Yang Qiu completely disregarded Hal's accusation and instead said with a smile, "No need for such extremities, my friends. Since I said this is a win-win situation, it is with reason. Just think about it; how many people get the chance to objectively observe their own inner demons without having their own mental state affected?"
"Are we supposed to thank you for this?!" Hal's face was almost turning purple.
"Of course," Yang Qiu's projection said matter-of-factly. "Is any one of you three content with the status quo and have no intention of pursuing the path of strength?"
This time, Hal refrained from cursing and simply kept his mouth shut. As a man, how could he admit to being content and not aspire for more?
"If you intend to pursue the path of strength, challenging the limits of your mental domain and confronting your own spiritual flaws is something inevitable," Yang Qiu's projection stated calmly. "I have never heard of someone unable to confront their own weaknesses and fears having the right to call themselves… strong."
Hal and Tuttle gritted their teeth and grimaced when they heard this.
Rex, on the other hand, showed a more wavering expression.
Lingering psychological scars of adults were undoubtedly rooted in their youth—youngsters were prone to making foolish mistakes that could lead to lifelong regrets and shame.
Many people would see their life trajectory change due to foolish choices they made in their youth. After learning from their mistakes, they still needed to spend decades, or even a lifetime, making amends for their youthful follies.
This strong aversion to one's past self wasn't something time would eliminate. Instead, it hid covertly within a person's soul, taking refuge in the deepest, untouched corners of their memory. When stimulated or experiencing déjà vu, these unsettling memories resurfaced, tearing open old wounds with great force.
Were it just an ordinary person, such persistent nightmares of the past might not be overly destructive and, at most, caused temporary bouts of melancholy. After all, the pressing responsibilities of everyday life were far more crucial than any dark history of the past.
However, for skilled professional fighters whose mental capacity was several times that of the average person, the problem became significant; in a world where magic rules existed and powerful mental capacity could directly affect reality, the mental breakdown of a skilled powerhouse could lead to a swift collapse of body and soul…
Rex, especially, was well aware of this. Back then, the potions he had painstakingly gathered could only allow him to maintain his clarity against the mental incursion from a higher-level power. When the effects waned, he struggled to control his mind's instability and came perilously close to a complete mental collapse. Were it not for Yang Qiu's intervention and pulling him into the imprint matrix, Rex would have long turned into a mutated monster roaming the depths of the Sorensen Mountains.
"Of course, that doesn't mean I'll force you guys to do anything. The choice remains yours," Yang Qiu's projection continued with a slight smile. "The 'demon' standing in the way of your pursuit for strength is right there, and the ones who have to challenge them are our undead friends, not you.
"You can have tea, chat, or nap if you are tired, just as if you are passing an ordinary, peaceful night. Or you can attempt to gaze at your own shadow. The choice is entirely up to you."
Having said that, Yang Qiu activated the "Void Realm" set up beneath Exile Town's Town Hall, dispelled his projection, and left the place to the three men.
As the projection disappeared, the night sky outside the window seemed to be tainted with red blood, and crimson threads of light started flickering.
Hal and Tuttle exchanged grim glances…
No matter how flowery Yang Qiu had made it sound, at the end of the day, their secrets were being unveiled to those damn undead without any reservations!
Very quickly, the three of them experienced a brief bout of dizziness. It was a fleeting sensation that lasted less than half a second, something they might not have noticed if they hadn't been so tensed up.
"Has it started…" Hal looked out of the window, his face pallid.
Previously, when Yang had summoned this ominous aura of the void that shrouded the town, he hadn't thought that this had anything to do with him.
This time, Hal felt a vague sense of connection. The blood-red darkness, which made people instinctively fearful, somehow gave him an eerie sense of familiarity!
When he gazed into the blood-tinged darkness, Hal even sensed something vaguely connecting to him, lurking in the shadows!
"It's started."
