gems, his pet transmigrants standing by his side like sentinels of war and destruction.
Opposite the Fated were three rows of wooden thrones, meant for devotees who had acquired the favor of the watchers and the Fated himself. They sat calmly in their seats, black and crimson robes embellished with silver to display their ranks.
Above them, however, was a single line of metal thrones painted in black and gold. There were only seven of them, and each was occupied except the seventh—his own throne.
With proud steps, Makin moved toward the front of the amphitheater and bowed deeply to the Fated. He stayed that way for a total of seven seconds before raising his head, a wide smile on his face, even though the Fated had barely acknowledged his greeting—too engrossed with absorbing the innate skills and seals of the cloak awakened—to see him.
He marched up to his throne after that, ignoring the devotees as they rose in greeting. When he reached the seventh throne, however, he bowed to his seniors—an informality, as their ranks meant little in the grand scheme of things, but Makin was a man of tradition and principle. He bowed for a full second before settling into his seat, ready to watch the destinies of hundreds of captives be rewritten.
"You are especially jolly today, Makin," Elder Voss, the sixth elder, teased him as he sat down.
Makin chuckled. "Who wouldn't be? The first harvest festival in nearly a millennium? Today is a great day."
"That it is," Elder Voss agreed with a chuckle. "Already, the Fated is growing stronger and adding to his arsenal of skills. By the time this is over, we shall be more than ready to fulfill the dreams of our beloved Patron."
"May his name be praised," Makin said, nodding as he raised a hand in reverence.
Elder Voss mirrored the gesture, and with hearts full of devotion, they both turned their gazes to the gigantic screen, smiles widening as they watched the captives undergo a trial of fire and blood.
The first level of Abyssos was a realm built to weed out the weakest captives and give the Fated a quick meal of seals before the real event began. It would last for a total of forty-eight hours, and in all that time, none of the captives would get a moment's respite. The instant they finished one battle, another would rise on the horizon, and if they defeated that too, another would already be upon them.
It was a cycle designed to push every one of them to their limits in preparation for the second level.
Makin expected the evolved class captives to fall first, since even the weakest creatures in Abyssos were advanced-class, ranging from tier 26 to 35 on the first level alone.
Already, he could see the carnage beginning.
His gaze settled on a familiar Calodan woman clad in scale-backed armor, weaving a savage cyclone of dust blades around herself as she fought off a pack of tier 32 Gravelurks—hulking, sinewy beasts with jagged maws carved into their chests and ember-bright eyes glowing beneath earthen hides.
The creatures lunged forward with thunderous steps, their chest-mouths snapping hungrily at her retreating form while maintaining a wary distance from the revolving blades that carved through the air with razor precision.
It wasn't a particularly effective strategy, but the woman made it work somehow, her dust blades slicing shallow wounds across stone-flesh while she danced just beyond their grasp.
Makin doubted she would achieve victory with such tactics, but at least she was keeping herself alive—skirting the edge of death with each lunge she evaded.
Chuckling in amusement, he glanced at her abysmal likability ratings and instantly dismissed her. The reviews she'd garnered so far were too poor, and it wasn't merely because of her lackluster affinity.
Anyone with a lick of sense knew there was no such thing as a useless or weak affinity. All that mattered was how one wielded it and how far they could stretch their understanding of said affinity.
Shaking his head in disappointment, Elder Makin shifted his attention to the next captive, a cosmic affinity man surrounded by iridescent stellar dust that drifted around him like fallen stars.
Unlike the Calodan woman, however, the man wasn't fighting but running, screaming at the top of his lungs as he tried to outrun a swarm of Tier 29 Wretchlings—bloated, insectoid terrors with translucent wings and protruding abdomens pulsing with sickly green fluid.
The wretchlings buzzed through the air in a chaotic cloud, mandibles clicking as they latched onto the man's clothes and exposed skin, biting and tearing at his flesh with gleeful malice.
The man flared his cosmic power in panicked bursts, casting blinding arcs of starlight in all directions. Each blast vaporized a handful of wretchlings mid-flight, their bodies dissolving into motes of light. But for every creature he destroyed, more swarmed in to take their place, crawling over his limbs and burrowing into the folds of his clothes.
