Chapter 234: Chapter 227: This was power?
[Aethel]
[The Grand Colosseum]
The Grand Colosseum was in a state of uproar.
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It was pandemonium.
The air was saturated with a nauseating fear, as if the world had recoiled from what it had just witnessed. People clung to each other, their faces pale, their hands trembling as they tried to convince themselves that what they had seen had been so kind of cruel illusion, a trick of the Zephyra Illusora.
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Even now, the massive projection screens of the Zephyra Illusora flickered unstably, struggling to maintain coherence, as if the laws of reality were rejecting what they had been forced to display. The largest screen of all, the one suspended high above the colosseum, still bore the afterimage of that abominable transformation—?? ???????? ???????? ???????????? ?????? ????????
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Each elent had been ???????????????? ?????????????? ????????????????, disgustingly fused in an unholy display of sothing incomprehensible, spanning as large as a mountain. The re ???????????????????? of that entity still lingered in the minds of all who had witnessed it, a brand upon their very souls.
A man scread, clutching his head.
"What in the na of the Gods was that!?"
He wasn’t alone.
A hundred voices followed—?? ????????????????, ?????? ????????????????—?????????????????? ?????? ???????? ?????????????? ???? ?????????? ?????????????????? ???????? ???? ?????????? ???? ?????? ???????????? ????
"A—A ???????????? ??????????????!" soone bellowed, spittle flying from their lips.
"Should sothing like that even exist!?"
"I-I could feel it... the tremors spiraling through the realm..." A sorcerer clutched at his robes, his eyes vacant. His pupils were pinpricks, his face clammy with sweat. He swallowed, but it did nothing to ease the dryness of his throat. "...that... that was sothing on par with the Gods..."
Soone—soone sane—burst into a laugh so brittle it might as well have been sobs.
"By the Gods, what even is this festival anymore?!"
Monstrosity? Divinity? Demoniac?
No, it had been none of those things, it had been sothing else entirely.
And high above them, seated in his grand private booth, Emperor Aerious did not move.
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His eyes, usually sharp, carried a tense gaze. When he finally opened his mouth, it was only to whisper—
"I don’t think that boy can be labeled as a re monster anymore."
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And from the corner of his eye, he saw that Thordan’s gaze mirrored his own. The weight of what had just transpired bore down upon Thordan. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, the cold sweat clinging to his skin. His breath ca slow and heavy, as if he feared that exhaling too quickly might sohow shatter the fragile grip he had on his own sanity.
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The thought clawed its way into his mind, relentless and gnawing, sinking its fangs into the foundation of his understanding. He could not shake the sight—???? ?????????? ??????. It was burned into the marrow of his bones, a afterimage permanently etched into his mind’s eye.
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No feathered blessing, no gentle grace—only mockery. Cruel distortions of what divinity should have been, their outlines ever-shifting between reality and sothing far beyond. They did not fly. They lood.
Thordan’s throat tightened. He could still feel the lingering presence of that entity, as if its existence had warped the very ???????????????? of this world.
"What... was that?"
The words barely left his lips, more an exhalation of disbelief than an actual question. He did not expect an answer—?????????????? ?????????? ???????????? ???? ???? ?????????????? ???? ?????????????????? ???????? ???????????? ??????
He did not know.
But soone did.
Amongst the sea of shaking hands and shattered minds, amongst the choir of people desperately ??????????????, ??????????????, ??????????????, there was but one soul untouched by the horror of it all.
The Archbishop.
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A single, idle observation, stated with no urgency.
("Hm. An angel.")
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[???]
Escaping Dante had been far more of a struggle than any of them had anticipated. His tenacity, that relentless bloodlust—he had torn through them. It had taken everything they had just to shake him off, and even then, it had not been a clean escape.
Beatrice’s arm was proof of that.
The bloody remains of her left shoulder twitched, raw and exposed to the winds. Her fingers, the ones she no longer had, ached, the phantom sensation cruel. Dante had severed it as though he were rely swatting away an insect, as if her existence had never held weight in the first place. Blood dripped through her clenched fingers, pooling in the ruined ground beneath her. She barely felt it. Not because the pain wasn’t there—it very much was—but because sothing else had overridden it.
A far greater horror.
The three of them stood on a high cliff, the wind howling past, their eyes had been locked onto the abomination afar. That thing—that indescribable, impossible thing—was still burned into their minds, its image etched so deeply that even in their final monts, should they ever find peace, they would still see it lurking in the corners of their vision.
