Chapter 433: Goodbye Rohan

Alright, I’ve mapped out the whole arc. Two chapters today, and then I’ll aim for one a day for as long as I can!

Quick note: I reworked the final fight against Léo. From your feedbacks, it just wasn’t epic enough for Kazuki, and the meta chance sacrifice felt underwhelming. That was intentional—to highlight the gap between Priam and Leo—but I didn’t want the Merit to come off as weak.

I’m posting the new version tomorrow, but here’s the gist:
Priam sacrifices his attribute for the Hydra’s massive mythical attack. To keep Léo from dodging, Kazuki tackles him head-on, losing half his leg in the process. Thanks to that, Priam manages to land the hit, and it blows Leo’s left hand apart.
Heavy blow, but not enough to win. Leo uses his Transcendence (mythic image fused with his body) to recreate a hand made of a mythic image. It’s not a real one, but it lets him finish the fight.

PS: Three days ago I took a chainsaw to my thumb (which partly explains the delay). Lost a few millimeters off the tip, but I’m fine. I'm teeling you this because en route for the hospital, I was thinking about Priam (and LitRPG in general). We often read that the MC takes an arrow or gets wounded, and shrug it off. But even a small injury can hurt like hell and be seriously disabling.

When I think about Priam dying nearly fifty times and having his organs and limbs ripped off… Let me tell you, he earned those resistance level-ups.

*

In the clamor of the forge, Priam felt at peace. His two hearts beat in time with the blows of a mighty hammer, the steady crashes sending tingles through his body like a form of ASMR. It was not a pleasure accessible to all as a pre-Tutorial human would have lost his eardrums in under a minute.

Sitting cross-legged against the blazing wall of a furnace, the Homo Elysian meditated. For the first time in a long while, nothing pressed upon him. Even the looming sextuple Tribulation failed to stir concern as he already had a countermeasure prepared thanks to Osiris. The foundations for Homo Elysium’s upgrade to Tier 3 were laid; all that remained was experimentation. Priam had several weeks ahead of him for that.

In parallel, when feeling bored, he would run the Colosseum and slay a few Terrors in Valaryth to stay in shape. Normal day for a Prince.

All of it served one purpose: to prepare for the ultimate trial: the Tier up. To baptize my soul with aether. I wonder what it will change.

A feeling rose within him, one Priam recognized as excitement. Ever the honest lover of magic, the young man cherished progress. For some warriors, approaching the Zenith meant becoming more powerful. For Kazuki, it meant uncovering deeper truths about the art of the spear. For Priam, it was both the defense of his freedom and the indulgence of his curiosity for the arcane. Exploring the mysteries of aether to elevate every facet of himself, that was his drive, the source of his iron will.

Skin pressed to scorching stone, he smiled. Moving forward on his path filled him with joy, and he was willing to do anything to take one step further. Almost anything, he corrected himself. Enslaving people the way Maxime had done with Esmée disgusted him. Fortunately, the young woman had returned from Proxima without a master. The geas still existed, but with the diadem in hand, he had no doubt she would eventually find a way to dissolve, or repurpose it. Judging from the radiant smile she had offered him upon her return, she seemed to think the same. A shame she’d had to leave so quickly to change…

“Someone wishes to see you.”

Darkness greeted Priam as he opened his eyes. His pupils widened to drink in the faint light produced by the molten metal simmering at the chamber’s center. The blacksmith, a balding elf, regularly plunged Promise into it for a reason Priam had yet to decipher.

“Can she enter?”

The craftsman raised a bushy eyebrow. “He. And I doubt he possesses a legendary resistance to heat.”

Priam grimaced as he stood. One more proof that he was becoming less and less human. As long as he more or less kept his appearance, it did not trouble him, but he had to remember that not everyone shared his constitution. One day, such an oversight could cost a loved one their life…

He opened the door to the shop’s backroom and closed it behind him. Feeling the colder air on his skin, he regretted leaving the heat. Before the Tutorial, Priam had been the sort of man who preferred summer to winter, spending the cold season buried under two blankets. He would only go outside to ski or ice-skate.

A voice pulled his attention as he was summoning a fire toga for himself.

“Priam.”

“Rohan.”

A heavy silence filled the room. How did one speak to someone whose father one had killed only hours earlier? With difficulty. Offering condolences would make him look like a hypocrite. Apologizing suffered the same flaw. In Priam’s view, Léo had deserved everything that had happened to him.

“Did you get it?”

“Pardon?”

“The Genesis Achievement for killing a Tier 4. Did you receive it?”

“Ah. No.”

Rohan smiled. “Good. People will claim you slew a Transcendent before even reaching Tier 1, but I will know the truth.”