He shouted frantically, slapping at his arms and neck, tearing at his sleeves in desperation—yet every bite left his flesh swollen and discolored, grotesque welts blooming across his body like diseased stars.
Elder Makin watched the screen with twisted amusement, grimacing as his eyes landed on the man's detest tab, which was so high, it was practically red.
"What a mess." Elder Voss muttered, watching with a grimace as the man screeched at the top of his lungs. "I thought these captives were elites and powerhouses. Isn't he at the 39th tier? Why isn't he simply killing the wretchlings?"
Elder Makin shrugged, chuckling. "Perhaps he has a fear of insects. I hear that's become quite common among the young these days."
"Hmph." Elder Voss's expression soured. "He's doing the exact opposite of what he should. That detest rating is through the roof. Did you not warn them about the importance of the ratings?"
Elder Makin's smile widened. "And where would be the fun in that? If I'd told them everything, we wouldn't be witnessing this delicious spectacle."
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Elder Voss chuckled, and Makin echoed the sound with dark satisfaction. The likability and detest tabs weren't quite as meaningless as he'd made them seem in his briefing. Their effects weren't severe, yet impactful all the same. The more likable a captive proved, the less the handlers interfered with them.
If a captive had a very high likability tab, then he'd probably go through Abyssos without experiencing a single glitch. Probably. Those with high detest tabs, on the other hand, would face constant interference until their ratings improved. As important as this event was, it was also entertainment for the residents of the order, and they needed each captive to be on their A-game.
It would be entertaining to watch the order's residents rally behind their chosen captives, boosting likability ratings to ease their path through Abyssos.
A loud cry cut through his musings, and Makin looked down to find a new captive materializing on the center stage, his body convulsing from the battle he'd just been wrenched from. The man was thoroughly wounded and weakened by blood loss, but when he finally grasped where he was and what was about to happen to him, it was already too late.
The subduing runes had gone to work, and three devotees rose from their seats, null chains gleaming in their hands. The chains clicked around the man's neck before he could even struggle, and with a casual wave, the first devotee slit the man's throat, then pushed his spasming body toward the Fated for harvesting before death could claim him completely.
The Fated didn't hesitate, and when the man's seals appeared on the Fated's chest, a cheer rose in the chamber in celebration.
"Efficient as always," Elder Voss remarked, watching the devotees drag the corpse away. "Water seals, if I'm not mistaken?"
"Indeed," Makin replied, smiling with pride. "Two of them. The Fated's collection grows more diverse by the hour."
"Good. We'll need that versatility for what's to come," Voss murmured, then gestured toward the screens. "Speaking of which, look there."
Makin followed his gaze to the dozen or so evolved-class captives displayed at the bottom of the main screen, and his eyes widened when he spotted a young man rising menacingly into the air with his draconic familiar roaring beneath him.
"Isn't that the same boy Isobá brought to see the Watchers yesterday?" Elder Voss asked with a frown. "I hear he was paraded around the streets like a petty criminal."
"I wasn't made aware," Makin replied softly, his eyes narrowing with intrigue as he watched the screen intently. "Do we know what was discussed?"
"Unfortunately, I do not," Elder Voss replied, then nudged him gently. "But judging from the Fated's expression, I doubt it ended favorably for the Order."
Makin glanced toward the Fated and immediately noticed the deep scowl of hatred etched across his features as he stared at the boy on screen.
"Well," Makin murmured, turning his attention back to the screen, "it seems our young captive has made quite the impression. The Fated looks ready to tear him apart personally."
Elder Voss chuckled, "Or harvest his innate skills. I reckon a storm skill would fit nicely with the Fated's arsenal."
Makin smiled and turned his gaze back to the screen, watching with a lot more interest than before. His gaze went to the familiar first, its sinuous body oozing with so much chaos that it distorted the reality of his surroundings.
Yet it wasn't the magnificently beautiful familiar that captured his focus, but the expression of cold determination etched across the boy's face as he leveled both arms at the horde of Nightmaw Reavers and unleashed two massive beams of crimson electricity.
The beams merged mid-flight, and as if that weren't enough, they fused further with a concussive blast of black lightning from his familiar.
