NOVEL NEXT Chapter 245: An ugly Word
~~ICON MANIFESTATION—HEAT VOID~~
For the second time in less than three hours, Abyssos was rocked by an explosion of willpower and cold, so devastating that the entire realm shuddered. Unlike the last time, however, this explosion wasn't the effect of a skill but an icon—the ideal of a man whose soul had finally stepped into a new realm of power.
The black hole brand on Daruk's wrist flared with violent intensity, black veins spreading up his arm as his body became a conduit for power far beyond what he should have been capable of. His eyes rolled back, showing only whites as willpower flooded his body and poured out of him in torrential waves.
In that moment, a swirling void of absolute nothingness appeared in the sky over the gargoyles, nearly a hundred meters in radius. It wasn't just dark—it was the complete absence of heat made manifest, so utterly cold that the air itself seemed to crack around its edges.
Unlike other icons Aodhán had seen, there was no drama with this one. The void pulsed once, a sound like reality tearing, and then it pulled.
The effect was instantaneous.
Every grain of heat in the area was drained away—not gradually, but in a single violent extraction that left the world gasping. The ground beneath the gargoyles crystallized so quickly that molecular bonds snapped with sounds like gunshots. The edge of the oasis froze solid, transformed into a wasteland of jagged ice and snow.
The gargoyles themselves were caught mid-charge. One moment, they were a thundering horde of stone and fangs; the next, they were ice statues locked in eternal stillness. The winged ones crashed to the frozen ground, their bodies shattering like glass sculptures.
It didn't matter that some of the gargoyles were far above Daruk in tier advancement. His icon was like a law—a zone completely void of heat and the spark of life—and with the amount of willpower Daruk had poured into it, none of the gargoyles could escape.
And so, in only a few heartbeats, a roaring horde of gargoyles was brought to heel, their bodies clattering to the frozen ground as the heat of their essence was completely drained. They hadn't even had the chance to put up a fight. They had simply ceased to be.
The sudden silence after such overwhelming chaos felt almost oppressive. Where moments before there had been thundering hooves and shrieking roars, now there was only the gentle crack of settling ice and the whisper of frigid wind.
Aodhán's heart stuttered at the magnificence of Daruk's icon manifestation, eyes wide as he watched the devastation unfold from a safe distance. But alongside his amazement and awe was excitement.
This was the kind of power that awaited him in the advanced class. He couldn't wait.
With anticipation thrumming through him, he whispered, "By all the stars, Daruk."
But it seemed Daruk was just as shocked at his own power as Aodhán was. He looked back at Aodhán and shook his head, chest heaving from the amount of willpower he had just released.
"I can't believe..." He looked down at the icon on his wrist and back at the dead horde. "It's so expensive, though. For the first time in months, I feel drained. I think I must have used more than half my willpower pool for that activation alone."
"What?" Cyrus blanched, eyes wide in shock as he struggled to process what Daruk had just said. "You just unleashed about ninety percent of my willpower pool. How is that only half of yours? How are you even still standing? And now that we're on the topic, how have you reached gold already? How did I not notice this?"
"Calm the fuck down, Cyrus," Aodhán replied firmly before Cyrus could begin spiraling, but from Cyrus's expression, Aodhán doubted this was a trainwreck they could avoid.
Cyrus's eyes widened even further, and he seemed to be struck by a sudden bolt of realization. "You... you're the one responsible for the first explosion of willpower. How are you still standing? Just how much willpower do you have?"
"The amount of willpower I have is none of your concern," Daruk replied coolly, his gaze neutral but his tone laced with steel, hinting at severe danger if Cyrus kept pushing. "Now, go and sit down like a good boy and begin your advancement. Aodhán and I will protect you until it's over. After that, we can go our separate ways."
"Not yet," Aodhán quickly chimed in. "He has to stay until mine is over. That's the deal."
"That's the deal," Daruk echoed his words, and despite not being the target of Daruk's words, Aodhán still felt his hair rise in nervous tension as the sense of danger intensified. Daruk's face remained perfectly neutral, but it hinted at something so dangerous that Cyrus instinctively backed down and turned away, muttering something under his breath they couldn't hear.
Aodhán grimaced and glanced back at Daruk. "Are you still hiding it?"
Daruk shrugged. "It wouldn't hurt to try and keep it under wraps for as long as I can. The cultists already know, but I'd rather keep things the way they are for as long as possible."