Priam said nothing. In truth, the Aelbe was right: he had not killed Léo. Provoked his death, certainly. Slain him? No. The Tier 4 had been a monster capable of ignoring almost all his attacks. Only his pseudo-Mythic skill had truly harmed the enemy by severing a hand. A critical hit, to be sure, but far from enough to win. And even that had required sacrificing half his Meta Chance and Kazuki’s knee. The gap between the low and mid Tiers was real.

Priam knew he would eventually cross it.

“Are you here to avenge him?”

Rohan shook his head. “I can’t die now. My clansmen… I bear responsibilities toward the survivors. That’s actually why I’m here.” He lifted his shirt, and a light pulsed just below his navel. “I, Rohan Aelbe, swear by the Seven and my core that neither I nor any member of my clan shall undertake any act of vengeance, direct or indirect, against Priam Azura or Oasis concerning today’s defeat. Moreover, I hereby abandon any blood debt owed for the death of my father. May the System shatter my core and recycle my soul should I forswear this oath.”

An omnipotent presence descended for an instant, recording the vow.

“I hope that’s enough to earn your mercy.” A grimace tightened Rohan’s face. He did this for his clan, but the blow to his wounded pride would rob him of sleep tonight. “If you require anything else, tell me. My remaining Tier 3s are ready to suicide.”

“... That will not be necessary. What about Esmée?”

A shadow flashed across Rohan’s expression. “Upon dying, I unlocked… a resistance to addiction. Something to dull the love potion’s effect on my hormones. It helps. In a few months, this whole mess will have made me stronger. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing between us anymore. If there ever was.”

“Mmh.” As Rohan turned away, Priam stopped him. “If the potion’s effects gnaw at you too much, or take too long to fade… Well, it’s a bit dramatic, but the first Merit of [Genitaless] reads: Your brain is no longer slave to hormones. If you know what I mean…”

Hand on the door’s handle, Rohan sighed. “From another foe, I’d take that as a taunt, yet I suspect you’re not telling me to go get castrated for no reason. You know exactly what you’re talking about, right?”

Priam refused to admit it.

Without another word, Rohan stepped out. Before the door could close, another silhouette slipped inside. Thyvael, apprentice to the Demiurge, entered the shop.

“Master would see you,” he announced without so much as a smile.

“Good day to you too.”

“...”

The elves had not appreciated being strong-armed into accepting thousands of refugees. Apparently, it set an inconvenient precedent.

“Anyway.” Priam pointed behind him. “Can I wait for my spear to be repaired?”

“Not really.”

Priam faked a smile. “I’m still going to tell her I’ll be back.”

Thyvael arched a brow. “You intend… to speak to your spear?”

“She’s developing a nascent spirit. I’d rather not have her feel abandoned.”

“Good joke,” Thyvael replied, in the driest tone imaginable. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but a weapon does not communicate with words. If I ever saw someone talking to his spear, I would cross the street.”

“You own a weapon like that?”

“No.”

“Then your opinion doesn’t interest me.”

Three minutes later, Priam left the workshop after having reassured his spear. The two males crossed the city, weaving between hurried workers and aimless refugees.

On the outskirts lay a pond where a few fishing boats glided. A stone archipelago floated above it, the central island large enough to support a manor. One did not need to be an artist to draw the comparison with the Wandering Islands.

Leaping from stone to stone, Thyvael guided Priam toward the singular residence. Unlike the elven city’s Victorian architecture, this house resembled a Roman villa, but one that preferred to rise rather than spread.

“Classy,” Priam judged as he stepped onto a runic mosaic leading into the garden. There was no gate, no outer wall, and no need for them. The entirety of the inner world belonged to the Demiurge: no one came this far without his implicit permission.

“Mmh.” The remark mollified Thyvael. “Classic Old Empire style. Fondness for the past tends to grow with age, and as you can imagine, my master is quite the history enthusiast.”

“Did my disciple just call me old?”

An aura dropped over the garden, and Priam staggered as it pressed onto him like a mantle of lead.

“Master!”

“Demiurge Hekthorn,” Priam bowed. From this angle, he saw a pair of legs halt before him.

“You’re standing on the Emperor’s head.”

Priam lifted his foot and quickly stepped back. Indeed, his sole had been covering a blurred-out face. Only a crown and an imperious bearing confirmed the identity of the elf depicted.

“Why the censorship?” his mouth asked before his brain could decide whether it was his turn to speak.

“Upon ascending to Tier 7, a soul gains immortality by riding atop its Myth. Before Tier 8, the destruction of the former results in the destruction of the latter.”

“And after that?”

“The rules reverse.”

The implications were dizzying, but Priam focused on the near future. My choice of Mythic skill at Tier 1 isn’t just critical; it’s dangerous. Especially given who my Patron is.