It had not belonged here.
No, it had not belonged anywhere.
And yet, for one fleeting mont, it had existed.
It had been wrong.
Horribly, unforgivably wrong.
"What in the... what was that!?" Beatrice finally gasped out, her voice hoarse. Her breath ca in short, sharp bursts. Her remaining arm trembled as she instinctively clutched the ruined stump of her missing limb, as if she could sohow hold herself together. Her fingers dug into the open wound, but she barely reacted. The pain was irrelevant.
The mories, however, were not so kind.
That unholy image refused to leave her mind. The twisted eyes—so many of them, each layered upon the other in impossible rings, watching, screaming in silence. The wings that did not flap but rather distorted space, their presence unraveling the fabric of reality. That body—a writhing paradox, neither physical nor spiritual, neither divine nor demonic, sothing else entirely.
It had been looking at them.
It had been aware.
And worst of all—it had shrunk.
It had condensed.
Sothing so vast, so utterly incomprehensible, had been forced into a mortal shell. A reality-defying thing had been compressed into the fra of a re human, sothing fragile and breakable. Sothing laughably small in comparison. And that fact alone...
That fact alone was more terrifying than the form itself.
Ezerald was pale. The unsettling, near-corpse-like paleness of soone who had just brushed against sothing they were never ant to see. She swallowed, her throat dry. Her lips parted, but for a mont, no sound ca out.
"I..." she exhaled, her breath unsteady. "...I couldn’t sense any mana from it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Her voice was quiet, like she was trying not to wake so monster still lurking in the shadows. "And yet... that thing radiated power. A presence unlike anything I’ve ever felt... sothing almost beyond even the Primordial Gods... and the Greater Dragons..."
Her body shuddered.
Her mind rebelled against the concept of what she had just seen. It did not fit. It did not belong. It was a mistake that had sohow been made real.
From beside them, Aegraxes finally spoke.
"Mikoto Yukio."
His tone was unreadable, his gaze did not waver, as if he were rely observing a natural phenonon. As if he had already known.
Beatrice’s head snapped toward him. "That was Mikoto Yukio!?" She barked out, her breath hitching. "That—that thing!? That wasn’t a transformation! That was sothing out of a nightmare!"
But Aegraxes rely continued, unshaken.
"It seems he has learned Arcane Ascendance. His body could not contain it, and so, for a brief mont, his true nature was revealed. That form... it was never ant to reside on this plane. Not here, not in the mortal realm, not in any reality comprehensible to us. It is sothing that belongs solely to the Plain of Elysium. A domain where only the Gods and the Greater Dragons may exist and the true forms of the Ancestors. And yet he was able to create a perfect shell to contain that power."
"...He’s that strong?" Beatrice finally managed.
"Indeed." Aegraxes’ voice was quiet. Almost thoughtful. "But it stands to reason... Mikoto Yukio was never just so ’random’ mortal chosen by Octavia. His soul, from the very beginning, was wrong."
A mont passed.
Ezerald frowned. Beatrice said nothing.
Aegraxes closed his eyes.
"His soul was always dimr. Smaller. It is a fragnt." The words lingered in the air, heavier than the weight of Beatrice’s missing arm. "There are at least eight of them," Aegraxes continued, "each scattered across the realms. The Navigator Gods, Iponder how I had not known sooner."
"The Navigator? Was he not killed by the Trickster Gods?" Ezerald questioned.
The na felt foreign on her tongue, distant, as if speaking it might invoke sothing they were not ant to understand. A part of her wished she had never asked.
Aegraxes responded with an unreadable smile, one that carried neither warmth nor mirth—just a quiet amusent that sent a shudder down Beatrice’s spine.
"It caused Octavia great grief," he murmured, the edges of his voice curling with sothing almost like mockery, but not quite. "She defied Death itself to reclaim her lover’s soul."
A mont of silence followed.
The sheer absurdity of that statent hung in the air.
To defy Death.
Not evade it. Not deceive it. Not bargain with it.
But defy it.
It was an act so fundantally impossible that even among the divine, even among the ancient beings who shaped the foundations of existence, it was unheard of.
Beatrice let out a slow, disbelieving exhale.
"That damned Goddess really is unhinged," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Her fingers twitched against the torn fabric of her blood-soaked dress, pressing unconsciously into the open wound where her arm used to be. "Who the hell thought it was possible to go against Death and actually win?"
