Ryan observed carefully—every one of them was an expert. The quiet tension in the cavern was telling. These weren't ordinary fighters; each figure bore the aura of a secret-level master, their presence crackling faintly with suppressed energy. Yet they were afraid—not cautious, but truly frightened. Their unease didn't stem from doubt in their own strength, but from something far more overwhelming.
Ryan narrowed his eyes. Who could make such beings tremble? What kind of being existed that even legends would fear to name?
He spoke, voice low and steady, but curious.
"How strong is that person?"
The young man turned, his face pale under the dim, soft glow of the World Tree behind them.
"Far beyond what your imagination allows," he said grimly. "Now run—while time still allows it. Even if the entire Kingdom of Jira gathered its might, they would either fall as sealed slaves… or be erased without mercy."
An older voice spoke from the back, raspy with age but firm with conviction.
"Young man, heed us. There's still time—leave. Return only when you've forged yourself into something greater. I don't know the limits of your power, but the potential in you is undeniable. To even stand a chance against him, we'd need a hundred Ascendants at least—and that might not be enough."
He stepped forward slightly, the light from the glowing tree outlining the deep creases on his face.
"Oliver… is an immortal. He shattered the ceiling of Ascendancy long ago. We—" his voice dipped "—we are ants before him. Challenging him now would summon only chaos and death. Escape this place while it still lets you."
The leaves of the World Tree above stirred gently, their edges glistening with dew like emeralds kissed by morning light. Each rustle seemed less like the wind and more like the whispers of an ancient spirit, brushing the canopy with reverent breath. A faint, earthy aroma drifted from the branches—a mix of sap, moss, and something sweeter, older… like the scent of eternity steeped in life.
Beside Ryan, the elf moved with silent precision. Her fingers, pale and slender, disappeared into a leather satchel that seemed more grown than made. From within, she drew a small bundle wrapped in woven bark fibers. She opened it to reveal leaves glowing softly—not merely green, but radiant, pulsing with golden veins, as though each leaf held a fragment of the dawn.
"For whoever it is you seek," she whispered, her voice almost drowned by the soft murmuring wind. Her silver hair shimmered, cascading over her shoulders like moonlight spun into silk, catching stray glints from the glowing leaves. "This will reach the soul… and restore it. From the core. Now go."
Ryan's chest tightened, breath hitching—not from urgency, but something unnameable that gripped his heart. These people… he didn't know their names, their history. Yet there was something timeless in their eyes—something that reached across silence and said: you matter. Their kindness was not custom, not duty. It was truth given freely, like fire in winter.
He opened his mouth to speak, to offer words that could carry the weight of his gratitude. But the moment was already fading, pulled forward by fate's hand. Time, now, was a river too swift for farewells
"There are others coming," someone muttered, scanning the winding corridor leading to the tree chamber.
Everyone turned. Footsteps echoed against the stone walls.
A woman led the group. Maya. Her stride was sharp, her gaze sharp as polished steel. Behind her, others moved swiftly, weapons drawn. They approached the World Tree—a colossal, ancient entity rooted at the heart of the cave, its leaves shimmering faintly with mystic light. This was sacred ground.
Ryan instinctively slid the leaves into his pocket and stepped forward, intercepting Maya. He didn't want blood spilled here—not after the quiet trust these strangers had offered him. He gave them a glance of reassurance before walking forward.
Then, the wind changed.
What had once been a calm, sacred silence became brittle, like glass flexing before the shatter. The air grew dense, heavy with an electrified chill, as though the very atmosphere held its breath. Deep within the earth, the cave seemed to tighten its stone skin, and the massive roots of the World Tree shivered, shedding flakes of ancient bark. Even the glow of the tree dimmed, reacting to a shift woven into the very threads of fate.
A hum began—soft at first, like a whisper beneath the world's skin—then deepened into something primal, a low vibration that coiled in the bones. The energy in the cavern twisted, warping like heat over stone, bending space with invisible weight.
