“This doesn’t look like Overlord meditation,” he muttered. An arrow slammed into the wall, and this one caused the room to shake.
Eithan was leaning on the wall over him. “Even if she doesn’t technically advance, this could be a more valuable breakthrough. After all, we’re not Sages, are we?”
“Don’t blow smoke in my eyes.”
If Eithan had the resources to perform the Pure Storm Baptism and was insightful enough to give a Monarch advice while still an Underlord, he wouldn’t be stuck as a mere Archlord.
Meanwhile, Ziel was happy just having a healthy body and spirit.
Am I? he wondered.
It wasn’t that long ago since he had felt something else as he faced down the Titan. Some part of him still wanted more.
There were dream artists who performed mental therapy. He should find one of them. Too bad he didn’t have any Lord revelations left; he could have used a nice, cleansing personal revelation.
Yerin and Lindon were moving around the room, crushing hunger spirits with minimal madra expenditure. This was known as one of the deadliest locations in the world, where even Lords could be devoured, and they were treating it like a game squashing bugs.
“It’s too bad you don’t want to improve anymore,” Eithan said. He buffed fingernails against the front of his robes, which would have been more elegant if he wasn’t still covered in marks from his fight earlier.
“Yeah, too bad.”
“We’d love to have you along.”
That irritated Ziel into responding, which itself irritated him further. Not long ago, nothing would have bothered him.
“Why do you want me? We’re not friends. There’s no connection between us. Are you trying to get me in your debt? What is this?”
“Oh, did Lindon not tell you?”
Ziel remembered the uncomfortably intense stare of the Void Sage and had to focus on not shivering. “I will admit, I underestimated you all. You’re freaks, and I say that with true admiration. I salute you. But you’re all burning with ambition, and that fire went out of me years ago.”
Eithan nodded along with every word. “It did, and it left behind a pile of ashes. But I can’t help but look at those ashes and think, ‘What a blaze that must have been.’”
In spite of himself, Ziel rested a hand on the head of his hammer. He remembered commissioning this hammer. He had earned the metal himself, designed it, and worked closely with the Soulsmith. He had imagined all the grand deeds he would perform with the hammer.
That hammer had taken the lives of many Dreadgod cultists. He remembered the fury that had filled him. The grief, back when it was an empowering force instead of a blanket smothering him.
“It’s too late for me anyway,” Ziel muttered, and even he didn’t know where the words were coming from. “I don’t have what it takes to become a Sage.”
“How would you know?” Eithan shot back. “What are you, some kind of Sage?”
Ziel glared at him.
“Besides, if you can reach peak Archlord, you know what it takes to become a Herald? Brute force.”
“Brute force as in enough raw resources to choke a Monarch, but you left out the part where you need such a thorough understanding of your own spirit that you and your Remnant can work together.”
Ziel gave Eithan a smug look. “Don’t think that just because I’m young I haven’t done my research.”
Just as many sacred artists remained stuck at different stages in the Lord realm because they didn’t understand how to pass their revelations, many Archlords remained stuck because they had no one to teach them how to reach Herald.
Often, by the time they did find someone to tell them the truth, their spirits were twisted against them. Sometimes because of injury, or broken oaths, and sometimes because their spirits hated them.
Ziel would fall into that last category, he was certain.
Even if his soul was stable enough after the Pure Storm Baptism to advance its level of existence, his Remnant wouldn’t work with him. He was certain. He wouldn’t work with himself, and that was the same thing.
“You think I underestimated you?” Eithan asked curiously. “Quite the opposite. I think I’m estimating you much more highly than you are.”
He waved a hand. “But forget it, then. I can’t drag you up a hill toward a glorious future. Instead, why don’t you help me? There are some young people here who could use our worldly guidance.”
Ziel gave a humorless laugh. “What am I supposed to teach an Overlord Sage or history’s first Overlord Herald?”
“I always find it arrogant to assume we know everything that has happened in history, but let’s leave that aside. Neither of them are Archlords, and neither of them have ever led a sect before. I believe your input could be very valuable to them.”
Ziel grumbled inwardly about it, but he was curious to see what these young people could do with such a start.
They had a fire for advancement that burned even brighter than his once had. How far could that take them, if it wasn’t snuffed out?
He had to admit, he did want to see it.
The hunger aura was steadily eating away at the natural treasures Lindon had placed all around the room, and the focus of the labyrinth itself was on Lindon. The hunger madra attacks were growing more frequent.
While Ziel and Eithan were talking on the other side of the room, he and Yerin kept the hunger madra under control and watched Mercy.
“You think she’s creeping up on Overlord?” Yerin asked.
“I think so,” Lindon said, watching Mercy battle the echo of her mother. They had closed to melee combat now—which was strange to watch, as neither could truly touch the other—but this was something like a meditative state.
“I’ve felt it myself,” Lindon continued. “You’re working with the memories they left behind as much as anything. But it will respond to what you do, unlike a dream tablet. This should help her work out her own condition.”
Yerin fidgeted, pulling on her lock of red hair. Finally, she asked, “You catch a glimpse of my master in there?”
“Apologies,” Lindon said, in true regret. “I searched, but there are just too many. But I suspect he is there, if we can find him.”
“No, wipe it clean. Shouldn’t have asked.”
Below them, Mercy had frozen. The image of her mother continued attacking, but she looked as though she’d seen something in the distance.
The cycling of her madra reached a crescendo, and the aura in the room swirled around her.
“I am…” she began, “…not my mother.”
The aura didn’t react.
Mercy’s face fell. “I was sure that was it!”
A ghostly arrow passed through her body.
Yerin hopped down into the trench between Mercy and her mother, ignoring Malice’s attacks. “That was mine. Not my master. Wasn’t happy about it.”
“I thought I had it…” Mercy scuffed the ground with the butt of her staff.
“Never said you didn’t.” Yerin leaped over Mercy and landed on her other side, then grabbed the back of Mercy’s head and angled her to look at Malice’s face. “You’re not your mother, okay. Tell me what’s different.”