Aegraxes continued as if she had not spoken.
"But it seems she was too late. The soul she recovered... it was broken. Fractured beyond repair. Mikoto Yukio is rely a fragnt of what was once whole." Aegraxes mused. "Octavia most likely placed Mikoto Yukio’s soul within another realm before tearing him to this one."
Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath, her throat tightening at the implications.
"Then..." She swallowed, her voice nearly lost. "That ans there are others?"
Aegraxes inclined his head slightly, his expression unchanging. "Most likely."
The words were simple, devoid of emotion.
"There are but seven realms in total," Aegraxes continued, "a fragnt of the Navigator’s soul is no doubt within each. Though I know not of the last fragnt."
Silence fell upon them again.
Beatrice clenched her jaw. Seven realms. Eight fragnts.
Mikoto Yukio was not alone.
But before the weight of that revelation could settle, Aegraxes continued, his voice dropping slightly, as if already considering the next move in a ga none of them had truly been playing.
"This Ascendance of Mikoto Yukio irks . If the Ancestor of Wisdom does not succeed in killing him..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Then we will have to forcibly transfer him to the realm closest."
"Transfer him?" Beatrice echoed.
Aegraxes nodded. "Yes. Along with the Knight and the Defier."
Ezerald’s brows furrowed slightly. She knew exactly what realm he was referring to before she even spoke the words.
"The realm the dragons reside in."
"Yes," Aegraxes confird without hesitation. His expression did not change, but there was sothing final in his tone. "In due ti, the two shall awaken and bring an end to those three. If not them, then little Alice might succeed."
That na.
"Alice?" Neither Beatrice nor Ezerald had ever heard that na before, but Aegraxes did not elaborate.
For the first ti, he let sothing remain unsaid. Instead, he rely let out a slow breath, closing his eyes. "For now, enough mana has accumulated. I shall begin the first calamity. I forfeit from this festival."
The words had barely left his lips when the air around them shifted.
A deep hum vibrated through the ground beneath their feet, followed by a sudden, blinding light as a white glyph spread out beneath Aegraxes’ feet.
Beatrice barely had ti to flinch before the monotone voice rang out.
"The contestant has forfeited and shall be withdrawn from the festival."
The light swallowed him.
For a fleeting mont, the entire area was bathed in a blinding white light, and when it faded—
He was gone, nothing remained, only the wind and the silence he had left behind.
Ezerald exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. "So this marks the beginning of this era’s end." Her words held no triumph, no satisfaction.
Only inevitability.
Beatrice glanced at her, sothing unreadable flashing in her tired red eyes. "You sound as though your heart isn’t in it."
Ezerald did not answer imdiately, when she finally spoke, her voice was honest.
"I would be lying if I said it was."
Beatrice did not react. She did not admonish her, nor did she press further.
She only listened.
"Unlike you, I did not have anyone in that era," Ezerald murmured. "My birth-givers died in so aningless squabble between a God and a Dragon. I was raised absentmindedly, but I never felt as though I fit in with our brethren."
There was no bitterness in her words. No resentnt. Just a hollow acceptance of what had always been.
Beatrice stared at her for a long mont before speaking. "Then why do you support Aegraxes?"
A faint chuckle escaped Ezerald’s lips—one that held no humor, only exhaustion. "I suppose... I wanted a goal." She paused, exhaling shakily. "I... I had no one. Yet here I am, aiming to wipe out billions in order to bring back my brethren I did not even care for." Her lips curled into sothing that wasn’t quite a smile. "Do you ever dwell on Dante’s words?"
Beatrice went still, for a long mont, she said nothing.
Then, finally—
"I would be lying if I said I wasn’t." She clicked her tongue, her fingers pressing more loosely against the bloody stump of her missing arm. "Our kind sought to abandon
just because of my nature. My decay—" her voice wavered, for just a second "—that was all I was good for. It was Arne who stood by my side, who accepted . I... I just want Arne back."
Her voice cracked.
"Hell, I don’t even care about exacting revenge on Mikoto Yukio. Everything would be fine if Arne was at my side once more."
Ezerald did not respond.
She only watched as her brethren trembled, as her breathing grew unsteady, as the blood-soaked ground beneath her deepened in color. And in that silence, as the wind carried away their words, she could not help but wonder—
Was what they were doing truly the right path?
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