Aodhán nodded, even though he didn't think it was a viable plan. Ever since the first explosion, Daruk had been very liberal with his use of willpower. Sooner rather than later, someone was bound to question it, and Daruk would eventually have to give answers. Still, one problem at a time.
Aodhán sighed and patted Daruk on the shoulder. "Well, let's get back to our missions. We don't have all day, and we have no idea what new surprises await us in this cursed realm, so I suggest we hurry. Cyrus, get to advancing. Daruk will deal with whatever creatures come, and I'll deal with the tribulation."
"I'm not getting a fucking tribulation," Cyrus scowled at him, and Aodhán frowned.
"What do you mean you're not getting a tribulation? Didn't you just see what happened to Daruk?"
"I'm not blind, commoner. But I'm also very logical." Cyrus glared at him from under his pink hair. "I'm not getting a tribulation. Some of us do not have fate by our sides. We've had to scrape and fight to earn every bit of power we have."
Aodhán closed his eyes against the surge of anger that rose within him in that moment and gestured for Daruk to deal with the situation before he blew Cyrus's brains out.
Daruk sighed. "Cyrus, we are unclear on how you're so certain you wouldn't be getting a tribulation. Is there something you've seen or heard that we haven't?"
Cyrus scowled, eyes darting between the two brothers. "You must be kidding me." His gaze went to the bands on their wrists, and his scowl deepened. "Surely, neither of you means to tell me you haven't checked the wristbands since you arrived in this hell?"
Aodhán paused at that, only now remembering the wristband the elder had passed around back in the chamber. He glanced down at the band, then exchanged an awkward glance with Daruk before activating the band for the first time, muttering to himself, "Where would we have found the time in all this chaos?"
The screen appeared before him in a flash of white and blue, and Aodhán scowled in displeasure.
HARVEST 122
Name: Aodhán Brystion.
Affinity: Storm (High Priority)
Current level: 1—Plain of Endless Waves
Duration: 48 hours.
Number of hours remaining: 44 hours, 49 minutes.
Number of harvests left: 123
81% Likability
2% Neutral
17% Detest
Total ratings: 11,349 votes.
The first thing that struck him as wrong was the word "harvest," and Aodhán felt bile rise in his throat. Was this what the cultists had reduced them to? Not captives. Not even prisoners. But harvest?
The word tasted like poison in his mouth.
Aodhán wasn't sure if any of the other words were better, but "harvest" seemed to be the worst. It reduced them to nothing but specimens to be reaped, crops to be gathered when ripe. And Aodhán hated it.
About six people had died already, and Aodhán could almost imagine what Jethro was doing to them. He imagined their spasming bodies as life bled from them, their spirits fleeing only to be held hostage and harvested to steal their innate skills and seals.
It was truly a harvest, and as the scene unfolded in his mind, Aodhán felt rage begin to rise within him. It was a familiar emotion, like the one that had once turned his gaze crimson. It burned hot like lava, erupting upward to remind him of the devils he was dealing with.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
With effort, he forced his gaze past the ugly word to the high-priority tag beside his affinity. He knew what it meant, and he hated it. Jethro wanted to harvest his spirit and steal his seals alongside the world tattoo on his neck. He was Jethro's prize harvest.
It was an insult.
The rage rising within him doubled, and Aodhán looked up to the obsidian sky, his hands clenched tightly by his side as he focused on the empty vastness, certain that they were watching him in this moment.
He stared at the sky for nearly a minute, fury burning in his eyes, before allowing a wicked smile to take its place on his lips as he whispered, "I am like a bone, Jethro. You will not harvest me without choking, and if you succeed, I'll swear on all that I stand for that I will be the last person you harvest. Like a crown of thorns, I will go down your throat and take you down with me."
His words, despite being a whisper, echoed in the realm like thunder, and Aodhán knew he had struck bone. A chill descended upon the oasis in that instant—not of cold, but of danger—and Aodhán could almost feel the fury of the Fated bearing down on him.
His smile widened, and without another word, he turned back to the screen, completely ignoring the increasing sense of danger as the fury of the handlers increased. Cyrus took several steps back from him, but Daruk moved closer, eyes hard as he glared at the sky without remorse.
Their likability ratings plummeted instantly, and a violent storm suddenly churned into existence above them. Thunder rumbled malevolently, and winds lashed out violently. Lightning arced as the storm intensified, transforming into a vortex of red and black lightning.
Aodhán's breath hitched, and he didn't need anyone to tell him that he was the target of this storm. The cultists were daring him to back up his words with actions, but this was no tribulation. It was an extinction.