———
At Third Street, in front of the empty wooden house with a cellar, players in their formed-up teams encouraged each other and bravely entered.
Within the pitch-dark house, a bizarre giant corpse centipede monster stared at the players with dozens of its malevolent eyes.
Inside the Town Hall, a familiar sense of weariness came over Hal, and he quickly grabbed the back of the nearby chair.
"Hal?" Tuttle quickly helped him.
"It's happening again…" Hal gritted his teeth, gripping the armrest and slowly sitting down.
Rex watched him silently.
When the town had first been enveloped by the aura of the void half a month prior, Rex had also felt the sense of weariness too, but there wasn't much reaction because he had been in bed, sleeping. He thought it was just some physical discomfort and didn't pay much attention to it.
So, had that been the undead entering his "altered mental domain" that had been constructed by Yang?
Rex couldn't help but facepalm.
He was curious about what the undead saw, but at the same time, he didn't wish to know… It was just too embarrassing!
Hal, who had just regained his composure, was probably feeling the same way as Rex. After struggling within himself for a long time, curiosity ultimately overcame his resistance and his gaze slowly shifted downward to his shadow.
A large oil lamp hanging on the wall provided plenty of light in the room. Under the lamplight, Hal noticed that his shadow was somewhat fainter than the shadow of the chair he was seated on.
Hal couldn't help but recall what Finley had said half a month ago, about his and Tuttle's shadows being strange…
Gritting his teeth, Hal stared intently at his strangely faint shadow.
Suddenly, his vision started to overlap. The surrounding environment seemed to lose its sense of reality, and Hal's mind and will seemed to be dragged into this familiar yet strange overlapping of shadows.
Before his eyes, two overlapping images appeared.
These were two highly similar images, featuring a desolate, eerie forest, and a thin youth dragging a body bag through the thick layer of fallen leaves on the ground…
"ARGHH—!!"
Hal roared, lifting his head and staring fixedly at the ceiling. Veins bulge on his forehead, temples, neck, and arms as his body convulsed violently.
"Hal?!" Tuttle got a huge shock and immediately rushed over to hold him down.
Hal's eyes remained fixed on the ceiling while his body trembled all over. His face twisted further with fear, and his eyes turned bloodshot.
"Damn it! Hal?!" Tuttle panicked and slapped Hal's face continuously. "Snap out of it! Look at me, Hal! Can you hear me?!"
"Calm down…" Rex reached out to stop Tuttle. "He's not losing control; he's just frightened."
"What nonsense are you talking about? How could Hal be frightened to the point he's like this?!" Tuttle said angrily.
Rex didn't get upset and said calmly, "Hal might not even truly understand himself, so how can you possibly know him better than he does?"
Tuttle looked puzzled for a moment.
Rex pulled up a chair and sighed. "People can never truly understand themselves… Except for the memories etched deep in their souls, most people tend to romanticize the wrongdoings they've committed in the past and make excuses for their former selves because… they wouldn't be able to go on if they didn't.
"But, this power of escapism belongs only to ordinary folk. People like us, who believe in the power of themselves, pursuing the path of strength, are bound to confront their own… inability to conquer themselves. If you can't even defeat your own weaknesses, how can you talk about the path of strength?"
Tuttle fell silent and, after a moment, let go of Hal and sat down opposite him.
In this world of extraordinary individuals, spellcasters were the group most prone to losing control. Every few years, there would be news of a renowned mage falling.
The reason? Magic was toxic.
The abundant magic in this world originated from the "whale fall" of the elder gods. [TL note: Whale fall is a phenomenon where the carcass of a dead whale begins to sink, finally hitting the ocean floor where it can nourish an entire ecosystem of deep-sea creatures. In this instance, it probably symbolizes the death of an elder god imbuing magic into the world.]
No matter how cautious a spellcaster that dabbled with magic all year round was, there would come a day when they lose control and tumble.
Were other extraordinary individuals safe?
Not at all.
