Chapter 386
Adulation (V)
He was always a sickly boy, as far as he could rember. His first mory, in fact, was of being yelled at by his father because he got sick again and they had to spend a lot of money on dicine. Early life was a fleeting haze of pain and agony, which he mostly spent bedridden and envious of others. Hed often peek through the solitary window he had in the room at the nearby courtyard where kids his age would swing wooden swords at one another, rancorous laughter often being the lody of the day.
He tried it, in secret, a few tis to swing the sword himselfbut he couldnt. His body would give in and he would keel over in pain, only to be found by his attendants who cursed him out under their breaths. When was the first ti he thought about dying? He remberedhe was eleven. His older sister ca for a visit with her husband for the first ti after wedding, and his father ordered him to attend the eting despite being ill of health.
Though he couldnt recall much, he did recall feeling faint as they brought out the als and passing out soon after, waking up to the roaring anger of his father and his mother who was shielding his sickly body with her own. His father, blind in rage, broke his mothers arm that day and nearly killed him, barely restrained by his uncles.
Watching his mother cry in pain, he wanted to make that pain go awayand he rembered thinking that the pain would go away if he hadnt been there to cause it. Such thinking wouldnt go away, not for a long, long ti.
His first attempt ca when he turned sixteenafter a rather vicious beating dolled out by his drunken father, he went to the nearby river and tried to drown. However, a random pair of passersby saved him and brought him back howhich simply earned him a few more beatings. He thought he would spend the rest of his life as such until, one day, he beca courageous enough to shove a sword through his throat and end it all.
The worst ca soon after, howeverin a war between two provinces, his older sister and brother-in-law, alongside their two children, all died. His mother, laden with grief, poisoned herself shortly after, leaving him alone with his fathera man who lost all reason, and in a delirious attempt to anchor himself to so reality, blad it all on the seventeen-year-old boy.
He blad the war, the deaths, everything on himand beatings continued to grow worse and worse until, one day, his father shattered his spine and paralyzed him from waist down. By then, he was numbnumb to it all. The pain. The suffering. The hollowness in his chest, the void that kept growing. He didnt hate his fatherhe felt nothing.
For all the while, he figured his death would likely co at the hands of the man who fathered himbut, after becoming paralyzed, he hardly saw the old man again. Instead, he was rarely to be found in the house, often spending weeks in brothels and gambling dens, wasting away every last pine of gold that their family had until they were forced to sell their ho. He, naturally, didnt get even a copper coin of it, and was thrown out on the street.
So of his forr attendants took pity on him and took him in, intermittently letting him stay with their families. He was a hollow shell of a man, a puppet more so than a living being, but even in such state he felt the twain in his heart.
On the 88th of Makva, donned as the Year of the Miracles, the skies cried like wardrums and the world shook, as though it was coming to an end. re monts later, spread across the world, seven massive towers appeared, donned in unknown stone and oozing the kind of mysticism that was an ancient legend by that point.
One by one, folk began entering the towers and leaving them with strange, magical powersso could shoot fire from their fingertips, others could leap as far as half a mile in a single step, others yet could cleave boulders with swords. And, perhaps most importantly, those who went in sick ca out whole.
He didnt have any hopeshed already resigned himself to a life as a cripple and yet, he couldnt ignore the whisper in his soul, the seductive voice of a debauchers inviting him. And so, one day, with a help of a few people, he entered the tower and beca a Conqueror.
His life turned upside down over nighthe could walk again, and he felt the kind of strength he only read about in the old legends. He could lift large boulders over his head, could take a sword to his gut and survive, and could run for what felt like an eternity without growing tired. All his ills seed to have been overturned in a single night.
It didnt take him long to track his fatherthe old man was still alive, spending days in a drunken haze by begging for a few coins that he would use on booze and whores. In fact, the old man didnt even recognize himsimply extending his arms and begging for a few coins. He gave him a few and then killed him. He felt nothing, still, watching the wretched, smile-laden head roll through the dirt, reddening it with blood. But even if he felt nothing he had to close that chapter of his life, for a new one was beginning.
It didnt take him long to rise through the rankshe was talented, smart, and beyond hardworking. While others were still adjusting themselves to the reality of being able to use magic or the reality of monsters, he was clearing floors one after another. He thought himself invinciblebut he wasnt. Nobody was. Eventually, he hit a walla wall he couldnt destroy by himself. He tried, for many years at that, but he realized it was pointless. So, like all others, he ford a group. And they moved forward.
Floor by floor, their conquest continuedand his growth was indisputable. During his Second Awakening, he got a Heroic Class, growing two more arms on his back, becoming the most brilliant Soul-Splitter the Tower had seen. Each one of his weapons was a legendary item that could buy a Kingdom on its own, and he was unmatched. Nobody could stand up to him.
He eventually even found his way to the Primal World where, after a bit of struggle, he reached the zenith of itthe Third Awakening, and he awoke as another Heroic sub-class of the Soul-SplitterReaper. Hed beco Death, the one thing that he once desired and feared the most.
But even with all his achievents his world hit a wall. 77th Floorno matter what they did, they were unable to defeat the Guardian. Everyone, him included, stagnated. First they tried it with just him being the thrice-Awakenedthen with another one, then with another eventually, they managed to form a raid with 10 thrice-Awakened, but they were still beaten. He wasnt discouragedhe was still the strongest, after all. He was inching ever closer to another barrier, he felt, and should he ever pass it they would pass the 88th floor.
He thought the trip to the strange world would simply be a formality, sothing he would use to warm up for the future. After all, he was the strongest. The fastest. The smartest. He had risen from the ashes of hell and rose to the top. He was the star, and he would always be one. Until he t that man floating in front of him.
Ordinary-looking, aged, eyes hollow of greed and ambition. A Mage who was not a Mage. A twice-Awakened boy who was a monster of a man. Had it not been for the strange woman, even his soul would have been wiped from the existence. He used his strongest skill, skill he had never used beforefor the cost was too much to bearbut it was for naught. He would have lost, he knew the mont the man spawned the star. It was a starperhaps not the fully-ford one, but even an infant star was still a star.
No matter how strong he was, he could not withstand a starnobody could, not in the Towers anyway. A feeling of deep awe and reverence was thus bornfor the man in front of him was not just a man, not just a Conqueror. He was soone from an infant world who could defeat him--a feat that seed impossible just a day ago. And yet, it was the reality.
Staring at the slightly tired face of a man who cant be older than fifty was... strange. Hvanel had never felt anything like this--not when he was a sickly boy, not when he was given the second chance, not when he beca the shining star of his world. It was a feeling that couldnt truly be put to words, for it wasnt a singular one--but rather a combination of many things that resulted in that singular mont. Perhaps a bard could untie his heart and find the words, but he was no bard--he was a brute who only knew his blade. And today, his blade failed him. That was when the woman broke the silence at last.
Now, her voice was soft and lodic as she turned toward the young man. That was a bit dangerous, wasnt it?
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