A/N: due to some personal problems i was unable to write, because of so i deeply apologise. But expect this to happen again.
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The hours crept by, and the fifth trial concluded. The children who finished early began their preparations for the next ordeal.
Some knelt in prayer, whispering fervent appeals to gods who may or may not be listening. Others focused on physical exercises—push-ups, stretches, and quick bursts of sparring to refine their combat readiness. The best among them squared off in serious practice bouts, testing each other's limits and gaining what little experience they could in the brief respite.
Amidst this flurry of activity, one figure remained conspicuously still. Asmodeus sat cross-legged in the center of the arena, his surroundings barren of any life save for the faint hum of concentrated mana. His eyes were closed, his expression serene. To the untrained eye, he appeared to be doing absolutely nothing.
Some of the children sneered, whispering about his supposed arrogance. "He's grown too full of himself," one said, shaking his head. Others pitied him, assuming his inactivity was born of fatigue or overconfidence.
But Dreamer knew better.
Sitting atop his golden throne, Dreamer's piercing green eyes narrowed as he studied the boy. Though Asmodeus looked peaceful, Dreamer could sense the storm of thought beneath the surface—a maelstrom so vast and intricate it was almost incomprehensible.
Asmodeus wasn't idle. He was thinking.
No, thinking was an insult to what was truly happening. Asmodeus's mind operated faster than the most advanced supercomputers, faster even than the processing speed of an A-ranker. The sheer intensity of his thought process forced his body to draw on dormant energy reserves buried deep within his core just to sustain the strain.
This phenomenon, imperceptible to anyone else, was painfully obvious to Dreamer. After all, the boy was operating within Dreamer's pseudo-domain—a space tied intimately to the mind. Here, Dreamer could sense every fluctuation of thought, every ripple of cognition.
And what he sensed from Asmodeus was enough to shatter him.
Dreamer leaned back in his ornate chair, a hand brushing through his unkempt hair. His usual composure was gone. The messy strands and dark circles under his eyes gave him the appearance of a madman—a reflection, perhaps, of his current state of mind.
The gilded opulence of his room did nothing to ease the weight of the revelation pressing down on him. The paintings of legendary battles, the silken drapes that shimmered with enchantments—all of it felt meaningless now.
He muttered to himself, his voice tinged with despair. "So this is it. This is my limit."
His thoughts wandered back to a cryptic warning from one of the cult's elders years ago:
> "Dreamer, your potential ends at the peak of B-rank. You'll never ascend to A-rank."
At the time, Dreamer had dismissed the elder's words as riddles or veiled insults. He was confident that with enough effort, he would break through. After all, he was a man who knew both his strengths and his weaknesses.
He had planned meticulously, even considering extreme measures like buying time-acceleration formations to train for centuries within days. Yet now, in the presence of Asmodeus's mind, the truth became undeniable.
The elder hadn't been wrong.
To reach A-rank required perfect harmony between the body, mind, and soul. Dreamer, despite his brilliance, was fundamentally flawed in two of these aspects.
His mind was sharp but fractured—a labyrinth of treacherous thoughts and schemes. To ascend, he would need to either embrace his true nature as a manipulative snake or undergo a fundamental transformation of his very psyche. The first option would alienate even the cult that tolerated his cunning, while the second was a monumental task beyond his capabilities.
His soul, meanwhile, was damaged. Dreamer had pushed himself beyond his natural limits too many times, forcing his body to burn fragments of his soul to compensate. Each sacrifice had granted him temporary power but at the cost of his lifespan.
Most B-rank cultivators enjoyed lifespans of up to ten thousand years. Dreamer, however, had barely a fraction of that remaining. Worse still, A-rankers were effectively immortal, their lifespans unbounded.
The irony was bitter. Dreamer had chosen a cultivation method designed for rapid advancement—a method gifted by the God of Battle to arm humanity against invaders and demons. But the price of this method was steep: it sacrificed longevity for power.
Now, with his shortened lifespan and fractured mind, Dreamer realized the futility of his ambitions.
Dreamer's moment of clarity hadn't come on its own. It was Asmodeus.
By observing the boy's brain activity, Dreamer had inadvertently unlocked a new level of understanding about himself. He could now sense his soul—a sensation he hadn't been certain existed until this moment.
This newfound awareness would have been cause for celebration under different circumstances. Instead, it plunged him into despair.
"Why?" he muttered, slumping further into his chair. "Why am I even alive? To become fertilizer for the cult leader's garden?"
He chuckled darkly at his own morbid humor but quickly straightened as the clock ticked closer to the next trial. With a snap of his fingers, his disheveled appearance vanished, replaced by the enigmatic, commanding persona the children knew so well.
His mask floated to his face, fastening itself effortlessly.
Dreamer's gaze returned to the boy in the arena. He studied him intently, the faint fluctuations of mana and thought still radiating like waves from Asmodeus's form.
"What kind of thoughts," Dreamer mused aloud, "could enlighten me just by their presence?"
The question lingered in the air, unanswered.
Asmodeus remained motionless, his mind a fortress of impenetrable calculation. Around him, the other children continued their preparations, oblivious to the profound impact he had already had on Dreamer.