Even ascetics of a faith could lose control and experience mind instability due to wavering faith; ascetics required the assistance of sealed artifacts to advance. All faiths strived to acquire power and wealth through various means while seeking theocracy, with a goal of efficiently collecting and safeguarding sealed artifacts.
Individuals like the trio, who came to be called professionals because of their bodily ability, possessed a certain level of talent in the initial stages. With incessant honing, they, too, could obtain power surpassing ordinary people and gain a certain degree of status.
However, to progress further, they had to touch upon the forbidden zone of the mind—for example, class progression.
Tuttle, despite calling himself a ranger, hadn't actually completed his ranger advancement… He simply had some natural talent with bows and arrows.
Hal wasn't an actual assassin—he had also never crossed that "threshold."
Rex was the only one who had crossed this "threshold," and his power was fundamentally different from theirs. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to make the former bandits, who were so difficult to control, cooperate peacefully with him.
Hal, leaning back in the high-backed chair, didn't seem to react to Rex's words, but after a while, he turned his head slightly and took a long look at Rex.
Rex remained silent and calmly maintained eye contact.
Hal's face twitched and he struggled to sit up straight. With hands gripping the armrests tightly, he lowered his head and looked at his own shadow once more.
At first, Tuttle wanted to intervene but thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.
In the view of outsiders, Hal had many flaws. But to Tuttle, he was willing to follow Hal because he admired the latter's qualities, such as dogged determination and never admitting defeat.
Although Rex meant well, the tone he used, implying he had experienced such a thing before, was annoying. He was merely a kid, so who was he to lecture others?!
Hal was clearly defiant. He was naturally a confrontational person and definitely couldn't stand a young kid, nearly ten years younger, saying to him, "I can, and you can't!"
Hal, who never admitted defeat, saw an absurd scene through his shadow this time—
In that remote forest, which had long been buried in his mind and forgotten, Jim… crawled out of the body bag!
Jim, who had risen from hell to seek revenge, had Hal's uncle, Harlington Maxwell, growing out of his chest!
And on Uncle Harlington's body sprouted Olive's top half!
"Aaaaaahhhhh!!"
Hal let out a gut-wrenching scream, his body convulsing violently once again. He scratched the armrest so hard it drew blood, though he wasn't aware of it.
Even in such a miserable state, Hal didn't pull his gaze away. He stared in fear at his shadow, watching the scene that was somewhat fuzzy yet could awaken the deepest memories of his soul. The world before his eyes gradually seemed to be shrouded in blood…
Jim was his good friend.
The Maxwell family had once offended a count belonging to the Kenyan Empire's industrial nouveau riche. In the span of six months, both Hal's father and uncle went bankrupt, and he went from being the spoiled young master of the family to a street urchin who wasn't even allowed to enter the school gates.
During his time of despair and helplessness, Jim, a boy who had grown up on the streets, had pulled him up.
Jim brought Hal to join the local street gang, where they received protection while taking on odd jobs to earn some money.
Having grown up on the streets himself, Jim taught Hal the rules of street survival—who not to mess with, where to get a free lunch, which restaurant discarded expired food that was still edible, and more…
One day, in a local bar where street kids frequented, Jim was killed.
The killer was the leader of their street gang, and the reason for killing Jim was that Jim had wanted to bring along Hal and the other youngsters, who hadn't yet become deeply involved in criminal activities, to work at the factory with him.
That was a large local factory, with a strong workers' union and excellent pay. It was always a cutthroat competition whenever the factory recruited workers. Jim had managed to secure this opportunity by sucking up to a union manager.
The gang leader knew Jim was like a brother to Hal and forced him to make a choice. Either live as an accomplice in Jim's murder or be buried alongside Jim, the audacious kid who dared to leave the organization.
Hal had no choice. He buried his conscience, together with his beloved friend Jim, in this remote forest.