Ryan froze.
He didn't need to be told.
He felt it in the marrow of his being.
He was coming.
Above them, the air tore open. Space warped like molten glass, and from that disruption bloomed a swirling black sphere—small and dense, like a sealed scream, then ballooning outward with a soundless pressure that made the ears ache. Wind howled through the cavern, no longer a breeze but a shriek. Dust and petals tore free from the ground, spiraling upward like ghosts escaping the soil. The portal roared open, a vortex carved from night and storm.
From its seething heart, a figure began to descend—slow, deliberate, inevitable.
A man cloaked in black. His heavy, fur-lined coat moved with a life of its own, fluttering like the torn banners of a forgotten battlefield, its edges rippling in the chaos around him. Beneath it, a plain shirt and trousers—yet even they whispered of power, threads of silver etched with arcane sigils, catching stray glimmers of light like runes beneath frost. Symbols long lost to memory, pulsing faintly with recognition.
Strapped to his belt were weapons—elegant, merciless things, each one distinct, none merely ornamental. Their polished surfaces caught the flickering light, reflecting not just steel but intent—cold, absolute.
His hair fell in a soft mushroom curl, oddly gentle, almost out of place. Yet it did nothing to lessen the weight of his presence. A faint mustache and the shadow of a beard framed a mouth that curved into a smirk—not of joy, but of amusement laced with contempt, as though the world before him was already kneeling.
Just seeing him, Ryan understood.
This wasn't someone you challenged. This was someone you survived—if you were lucky.
He was at least two levels above Ryan. Possibly more.
Oliver chuckled.
"So many gifts," he said, voice darkly amused. "God continues to favor me."
Then his smile widened cruelly.
"Oh my… and this time, a woman too. Lovely."
He wasted no time. A wave of force exploded from him—a pure, unfiltered aura of an Ascendant long transcended. The cavern shook as if recoiling from his presence.
"Kneel," he commanded, voice like thunder cracking reality.
The experts around Ryan dropped to their knees—silent, broken, defeated. Not one dared to resist. Their pride meant nothing now.
But the newcomers didn't move.
All eyes turned to Ryan.
Except Maya.
She didn't hesitate. Her blade was already out, gleaming with enchantments. Her eyes locked onto Oliver like a predator who knew death but refused to run. She was a storm held in check—waiting for Ryan's signal.
He gave a tiny nod.
There was no time.
He closed his eyes. Samuel. He just had to say the name. Their bond was deeper than blood, deeper than soul—master and servant, bound by magic itself.
"Samuel."
Nothing.
He called again. Louder in his mind. Nothing.
The air split.
Oliver moved. He struck first—at Maya.
Ryan's eyes widened.
Maya leapt into the air, muscles coiled like springs, but the blow still landed—a brutal, concussive strike that slammed into her midair. The sheer weight of it launched her downward like a meteor ripping through the sky. The ground exploded beneath her, cracks spiderwebbing outward with a thunderous crunch as stone dust rose in plumes around her fallen form.
The others gasped, their cries swallowed by the settling dust.
But she wasn't done.
Blood leaked from the corner of her mouth, dark and vivid against her pale skin, but her eyes—they burned brighter than before, twin stars ignited by defiance. She pushed herself upright, each breath ragged and sharp, as if inhaling fire. Her aura pulsed, no longer a whisper but a roar, igniting around her like a rising sun veiled in flame.
The ceiling groaned—a deep, bone-like creak—as if the very stone could feel the pressure of her unleashed power.
Maya had ascended.
The peak of the Sacred Level.
Light and flame coiled around her in a furious dance—a whirlwind of brilliance and fury, licking at her limbs, trailing her movements like ribbons in a storm. Then, she moved.
She was everywhere.
Blades flashed from all sides, her figure a blur of impossible speed and lethal elegance. Her sword no longer seemed forged of steel—it was light shaped into violence, an extension of her very will. Each motion bore the weight of years, battles, scars. A dance of death etched into her bones.
