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Looking at a distant wall in the cave, Airen took a breath and began moving forward, indifferent to the dangers that awaited him. Reaching out, he placed his hand on the cold stone, channeling mana into it. The wall shimmered, slowly revealing a massive gate, carved with angelic figures watching over him in silence. Bracing his back against it, he pushed with all his might, straining every muscle to make it budge.
After nearly a minute, the gate finally shifted, sending him stumbling to the ground. He quickly rose, dusted himself off, and took a steadying breath. Beyond the gate lay a descending staircase, and, as he had before, he used the wall as his guide while moving down.
Golden light began to glow from below, casting long shadows on the path. When he reached the bottom, a vast mountain of treasure loomed before him—a shimmering pile of gold, weapons, armor, and ancient tomes, each item whispering promises of power and wealth.
Airen scanned the mound, taking it all in with a resigned expression. He placed his right hand on his left shoulder, steadying himself as he climbed. Gold and gems spilled to either side, their allure meaningless to him. He moved higher up the mound, eventually crawling on all fours, shoving aside the wealth as though it were rubble.
Near the top, something caught his eye—a worn, dark cape partially buried beneath coins. Digging around it, he tossed handfuls of gold aside, his fingers raw and bloodied from hidden blades and jagged edges. But he pressed on, single-minded in his search.
Finally, he stopped, his body drenched in sweat and his right arm bloodied. Before him, nestled amidst the gold, lay a small, fragile bottle. He lifted it carefully with both hands, raising it above his face. "Found you," he whispered, his voice low and rough. He removed the cap and drank half the potion, feeling its energy spread through him.
"A high-class mana potion," he muttered, glancing at his status. "If I drank the whole thing, I'd gain fifty mana points. But even now, my mana and health are weakened by this Bloodline Curse."
He paused, the weight of his curse settling over him. In his mind's eye, he saw it again—that dark hourglass with no bottom, sand slipping endlessly into a void. Each grain that fell was a piece of his soul, vanishing into nothingness. His time wasn't just running out; it was being erased.
"Normally, one point in mana should equal a hundred, but for me, it's only ten. My health too—ten points per stat. This curse… it says I have three years left, even though my evolution rejuvenated my body. Right now, I could survive without food or water for three months, and my lifespan might reach seventy years."
He drew a sharp breath, his voice barely a whisper. "But it's not my body the curse wants—it's my soul. As the sand falls, I'm being erased piece by piece. When the final grain falls… there won't be anything left. No reincarnation, no afterlife. Just… nothing."
Airen's voice broke, and he clenched his fists, anger flickering in his gaze. "I have to extend my time. But how? Godhood is out of reach without the right titles and achievements. I need a soul-type skill—but even the weakest ones are A-rank. And the last one found was over three hundred years ago."
He tightened his grip on his knees, frustration lining his face. "To even learn a skill, I need to level up. But with my curse, I need fifty percent more experience than others, and I only get half the experience from every kill."
Leaning his head against his knees, Airen felt the weight of the impossible path ahead of him. "Can I really do this?"
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"The Forgotten Name"
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After a brief moment of grief, Airen looked up at the ceiling of the cave and downed the last drops of potion. Stretching out his hand, he reached for a pouch at his left side, channeling mana to pull it toward him. He examined the small purple pouch, woven from dragon's hair, before sliding down the mountain of gold.
Bracing himself for impact, he landed, then set the money pouch on the ground in front of him. Standing behind it, he cast a spell toward the pile of treasure. A magenta light enveloped the entire hoard, guiding it into the pouch until the room was stripped bare. He knelt, picked up the pouch, and tucked it into his ring.
As before, he channeled mana to the wall, revealing a pathway to another room. This corridor was different, lined with red-flamed torches. Airen pressed forward until he reached the end, where a wall of rocks blocked his way. He reinforced his arm, giving the rock wall a test punch, then, raising an eyebrow in curiosity, cast the spell Shatter. The wall crumbled, revealing a domed chamber with three floors.
This time, the room wasn't filled with monsters or treasure. Instead, half-naked women were shackled by their necks to the walls. The dim torchlight cast their faces in shadow, the faint scent of damp stone and iron filling the air. Airen barely glanced at them as he made his way to the uppermost floor, his expression unreadable.
At the top, his gaze settled on one woman in particular—a figure with long, tangled purple hair. He crouched in front of her and cast Awake, allowing her to gradually regain consciousness. As her eyes fluttered open, she looked up to see a man with a striking build, black hair, and mismatched eyes.
"Hello, Tower Master," Airen said, his voice laced with something between mockery and bitterness.
"Who… who are you? How did you get in here?" she stammered, her voice weak and broken by coughs, her eyes full of confusion as she looked at this unfamiliar man.
Airen laughed—a genuine, almost wild laugh that echoed in the chamber. Wiping away a tear that slipped down his face, he said, "Did you really forget already?"
"What?" she replied, her brow furrowing. "Do I… know you? I don't recognize anyone like you."
"Haha… I suppose you really don't remember me. That stings a little, but it makes sense." He glanced at his reflection in the gleam of a chain on the wall, his mismatched eyes and dark hair. "My hair, my eyes, my entire self… so much has changed in these last few months." He paused, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I guess I should introduce myself in my former name."
The townspeople and guild members watching him from the town using the magic item were in shock. They had been trying for weeks to uncover his origins, and now, at last, his identity was about to be revealed. All eyes were on him.
Airen stepped back, placing his left hand behind him and bowing formally, his right hand over his heart. The woman straightened as best she could, trying to make sense of the man before her.
"I come from the most renowned family of mages on the continent," he began, his voice steady but edged with something cold.
"My father was the youngest to reach the rank of archmage at twenty-one, and our family was once celebrated for its talent and power.
"I am the fourth of six children. But I was never known for my strength.
To most, I am remembered only as the
Failure of the Archmage Family
The Talentless son
The Failed Magician.
"I am Allen Archmage, the fourth child of the Archmage family,"
he continued, voice hardening, "and the man you yourself condemned to banishment just over three months ago."
The woman's breath caught as she looked into his eyes, recognizing him at last. Alen—no, Allen—gave a faint, bitter smile.
"Does that answer your question, Tower Master?" he asked quietly.
"You look terrible."