Thunder boomed, and the fusion of electrical energy erupted in a devastating explosion.
The resulting carnage sent ripples of shock throughout the Amphitheatre, with more than one elder shooting to their feet, eyes wide as they absorbed the sight—hundreds of decimated Nightmaw corpses scattered like broken dolls, their flesh and viscera painting the crystalline earth in a perfect half-moon of crimson.
Elder Makin's breath caught as he rose alongside them, his gaze frantically searching for the boy's advancement tier. When he found it, the numbers simply drove his shock deeper, and he stammered in disbelief. "How is this possible? He's only at the 23rd tier. How can he obliterate dozens of advanced-class creatures with a single strike?"
"That's because he's not just any tier 23 awakened." The Fated gritted out, his scowl deepening as he continued. "He's a transmigrant with a spirit further enhanced by his familiar. He's a weapon of destruction, and I will either have him by my side or harvest him if worst comes to worst."
Elder Makin shuddered at the Fated's words, then turned to glance at the boy's likability ratings.
65% Likability
15% Neutral
Total ratings: 2,756 votes
Elder Makin and every other elder within the Amphitheatre stared at the boy's likability chart with widened eyes, stunned by the sheer volume of votes cast in mere minutes. Sixty-five percent likability from nearly 2,800 votes represented a staggering number of supporters, and even as they watched, the count continued climbing.
That single display of overwhelming power had earned the boy a massive surge in popularity. His strength was impressive—stolen or not—and with his familiar's support, he had effectively fought seven tiers above his level. That placed him firmly in the league of a champion.
Still reeling from shock, Elder Makin watched as the boy unleashed another devastating blast, then another, his expression unchanging even as he channeled more and more willpower, chaos billowing all around him like a halo.
With each attack he unleashed, his likability surged. However, with each new vote that poured in, the detest rating climbed as well. Within a single minute, it had spiked by five percent, carving away at the neutral votes and pushing his detest rating to twenty-five percent.
"Predictable," Elder Voss murmured, unsurprised by the shift. "Power always polarizes. For a moment there, I thought our brothers had forgotten the main culprit responsible for the death of so many of our brothers."
Elder Makin's expression hardened at the reminder. "And the destruction of our outposts, too. It seems I need to stay better informed about the happenings in the four kingdoms. I knew there was an evolved awakened with a familiar out there, but I never realized he was the one. And to think he's a transmigrant as well." He paused, studying the Fated's rigid posture. "You don't suppose the Watchers offered him a place alongside the Fated?"
Elder Voss shrugged. "If they have, the boy has obviously turned them down. I doubt it'll be long before the handlers start messing with him."
Elder Makin shook his head. "Not if his likability tab remains this high. They wouldn't dare compromise the ratings. It's tradition."
"I'm not sure the Fated shares your sentiments, Elder Makin," Elder Voss smiled and then shrugged. "Regardless, I suspect we are in for a very interesting first harvest tournament."
Elder Makin frowned but said nothing more as he settled back into his throne, making a mental note to monitor the boy's progress closely. With that resolution, he shifted his attention to a particular group of people he expected to see arrive on the subduing stage any time soon.
He spotted their distinctive priestly robes a moment later and raised an eyebrow in surprise to find them still alive and intact.
Despite being scattered across the realm initially, the two girls had managed to reunite with remarkable speed. They ran frantically now, screaming at the top of their lungs as they fled from a pack of Stonecrocs, their once-pristine robes torn and stained with blood.
A glance at an adjacent screen revealed their brother, who was faring considerably better than his younger siblings—hardly surprising, considering his superior strength. The boy stood his ground before a swarming horde of gremlins, shards of broken wood, rocks, and crystals revolving around him at high speed.
Bones and viscera soon joined the whirling debris, carving deep into the horde's ranks. However, Makin doubted the boy could maintain such intensity for long.
As powerful as mental abilities were, the mind remained their greatest weakness—and oh, how quickly it grew weary under strain.
Just as he'd predicted, the boy soon began faltering, his attacks dropping in intensity—not because he was weak, but because his mind was too fractured with fear and worry for his sisters to maintain proper focus.