Oliver, to his credit, didn't flinch. He parried—once, twice—then struck back.
Steel met force.
The clash rang out like a bell tolling for gods—mystic power shrieking through the cavern in waves that shimmered against the walls like heat mirages under moonlight.
The others could only watch, eyes wide, mouths dry.
Oliver wasn't moving.
He stood unmoved at the heart of the ancient cavern, a pillar of stillness amid chaos. The very air warped around him, shimmering like sunlight through water. At each of Maya's lunges, a translucent shield flared into being—born not from movement, but from intent alone. Her blows struck the barriers mid-air, erupting into sparks that scattered like shattered starlight, never once touching him.
But Maya didn't relent. Her rage surged like a tidal wave beneath a crimson sky, crashing again and again against the invisible wall that defied her.
Then, something shifted.
The air grew heavy—thick with possibility and peril. The truth revealed itself not in sound, but in sensation: her power was climbing, drawn from a place so deep it was nearly unreachable. It surged—wild, untamed—past the peak of the Sacred Level. Even Oliver's expression, stone-like and composed, flickered.
She had breached the impossible.
Maya had entered the realm of a Secret-Level expert.
But this was no smooth evolution—it was a blaze, fierce and ragged, as if her soul had been torn open and fire poured in. Her body trembled, veins glowing like cracks in molten earth, her eyes blazing suns barely contained in their sockets. The force churned inside her, glorious and lethal. It was tearing at her from within, threatening to unravel her from bone to breath.
Ryan clenched his fists. A silent scream in his throat. He longed to move, to shield her—but chains unseen bound him, duty or magic or fate holding him prisoner.
Then came the sound—the true sound of power.
Maya's next blow landed. One of Oliver's floating shields shattered with the clarity of breaking crystal, and her sword struck home. He was hurled backward, a black blur across the cavern, crashing into the obsidian floor. Dust bloomed around him, spiraling in thick, choking clouds as his body rolled once—twice—then stilled.
And yet he rose. Swift. Unshaken.
When his eyes locked with hers, there was no fury. Only certainty.
"Finally…" he said, voice like thunder beneath still water, "someone who's touched the Ascendant Realm. Now I can stop holding back."
His words echoed through the chamber, resonating in every stone, every soul.
And then—he let go.
An avalanche of power erupted from him, a force that swallowed sound, swallowing even the air. His aura surged—white-hot, blinding—a storm birthed from silence. It climbed.
Ascendant.
Mid Ascendant.
Peak Ascendant…
And then—beyond.
The pressure crashed down like a mountain born from the sky, invisible yet unrelenting. Warriors in the distance staggered, some collapsing under the weight, mouths open in silent screams. The members of Lake's group were strewn like leaves in a storm, semi-conscious, crushed beneath a force that seemed to warp reality itself.
This was Oliver.
Not a man.
A Myth.
And the world around him—stone, air, soul—trembled. His aura screamed not just of power, but of storms yet to come, of wars still written in the bones of the earth, of gods whose names had been forgotten, but not their wrath
But Maya wasn't done.
With a snarl of defiance, she activated her trump card—the Sigil of Regret.
It ignited on her skin, sizzling like molten gold, ancient runes twisting and writhing like living fire across her arm. A sudden pulse of heat rolled off her body, and the ground beneath her feet trembled, fine cracks spidering outward like glass under strain.
Then came the eruption.
Her strength surged—not flowing, but exploding—first touching Mid Ascendant, then ascending in a blazing spiral, every heartbeat a detonation of power. The air around her shimmered with waves of distortion, as if reality itself was warping from her presence.
Even Oliver's immense pressure couldn't smother this storm.
Gasps filled the cavern, sharp and sudden, echoing off the obsidian walls like wind in a hollow tomb.
Even those weakened by Oliver's overwhelming aura stared wide-eyed, their pain momentarily forgotten, awe overtaking fear.
No one had expected this.
