Novel: The Emperor Returned from Ruin
Volume Two
Chapter Nine: When the River Decided Not to Run Dry
Ethan bled.
He bled slowly—not like a wounded man collapsing, but like an existence being stripped of meaning, drop by drop. The blood flowing from his body was not ordinary; it was thick, dark, carrying within its color the remnants of wars fought without names, and decisions made without granting himself the luxury of regret. And yet, his eyes remained steady, unbroken, bearing a faint smile that belonged neither to victor nor defeated, but to someone who knew with certainty that the end had not yet been written.
Before him stood the Lord of the Alliance.
He was not merely an opponent, nor a being that could be measured by strength alone. He was the embodiment of an authority older than laws themselves, a spirit condemned to rule rather than debate. His aura did not spread through the space—it descended upon it like a final verdict, a weight that bent the air itself and forced thoughts to fracture before bodies did. There was no shouting, no threats, no display. His mere presence was enough to make the distant Revered Ones lower their heads unconsciously.
And when he moved, he did not raise his hand, nor did he change his stance.
The attack began from within.
Ethan felt his soul being seized—not with brute force, but with terrifying precision, as if an invisible hand knew the location of every weakness within him, pressing slowly, breaking without leaving a visible trace. It was not an assault on the body, but an attempt to uproot the essence itself—to drain the river at its source before it could ever reach its course.
In that moment, Ethan understood.
This was not a battle of who possessed greater power, but of who had the right to continue existing.
Behind the Lord of the Alliance, the royal dragon roared.
It was not a sound, but a tremor in existence itself. A colossal, majestic body, like a mountain that had awakened and suddenly remembered it was once a god in an age where gods had been forgotten. Its scales were like laws, its breath like verdicts, and its gaze carried the certainty that everything before it was created to be crushed.
Ethan summoned his dragon.
It appeared.
But it looked… small.
Not weak—just insignificant in comparison. Like a worm daring to raise its head before a mountain. Ethan felt no humiliation, no anger. He had known from the beginning that this gap was not something brute force alone could bridge.
The royal dragon lunged.
Ethan narrowly evaded the first strike, the second tore his flesh, the third shattered one of his internal bones. Pain ceased to be a sensation; it became a constant state, as if his body had decided to stop sending warning signals altogether.
Ethan stood.
He planted his feet upon ground that was crumbling apart.
And he smiled.
The absorption began.
It was not balanced, nor was it a refined technique. It was pure madness. He drew energy from the air, from the shockwaves, from the rebound of the Lord of the Alliance's own aura. His internal pathways fractured, his cells began to collapse, his body screamed in a language no one but him could hear. It was unmistakable—this body could not endure it.
So he burned what remained.
He burned the soul.
It was not ignition, but a complete curse. The power did not merely multiply—it warped, twisted, broke free of control. Blades of shadow formed around him, dark purple, saturated with a pure intent to kill. They did not seek victory—they sought annihilation.
The blades surged forward.
The Lord of the Alliance blocked them with one hand.
Casually.
As one might brush away smoke of no consequence.
In that moment, Ethan laughed.
A short, dry laugh mixed with blood. He raised Soul Burn to the third level. His body was no longer the only price—his entire existence was. His blood scattered through the air as an irreversible toll. Pain surpassed sensation; it became an absolute truth, requiring no explanation.
Ethan gathered the void fire he had forged through countless battles, fused it with the shadow blades, then compressed upon them the brand of destruction—not to create an explosion, but to force contradictions to coexist within a single point.
A tiny point.
A beam no thicker than a finger.
He fired it.
The Lord of the Alliance scoffed.
He did not evade, did not retreat, did not raise a defense.
Then the beam pierced his right shoulder.
Blood flowed.
What shocked him was not the blood, but the sensation—that fleeting brush with death, that instant when a lesser existence managed to reach him. His eyes darkened, and from his chest erupted a cry that was not rage, but astonishment—the astonishment of a being unaccustomed to being wounded.
He converted the shock into pure, terrifying brand power. The sky cracked, light exploded, and space itself began to lose cohesion.
An attack the size of Lyra's stars.
It had no clear beginning, nor a visible end. A light like dying suns—dense, crushing, leaving no room for thought.
It swallowed Ethan.
His body was hurled through the void, shattered, torn apart, the light fading from his eyes. The confident smile vanished, replaced by the face of a man who had never known hope, a man who lived on the edge until he forgot solid ground even existed.
And memories flooded in.
A mentor who fell smiling, as if he knew this end was necessary. Companions who followed him with blind trust, even when he led them into a hell forged by his own hands. Rivers that ran dry, worlds that burned, and graves filled with names no one remembered anymore.
And he… took all of it.
Yet he felt no guilt.
Only warmth.
The warmth of trust given without conditions. The warmth of those who did not fear their rivers running dry if it meant granting him a path. He finally understood. A river does not dry up as long as there are those who drink from it by choice. And if it burned for their sake, he would not regret it.
A drop fell.
He did not know whether it was blood or a tear.
But with its fall, everything stopped.
His soul—once perpetual fuel—grew still. His mind, once a muddy river, cleared. And for the first time, the soul entered his body not as a tool, nor as power, but as a complete essence.
Ethan rose.
Not with an explosion, nor with a roar.
He rose simply, like someone who had finally set down the weight of a mountain from his chest.
The old man looked at him, his eyes widening. It was not admiration—but pure astonishment. Eyes devoid of regret, hesitation, or fear.
Ethan summoned his spear.
He gripped it.
One strike was enough.
It split the attack, tore the light apart, and returned silence to a battlefield that had not known it for ages.
Ethan stood amidst the ruin, unmoving, silent, gazing at the Lord of the Alliance with neither defiance nor submission.
He no longer fought to live,
nor to win,
but because the world… had not yet granted him permission to die.