Aodhán felt his conviction waver in that moment as scenes from his first-ever tribulation flashed in his mind, the memory of pain as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.
But Aodhán had committed himself to this path, and he would rather die than let the cultists call him a coward. If this was the punishment they were sending his way, then he would bear it with a bloody smile. He would feed his anger with it, and he would come out stronger.
Daruk's grip on his arm tightened, but when Aodhán moved to disentangle himself, Daruk didn't try to stop him. Aodhán could see how badly he wanted to, though. It was so plainly written on a face that was nearly always hard to read.
But rather than act on it, Daruk swallowed slowly, eyes burning with icy fury, and whispered, "Don't let them see you crack."
Aodhán gave a short nod and moved to the center of the oasis to stand directly beneath the storm. His gaze passed over Cyrus, who looked at him as if he were a fool, but Aodhán was glad he was there to witness this. This was the price he paid for his 'luck.' This was him earning all the power he had.
Lightning crackled sharply above him, each sound like a thunderous slap that sent Aodhán's body buzzing. But he never flinched. Never showed fear. Never cracked. Not when Varéc let out a mournful howl, nor when the first bolt descended, so large it engulfed his entire body with explosive and necrotic energies.
The pain was beyond description, and the closest similarity Aodhán could give was a sensation akin to having his flesh ripped off his bones and then painstakingly regrown in a cycle of agonized torture.
{Absorb Lightning} activated instantly, his pores and orifices opening up to absorb the overflowing torrents of electricity, but it was like channeling a churning river through a series of straws.
Lightning burned through his pathways like magma, and even his essence threads lit up with fire. Every part of his being was aflame and churning with electricity, so much so that his spirit groaned from the quantity.
Despite his efforts, Aodhán was barely absorbing ten percent of the lightning flowing around him. The rest lashed against him with destructive intent, shredding through his flesh like barbed wire and carving channels of pure suffering into his very soul.
Aodhán staggered but remained standing as numerous welts opened all over his body.
With agonized desperation, he pulled deeply on the torrents of lightning coursing through him, holding tight to his anger and hatred. The emotions burned within him like a pyre, ignited by the agony gnawing at his soul.
With his teeth clenched so hard they bled, he channeled all that absorbed lightning into his core to purify and refine it. Gallons of electricity poured into his core, and like a hungry beast, his core absorbed it all, devouring the energy even before it reached it.
With each volume of energy it absorbed, his core expanded, and by the time the second bolt struck, Aodhán's core was nowhere near full. Not even a quarter full.
A third bolt struck soon after, and Aodhán's knees smashed to the frozen ground with a loud crack. Pain lanced through his being from within even as lightning wreaked havoc on his body, and Aodhán screamed, but the sound was lost in the roar of thunder.
The fourth bolt struck, and Aodhán let out another agonized cry, guttural and warbling like glass grinding against glass. Tears pooled in his eyes, and despite his rage, Aodhán was tempted to beg for mercy.
His body convulsed and spasmed as the bolt slammed him against the rocky ground, threatening to eradicate him from existence. But Aodhán refused to be broken so easily. He held onto his rage tightly, clinging to the reason why he was doing this. Why he was enduring this.
His spirit screamed, stretching itself thin as more and more energy was absorbed into it. His pathways felt like they were being rewritten with fire, but still, he absorbed. Still, he endured. The storm was enduring after all.
With all the strength he possessed, he forced himself to block out the pain and instead focused all of his attention on {Absorb Lightning}. Willpower burst out of him like a tidal wave, and he channeled it all into the skill with the diligence of a man with nothing to lose.
The fifth bolt left him gasping for air, his vision blurring as pain stabbed into him like a thousand knives. His hands clawed at the frozen ground as his body convulsed. But he forced his breathing to slow, each exhale deliberate.
"Focus," he commanded himself. "Not on the pain, but on the skill itself."
It didn't work at first. The pain was too much, but with each command, his body and mind seemed to gain more strength until finally, he turned his mind inward, narrowing his attention to a single stream of thought to escape the pain wracking his body.
And slowly, the pain, overwhelming as it was, began to fade into the background of his consciousness. Not because it lessened—if anything, it grew worse—but because Aodhán's perception had shifted.
With each deliberate breath, he tuned everything out—sound, sight, and sensation—until only that single skill remained in his mind's eye. It blazed like a beacon in his mind, growing larger and larger until it was all Aodhán knew. And so, when the sixth bolt struck, not a whimper was heard from Aodhán.
