Vikram returned to the silent chamber where the three statues of [Barbarian], [Knight], and [Mage] loomed. Even after all this time, even after stepping into contact with powers no mortal was ever meant to grasp, he could not shake the feeling that these three figures were not simple stone. They were unique. Alive in their own way. Watching him.
The air trembled.
[The Alblight Light of the Outer has absorbed the Soul of Ravaan, The Blood Knight.]
[Processing Soul...]
[Refining the Aspect of Soul Inheritance...]
[You have received three new Soul Inheritance...]
Vikram's vision burned white. Symbols descended before him like meteors striking the sea of his consciousness. His eyes widened at one in particular:
A colossal silhouette of a Thousand-Armed Asura, every fist crashing down like the fall of collapsing heavens. Every blow carried only one meaning, Destruction. Annihilation. Absolute erasure of all who dared to exist before it.
[Thousand Desolation Grasp]
Vikram's chest tightened. His hands trembled slightly before he forced out a long, steadying breath. He knew instinctively what this inheritance meant, it was not just a technique, but a fragment of will, an echo of an Asura that had clawed against eternity.
Suppressing the manic excitement clawing at his heart, he willed himself back into the game.
He restarted. A zombie lurched. His fist, infused with aura, flicked outward almost lazily, and the creature collapsed, shredded into nothing.
He summoned the [Alblight Light of the Outer]. The pale lamp flared, and again the ivory tentacles wriggled forth, slick and worm-like, attaching themselves to the corpse. Vikram's face twitched as he watched. The white worms swarmed, weaving a cocoon with unnatural speed, only to rupture one after another with wet pops before reabsorbing back into the lamp.
A shiver trailed his spine.
'So… ordinary corpses are worthless to you. You only hunger for Souls and Bodies of Boss-level existences, don't you?' Vikram raised the lamp, its light cutting across his face, leaving him half-veiled in cold shadow. His lips curled faintly. 'Picky eater, are we?'
He didn't rush to test the new Martial Art. No, Vikram was never one to scatter his focus. Once he set his mind to something, he finished it to the end, even if it meant clawing back from death itself.
And so, he died. Over and over. Each death was a whetstone. Each rebirth, a furnace. Within five days, by the grace of his cursed Divine Blessing, to die endlessly and rise endlessly, Vikram carved his way to Perfection in arts most called impossible.
When he finally checked his panel, it gleamed with madness:
[Name: Vikram Rathore]
[Existence: Pre-Existence]
[Realm: None (Supreme Foundation)]
[Souls: 235]
[Techniques:]
[Barbarian]
• Axe Throwing Technique – Perfection (!)
• Breath of the Crimson Pulse – Perfection (!)
• Ironbreaker's Axe Form – Perfection (!)
• Thousand Desolation Grasp – Entry Level (!)
[Knight]
• Breath of Genesis Spirit Art – Perfection
• Turtle Form Technique – Perfection
• Iron Tyrant Sword Art – Perfection
[Mage]
• Sunlit Tome – Perfection (!)
• Golden Radiance Tome – Perfection (!)
• Flayer Forbidden Tome – Perfection (!)
• Chrono Scale Tome – Perfection (!)
• Tome of Prophetic Vision – Perfection (!)
The perfection of the Breath of the Crimson Pulse was unlike anything he had ever experienced. The [Barbarian] body he wore carried the essence of the Kanthar Bloodline, and within its depths he had glimpsed the shade of Kanthar's Ancestor.
It was not a glorious sight.
The head of the Ancestor was… not where it should have been. The corpse had been desecrated, denied even the dignity of a proper burial.
Though this body was dominantly Kanthar in lineage, his visions stretched further. He had witnessed many other Ancestors: Grondr the World-Breaker, Urzath the Bloodfather, Balrukh the Storm-Eater, and countless more. Yet each sight was worse than the last.
When Kayala told him that the Barbarians were eradicated, he had imagined extinction, perhaps annihilation in battle. What he found instead was desecration. Their bodies turned into mangled spectacles, their corpses mocked, some bound like puppets still dancing in forgotten corners of the cosmos.
A heavy sigh escaped him.
Better not to dwell on such things. Still, it became clear why no one had ever perfected this Art before. He could feel that, should he truly step into cultivation, the Breath of the Crimson Pulse would allow him to probe even the Primordial Ancestor, and he was certain that such an existence was out there, hidden but undeniable.
This was more than tracing cause and effect through ancestral bloodlines. With this Divine Art, he could inherit the power of whichever Ancestor he chose. Their very presence could manifest through his flesh.
Truly, this was no mere technique. This was a Divine Art.
The perfected realm of the Breath of the Genesis Spirit carried equal weight. Within the [Knight] body, he discovered the ability to forge a sword imbued with sentience. Crude and imperfect though it was, its spirit weak in both quality and quantity, he was fascinated by the concept. A sword that could think, that could feel, that could grow.
For the [Mage], the Tome of Prophetic Vision was their equivalent. Upon reaching perfection, he had glimpsed a fragment of his own future.
It was… a disturbing sight.
He saw himself beating himself to the ground, again and again. One version of him seethed with primal hatred, while the other struck with pure, venomous malice.
The vision was confusing, yet undeniable. Though he could not unravel its meaning, he was certain it held something profound.
"Please," he whispered inwardly, "Let it be so. Otherwise… all this effort, all this struggle, would be for nothing."