Hal let out a miserable wail while sobbing as he watched Jim transform into a monstrous entity. It was as if his very soul was being ripped apart by invisible hands.
Hal had reckoned he had long forgotten the agony of his soul and heart being torn apart. But, in truth, that pain had always been hidden deep within his soul, and he had only pretended not to see it.
Something slid down his cheek, dripping onto his knee.
When Hal was 20 years old, Uncle Harlington, who had taken him in, had finally saved up a small fortune. Uncle Harlington knew that they would all be in trouble if Hal dared leave the gang. Thus, he secretly sold the entire family's possessions, bought train tickets, and fled south with his family and Hal one night.
At first, they lived quite well in a southern city of the Kenyan Empire. Hal and his uncle ran a small business together, and Hal's younger cousin found a technical school to attend.
But, before long, the young, hot-tempered, and belligerent Hal found trouble…
He was strong, fit, and could fight, so he was fine. However, Uncle Harlington was implicated and was struck by a pole during a beating and eventually died.
Hal didn't dare face his aunt and cousin and thus ran away.
Hal slid off the chair onto the floor.
He couldn't scream anymore, and no sound came out even though his mouth was half-open.
His mind, body, and soul had been ripped into countless pieces.
Olive, the warm and lively southern woman.
She wasn't from the Kenyan Empire but had come to the Kenyan Empire with her family to escape war in her homeland.
The northern part of the Kenyan Empire was home to industry and trade, while the south was mainly filled with plantations, estates, and scattered handcraft businesses.
Olive, a foreigner, couldn't find good work in the southern city. After being dismissed as a maid by a merchant, she sold flowers, fruit juice, and eventually ended up as a streetwalker.
The burdens of life didn't break Olive. In their old apartment building, where many people lived together, Hal could always hear her laughter through the thin wooden walls.
When Hal had just joined the local gang, he fell for the cheerful Olive, but he was too unsettled to express his feelings.
One night, as Hal and his comrades sneaked into a grocery store to steal, he saw Olive being taken into an underground inn by two drunken men from across the street.
As the lookout that night, Hal could only silently watch this scene.
After that, he never heard that southern woman's laughter ever again.
It was a long time before he heard from local gang members that one of the two men who had bought Olive that night was a notorious slave trader.
Hal didn't have a chance to express his affection for Olive. In his memory, his interactions with Olive were limited to short greetings in the hallway like, "Morning, heading out?"
He had personally witnessed the woman he admired slide into hell that night. And he hadn't done anything.
These memories, which he thought were long forgotten, surged through his mind.
Even when the monstrous amalgamation of Jim, Uncle Harlington, and Olive killed all the undead and the vision disappeared and he couldn't see anything anymore, Hal refused to stop.
He curled up tightly, clutching his chest.
It hurt so much…
Someone's hands went under his armpits and lifted Hal back onto the chair.
Hal wearily raised his eyelids and realized… It was Rex.
There wasn't any sympathy in Rex's detestable face, and this made Hal feel slightly better.
Tuttle hadn't helped him because he was currently slumped in the high-backed chair next to Hal, head tilted back and hands covering his face.
Hal glanced at Tuttle's shadow and realized that it was fainter too.
Among the three of them, only Rex's hadn't changed.
Hal wanted to say something but, in the end, said nothing. He shut his eyes and let himself slump.
…Is this my fear? So what I'm afraid of are the mistakes I have made in the past, huh. I've never conquered myself—I've just been running away, Hal silently contemplated and felt somewhat disheartened.
Recalling his past left him even more mentally exhausted than the tiring times when he struggled to maintain their livelihood in the Sorensen Mountains.
With a sidelong glance, he noticed Rex sitting in a silent daze. Hal, who rarely initiated a conversation with this young man he usually avoided, decided to ask, "Charlie, what did it feel like when you crossed the 'threshold'?"