The quiet, battle-hardened girl—the one who bore her grief like armor—had become a comet, trailing fire and fury, hurtling toward the heavens.
She was glorious and impossible, the kind of miracle that split legends open and rewrote them, daring to stand alone against a mythical storm given form.
Meanwhile, Ryan's eyes lit up. A message finally came through the mental tether he'd been gnawing on.
"Give me five minutes. I'm stuck over here."
Ryan smiled faintly. That was enough.
He stepped forward.
In the distance, Maya charged. Her aura flared like wildfire, blazing golden-red across the battlefield. But her movements bore the cost—her body was splintering, spirit unraveling. The sheer magnitude of her power outstripped what mortal flesh could hold. She was breaking—bit by bit.
Her blade sang through the air, but Oliver parried—and struck back.
The clash was monumental.
Each collision between them sent shockwaves cascading through the cave. Columns cracked, the ground split, the air screamed. But none of it lingered. The damage undone, rebuilt instantly by the power of the World Tree.
Its roots, somewhere far below, pulsed with silent magic. Any blow that neared its sanctuary dissolved, as though it had never existed.
Still, Maya faltered.
She was nearing her end.
And Oliver saw it.
He launched forward, his next attack blazing with finality—a beam of energy laced with divine intent, surging straight toward her.
And then—light.
Ryan moved like lightning across the battlefield, cloaked in radiant gold. In a blur, he reached her, sweeping her from harm just before the blast struck. He pressed a handful of World Tree leaves into her palm.
"Eat them. Slowly," he murmured, guiding her toward Artesian, who stirred faintly nearby.
Oliver's gaze locked onto Ryan. Suspicion flickered across his face.
The golden light around Ryan shimmered, rippling like molten sunlight draped over his skin—an ethereal armor that clung to him with a pulse of its own. Though his strength registered only at the peak Sacred Level, something deeper stirred inside—a weight, a gravitational pull of memory and fury, like a storm brewing far beneath still waters.
Ryan looked down at Maya—and felt... nothing.
Just an empty ache, like staring into a room where someone once laughed but no longer lived.
A hollow silence where emotion should have bloomed. Yet, underneath that stillness, there was a draw—a hunger older than his own soul. It didn't feel like his, but it was awakening in his blood, whispering in a voice not quite his own.
He turned his gaze to Oliver—still suspended in the air, a titan wrapped in radiance, his Mythical aura coiled like a living crown of storms.
Then it came—Oliver's next beam, slicing forward like a white-hot spear of judgment.
But Ryan didn't flinch.
That wild, monstrous rage surged up again—not from his heart, but from the very sinews of the body he now wore. The inherited memories shrieked—not of survival, but of destruction, of legends burned to ash, of vengeance written in blood and fire.
The Will Sigil ignited, and the blade in his hand glowed like a sun trapped in steel, heat distorting the air around it.
Then came the Multiply Sigil—its activation rippling through him, a war drum layered over a war cry.
His form exploded forward, gold and cobalt streaking through the cavern like a comet gone berserk—each step a detonation, shaking the earth and scorching shadows into the stone.
Oliver's beam struck—but Ryan tore through it, unscathed, a ghost made of fury and force.
Oliver raised a shield—desperate, instinctual, flickering into life with a shimmer of panic.
The blade met it—and it was like steel cleaving silk. The shield shattered soundlessly, fragments dispersing like dying stars.
Then came the blast.
A burst of white-hot energy ruptured the cavern ceiling, a thunderclap of force that made the walls tremble and the sky blink with fire.
When the smoke cleared, Ryan stood upon scorched stone, still as dawn before the first bird sings.
Oliver was slammed into the cave wall, his body cracked against obsidian, blood trailing like a ruby thread from the corner of his lips. His eyes—once godlike—were wide, not with pain, but with disbelief.
But Ryan didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He didn't even realize—
—he was losing control.
This was no longer a duel.
This was the beginning of a massacre.