The bolt should have killed him. Instead, something within him stirred, and in that transcendent moment, Aodhán's mind completely left the physical realm, entering a state of near-crystal mental clarity. The words of his ideal rose in his mind like the whispers of chaos, and with them came the memories that made him who he was.
The first memory was one of helplessness. A fractured image of that night in the forest when his parents had died, when he was too weak to do anything but run. He had built his first ideal on that memory, one he now recognized as a grave of guilt and anguish.
I advance to help.
Every act of help he had offered during that time had been an instinctual, subconscious declaration to the world—I am not Az'marthon Ranok. I am not the slaughterer of armies. I am just a boy. A peaceful boy raised by monks.
But that ideal had nearly destroyed him, turning his strength into a cage of obligation.
The memory exploded like a dying star, and another took its place, this one born from wisdom and a need for choice. It was the memory of Bakhtin and Tallulah.
I rise when I can.
The phrase had given him freedom and choice, but it had also birthed within him a sense of complacency that Aodhán hated. It was too easy. Too freeing. An ideal was supposed to be the main reason why one sought power, not an excuse to avoid responsibility.
Choice was great, but a choice bordering on nonchalance wasn't one Aodhán wanted to build his power on.
He was no hero, but he didn't want to watch while people were burned to death just because he had the choice not to step in. He wasn't saying he didn't want free will. But he never wanted to be on the side of people who watched without acting. Neither did he want to be given the choice to do so.
That wasn't who he was.
No, he was someone who loved to help. Someone who loved to provide solutions. He didn't want a phrase that pushed him to be reckless. But he didn't need an ideal that wouldn't push him at all.
What he needed was balance, and as he dug deeper into his spirit, the whisper of a mantra soon revealed itself, undulating so faintly beneath all the noise of his mind that he barely grasped it.
The moment he did, though, another memory flashed across his mind, and this time, it was of him giving his perfect imbuement technique to Imani. It was a seemingly unimportant moment, yet so vital to his growth, considering how much lighter he had felt after rectifying that error.
A fourth memory flashed, and this time, it was of him giving power to the soldiers at the Steppin' plains, raining thousands of golden raindrops to transform a near stalemate into a near flawless victory in minutes.
The memory brought a bloody smile to his face, though Aodhán barely realized it, so lost was he in his own mind. A fifth memory flashed, this one so much brighter than the others. It was the memory of him standing before Aldric, a pure and luminescent drop of golden rain hovering between them.
His intent was clear, and in that moment, Aodhán realized the common denominator within all three memories. He hadn't just helped them; he had given them the strength to help themselves. He hadn't just solved their immediate problems but empowered them to solve future ones. He hadn't just lifted them in times of need but had fundamentally changed what they were capable of.
Even now, as death crept closer, he was doing the same thing. Absorbing torrents of deadly energy and transforming it into growth, taking destruction and making it strength.
The tribulation was teaching him his purpose.
Strength wasn't meant to be hoarded or even just used. It was meant to be cultivated specifically to give away. Every advancement he made, every tier he gained, every skill he'd created—all of it could become a gift to aid others. No matter how powerful a single man was, he couldn't stand against the whole world alone.
True power was influence, and Aodhán wanted to gain a lot of it.
He didn't want to stand alone at the top. He wanted to stand by a multitude of people, each one an authority in their own right. That was the reason he advanced. To pull others up with him.
The realization crystallized in his mind like lightning finding its path, and his true ideal rose within his spirit, undulating in his mind with crystal clarity.
I GAIN STRENGTH TO GIVE IT.
The phrase resonated through his core like a struck bell, resounding true and pure in his battered mind. Pain returned—immense and deadly—but it barely lasted a heartbeat before the world fell away, crumbling around him like a mansion made out of paper.
Aodhán smiled, expecting to see the origin plane open itself up to him. Instead, he found himself in a cozy room crafted from mystical black wood and etched with golden runes.
A king-sized bed dominated the center, while the floor was covered in soft gray fur he now recognized as Ragnar's pelt. The room was eerily familiar, but it was the map of ÆFLYM carved into the bronze ceiling that confirmed his suspicions.
A grimace touched his lips as he turned toward the entrance, unsurprised to find a familiar figure watching him, golden eyes hard despite his welcoming expression.
The man smiled when their gazes met and raised a cup of sweet-scented tea in greeting. "You've found yourself in quite the pickle, haven't you, little seed?"