Elder Voss chuckled and leaned forward with predatory interest. "Twenty credits say he won't last the hour."
Elder Makin chuckled and shook his head. "Now, how can I accept such a bet when I share the same opinion? Only a few minutes in and he's already panting from exhaustion."
"He could surprise us," Elder Voss smirked, pointing to the boy's likability rating, which remained remarkably stable compared to others. He only had a couple of hundred votes so far, split fairly evenly between likability and detest.
However, Elder Makin doubted things would unfold so favorably for the boy. The young man was a walking target, despised by nearly every captive within the realm. If he wasn't torn apart by a horde of monsters, then it was likely a fellow captive would finish the job.
With that grim assessment, Elder Makin declined the wager, prompting Elder Voss to chuckle in disappointment. "Oh, you're no fun, Elder Makin. Very well—if you won't bet on the Sunstonian, what about the spatial cultivator?"
Elder Makin shifted his attention to the next screen and grimaced as he recognized the distinctive pink locks of Valerions. He had seen the boy within the chamber earlier, but only now did he truly recognize him.
The boy was practically an incarnation of his elder brother, though rougher around the edges. Yet despite his unrefined appearance, the boy moved with inherited grace and a fluid precision that spoke of noble training as he effortlessly battled a horde of tier 28 Blightborn Veinwalkers—their skeletal bodies bending and twisting as they launched themselves at him, jaws snapping with ravenous hunger.
The boy retaliated with a dozen spinning blades of violet spatial energy, their serrated edges slicing through the Veinwalkers' meager flesh like paper.
He wasn't quite as impressive as the transmigrant, and he didn't look like he would be overcoming this horde anytime soon, but he also didn't look like he was running out of stamina either. His control flowed with such smoothness it seemed effortless, and a glance at his likability rating revealed he'd attracted considerable admiration of his own. More than 3000 votes, and 57% in likability.
Elder Voss studied the boy for a moment before leaning forward once again. "I think this one might stay awhile, so I'll up the deal to five hours. 20 credits say he won't last five hours."
Elder Makin's gaze darkened. Perhaps it was because he knew the boy's father intimately that he had hoped the boy would turn out to be a disappointment like most of his half-siblings. Instead, it seemed the young man had chosen to follow in the footsteps of Artemis the Hated.
"I'm not interested, Elder Voss," he replied with evident distaste.
No longer willing to watch the Valerion heir, Makin's gaze swept across the massive screen array. But a thunderous boom yanked his attention downward, and his eyes fixed on a frost-blighted landscape. For the second time in the last half hour, Elder Makin's eyes widened in utter shock.
But he wasn't alone in his amazement. All over the Amphitheatre, gasps and exclamations of disbelief echoed from every corner. Even the Fated's eyes widened as they all watched a bloodied youth raise his hand skyward and unleash a torrent of willpower so colossal that even when the screen pulled back to its widest view, the top of it remained beyond sight.
Then, with a deafening boom, it detonated outward—not in a rolling wave, but in a single, devastating instant.
The screen glitched, went dark, then blazed back to life to reveal the boy, panting yet unwary, standing amid a literal graveyard of frozen corpses. His snow-white hair whipped in the wind, and his eyes shone with blinding white light. All around him, hundreds of reptilian monstrosities stood locked in their final moments, their bodies frozen mid-lunge, scales encased in crystalline ice.
Frost stretched across the landscape for miles, as if all warmth had been violently drained from the region in a heartbeat. Icy vapor rose from the ground in thick, obscuring clouds, yet nothing could dim those radiant white eyes.
92% Likability
4% Neutral
2% Detest
Total votes: 4,657
In the stunned silence that blanketed the chamber, Elder Makin finally spoke. "Who is he? Another transmigrant?"
"No." A voice echoed from below, and Elder Makin looked down to see Bane Helsarin, his eyes burning with fervent intensity. "This young man is Aodhán Ashoka's younger brother, and he was supposed to be an ordinary talent. But it seems the Brystion family has secrets we cannot begin to imagine, because what we've just witnessed is the true might of a double inheritor."
Elder Makin turned back to the screen, his eyes wide with newfound respect and wariness. And in that instant, he could have sworn the boy was staring directly at him through the display.