Hekthorn’s voice snapped him back to the present. “I can feel your mind wandering as if the death of an Immortal had nothing to do with you.”

“Well… it was a long time ago.”

“The past shapes the present, and that one in particular has a real chance of ruining your future.”

Priam lifted his head to study the Demiurge. The ivory mask hid his features, but the violet eyes did not lie.

“I suppose I’ve got time for a history lesson.”

“I don’t; you’ll get a summary.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “At the end of the last multiversal war, the System shut down rifts, portals, gates, and every other passage so quickly that some of the Faith Pioneer’s forces ended up trapped here. Most were ganged up on by the various Elysium factions, but a few survivors slipped through the cracks. By misfortune, one fugitive Throne crossed paths with our race.”

“A Throne?”

“A Faith Immortal.”

“You mean a major god?”

Hekthorn sighed. “What do you know about gods?”

“Not much,” Priam admitted. “I met one at my first Reunion. A minor god named Viracocha who kindly awarded me a Title after I pissed on his statue. Later, returning to Elysium, I crossed paths with our mutual, dragon’s chew-toy acquaintance.”

“Impossible,” Thyvael murmured behind him.

“I’d love to prove you wrong, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The disciple shot his master a questioning look, and as the Demiurge stayed silent, he took it as approval to continue. “The System gave you a lucrative quest to kill a Fallen because the Seven want to eradicate the Faith Pioneer’s spies. Their last injection of fresh blood dates back to the last war, three hundred thousand years ago. After hunting them for so long—thirty times a minor god’s lifespan—how many can really still be around?”

“Put that way…” Priam narrowed his eyes. “The Seven orchestrated those encounters.”

“Of course, they did,” the Demiurge confirmed. “Now ask yourself something: what justifies raising and protecting thirty generations of enemy Tier 5s within their own universe?”

Unleashing his prodigious vivacity, Priam formed a hundred hypotheses in a second and spent the next second crushing them. One remained.

“If the Faith Path is a virus, then Viracocha and Sumstreh are vaccines, so certain chosen ones develop resistances. [Iconoclast]?” Priam didn’t wait for an answer and grimaced. “All of it was just prep work to face Faith Path adepts in the coming multiversal war. Fuck, I died like five times for this shit!”

“A Champion is tempered or he breaks,” the Demiurge quoted.

The Juggernaut shot him a dark look before remembering who he was talking to. “This Throne business ties into all that, right?”

“At least you’re not stupid.”

The Demiurge’s mask lit up, and Priam found himself in a gigantic spherical auditorium. Hundreds of lecterns floated in the air, each supporting a student. All orbited a professor delivering a lecture.

“The Faith Path splits into two categories. The gods, who harvest the faith of others, and the angels, who rise by praying to the Faith Pioneer. At first glance, the two seem similar, but nothing could be further from the truth. Where gods undergo High Tribulations, angels receive the equivalent of a Grace, a free baptism. For this reason, they have no chance of reaching Zenith. Nevertheless, one would be foolish to underestimate the borrowed power of a Tier 10.”

The memory threw Priam out as easily as it had swallowed him. The Juggernaut hadn’t managed to mount the slightest resistance.

“A Throne corresponds to the seventh rung of that celestial hierarchy, the equivalent of a Tier 7,” the Demiurge continued. “To put down that fanatic, my Queen’s father had to pay the ultimate price. His violent death fractured his inner world, giving birth to the Wandering Islands.”

The words hit Priam like a bomb. The island beneath Oasis stretched nearly a hundred kilometers by a hundred—roughly the size of Lebanon. And it was only one among thousands. Even the most conservative guesses placed the Immortal’s world on the scale of a continent. Perhaps even a small planet.

“What the Emperor hadn’t foreseen,” Hekthorn went on, unbothered by Priam’s shock, “is that the Throne’s death would scatter fragments of his cultivation everywhere. For three hundred thousand years, Faith Path adepts have been sneaking onto our territory to hunt down those wayward remnants. Sumstreh is merely the latest.”

“I’m guessing it’s some kind of tonic for them?”

“Like a Nirvana for a Phoenix.”

“I see.” Priam ran a hand through his incandescent hair. “If Sumstreh is hiding here, then some piece of that legacy must be nearby. The Seven want me to find it?”

A notification answered him.

Wandering Islands’ global Quest: A Throne Legacy

 After giving so much to the Traitor, the Seven seek to recoup their losses.
Locate the fragments of the Throne’s legacy.

Reward per fragment:
[Iconoclast] next Merit
Soul Veil - Faith affinity on ingestion

Difficulty: Variable

*

Jasmine - panther

Direct link to 434.