Rex seemed surprised that Hal was willing to talk to him after revealing such a miserable side of himself. He pondered for a moment and replied earnestly, "Lowly, insignificant, superfluous… The force that flowed into me when I advanced made me question if my living truly held any value."
Hal's lips twitched… This reply didn't offer him any insight.
"What about your fear, your 'warped mental domain' that Yang manifested… What is it?" Hal asked again.
"I don't know," Rex said with a bitter smile. "It's difficult for people to objectively understand themselves, and I'm no exception. I'm waiting for… the undead to enter my 'mental domain.'"
Hal gazed at Rex for a few seconds and suddenly realized that this fellow wasn't so annoying after all.
———
Weisshem.
Yang Qiu briefly checked on the contributors for the Exile Town dungeon instances and, seeing no issue, continued with his daily meditation.
In the past couple of days, he had spent more time in OtherWorld than on Earth and, consequently, mediated more frequently.
And the frequency of his meditation naturally drew the attention of Inspector Lowell.
Lowell, who was lying down, immediately opened his eyes when he sensed the active magic.
While ascetics didn't use magic, their powerful mental strength also made them extremely sensitive to magic. Before the more extensive commercial activities and the increased flow of trade brought about by the Age of Discovery, the relationship between the mage towers and the churches wasn't as peaceful as it was now, and spellcasters and ascetics were often at odds for the sake of acquiring materials for spells.
Lowell quietly got up from his bed, walked to the door, and opened it.
In the hall, Yang was once again meditating, and abundant, active magic filled the entire room.
Lowell frowned, his expression growing more solemn.
If he remembered correctly, Yang had meditated just before dinner.
This universal technique—focusing the mind to open up one's perception and quickly absorb magic factors—was also known to the various faiths. Just that ascetics didn't use it for absorbing magic; they employed it for prayer and receiving divine blessings.
But regardless of whether it was absorbing magic or accepting divine faith, both couldn't be done with frequency and intensity. There was a risk for spellcasters to have their minds corrupted by magic, while ascetics might lose themselves to the influence of divine power.
Too much of a good thing could lead to trouble; the sun might be pleasant, but too much exposure could be problematic.
Based on his observations of Yang during this period, Lowell didn't believe Yang was a crazed person blindly and recklessly seeking power.
If this isn't taking an immense risk… Does that mean he has absolute confidence he won't lose himself to magic or power unless?
The puzzled Inspector Lowell was now fully awake. He stepped into the hall and took a seat on the couch across from Yang.
About half an hour later, Yang Qiu concluded his mediation and gave Inspector Lowell a nod.
Inspector Lowell nodded back to return the greeting. Sensing the overflowing and potent magic in Yang's aura, he asked with furrowed brows, "Forgive my bold assumption, Yang, but are you preparing to advance to Archmage?"
"Yes," Yang Qiu admitted. "Our undead friends are already outcasts in this world, and now Taranthan has many more people in need of shelter. As their lord, I have to make as much self-progress as possible to be prepared for any situation."
Lowell's frown deepened, and he expressed his disagreement, "Forgive me for being frank, but your experiences over these past decades don't seem like the sort of personal growth needed for advancement."
A professional-level advancement would require at least several years of preparation. Something like advancing to an Archmage would at least require decades; a couple of years ago, Lowell had heard rumors of the Radiant Sun Church suffering significant casualties in an attempt to trap the Nightmare Butcher somewhere and thus didn't view Yang's hastiness favorably.
Yang Qiu smiled and posted a question, "Revered Inspector, what do you reckon is the essence of power?"
"Force. Violence," Inspector Lowell asserted without hesitation.
A regular acolyte might give a lengthy and idealistic explanation, but at Inspector Lowell's, such embellishments were unnecessary.
"Yes, the essence of power is force and violence." Yang Qiu maintained his calm smile. "But for me, power is a baseline for self-defense, maintaining basic justice and order, rather than a tool for aggression against others.
"I've never abused my power for personal gain, so I don't worry about losing myself to power."