Chapter 808: The Advent of an Ascendant (3)
It all began with a trivial coincidence.
“The Guido Cult?”
“They say it’s where they worship effective gods. Why don’t you try attending a service?”
In a harsh world where one couldn’t survive without relying on something.
He knew he had acquaintances who turned to religion, but he was always skeptical of worshipping anything. If you had a goal, shouldn’t you achieve it yourself, and not rely on luck?
He had been dragged by his acquaintances to pray once, but none of his wishes came true. Instead, he merely began to see inexplicable illusions.
“Damn it, I shouldn’t have gone.”
Rubbing his eyes and regretting it did nothing; the illusion wouldn’t disappear.
The back of a man, punching a massive cliff. With each punch, the colossal, seemingly endless cliff trembled and swayed slightly.
At first, he thought he was possessed or had taken the wrong medication, but he was certain now. The Guido Cult had undoubtedly implanted a bizarre hallucination in his mind.
He sought out shamans, paid exorcists to work on him, but it never vanished.
Frustrated, he nevertheless soon began to develop an interest in the man within the illusion.
“…There’s something strange about this feeling.”
Because every time he watched the man punch the cliff, a peculiar tingling sensation spread through his chest.
His hand, idly watching the man, unconsciously moved.
“…Is this how you do it?”
The man’s punches were slow yet ponderous enough that even he, a complete novice in pugilism, could easily follow along.
Every time he extended his fist, mimicking the movements as if enchanted, he felt something stir deep within his gut.
Like a machine that continued to run even after exhausting its allotted fuel.
Like a beast scraping the bottom of its strength to pull itself beyond its limits.
That was how he first realized the existence of mana and became a superhuman.
“This duel goes to ■■■■!”
A life where status and position were determined from the moment of birth. The only way to rise was to flaunt talent superior to others.
And the punches revealed by the illusion became a new means for him.
“…”
From that moment on, he no longer complained about the illusion before his eyes. He simply devoted himself to honing his own strength, as if repenting for his past laziness.
He had a talent for changing his life with his fists, to such an extent that he wondered why he hadn’t discovered it sooner.
“Winner, ■■■■!!!”
“Victory!!”
“A complete victory for ■■■■!”
He didn’t serve anyone as a master or seek their tutelage. Only the man in the intermittently appearing illusion served as his textbook.
But no matter how much time passed or how much he grew, the illusion remained unchanged.
The man continued to punch below the endless cliff, as if praying and wishing. He even watched, hoping he might be able to converse with him, but nothing changed.
Just when he felt he had nothing more to learn from the man.
The illusion that had tormented him for so long vanished as if it had never been.
“…”
What, then, was that illusion? While the illusion, constantly obscuring his vision, had been tormenting, it was also true that he had been deeply impressed by the man’s endless training.
Ironically, only when the illusion ceased to feel tormenting did he let it depart from his side.
He felt something akin to understanding in that paradox, yet he forgot the illusion with a bittersweet heart.
Time flowed rapidly.
From his clumsy beginnings with fists to becoming a skilled martial artist, and then a renowned Pugilistic Sage acknowledged by many.
The forgotten illusion returned at a completely unexpected moment.
The moment he survived the Grand Western War against the Colossus Brigade and completed the seventh stage of self-modification.
He realized a second illusion was unfolding before his eyes.
Thud!!
A heavily bulked-up physique. Rough scars covering his skin. An ominous aura so formidable it made his entire body tingle.
The man in the illusion was no longer training beneath a cliff. He was simply walking through the fierce, burning flames of a battlefield, his entire body covered in blood.
Beneath his feet, countless corpses of humans and monsters lay intertwined, forming an indescribable mountain of death.
The man mercilessly trampled everything he had killed and destroyed, walking towards the end of the battlefield.
Oooooooh…!!
Behind the man, people gazed at him with expressions of awe. Some couldn’t hide their worship and admiration, prostrating themselves before him, bowing, praying, and pleading.
Their dramatic appearance was as if they faced a tangible god.
Yet, the man’s back, receiving such worship, appeared profoundly empty somehow.
“…Who are you?”
He asked, even knowing no answer would come.
He instinctively knew the man was a far superior pugilist than himself.
He understood that this was the memory of someone who had lived for a much longer time.
He realized this was a warrior who had killed countless lives and traversed battlefields.
What could the man in the illusion truly desire and wish for, having done all that? Only at this moment, having fully achieved self-modification and reached the Saint Wizard class, did he first become curious about it.
“…”
Still, no answer came. He couldn’t even tell if the man in the illusion heard his words.
And so, in his continuing life, he began to observe the newly arrived second illusion.
“…His body.”
The man continued to walk through the endlessly burning battlefield in the illusion. He realized that what appeared to be scars etched onto his body were in fact traces of stitched-together flesh.
Something that was not his original body had been processed into a physical form and newly reattached. Something not even human. Or perhaps something that wasn’t even from this world to begin with.
He wondered why the man had to modify his body to such an extent, but what he truly needed to learn from the man lay elsewhere.
From his indifferent stride, he awakened forgotten martial inspiration and mimicked his intuition.
He foresaw new possibilities from the corpses of humans and monsters he had killed and destroyed beneath his feet.
He no longer questioned the illusion reflected before his eyes. Only that this illusion might once again vanish from his sight forever. He simply continued to strive and work relentlessly to reach a level comparable to the man.
Time flowed even faster.
From a martial artist famous in one region, he now pioneered his own path, becoming a Pugilistic Sage renowned across the entire continent.
Even his hometown, which he believed he could never escape his entire life, was now part of the territory he governed.
Just as he believed he had completely transcended the second illusion he encountered, becoming numb to all stimuli.
That was when he encountered the world’s secret.
“How could this be….”
The strongest Ascendant in history, Ban-gung (叛穹), awakened in the central city of Ars Nova.
A Transcendent with power so immense it could shatter the Northern Continent and alter its climate. Countless superhumans and monsters stepped forward to quell the situation, but they were no match whatsoever.
Splat!
He collapsed, splattering hot blood across the cold snow. The paradoxical scene of the sky cracking and collapsing above him.
The sky, shattering like glass, was a symbol of Ban-gung’s manifestation in this place. He couldn’t properly understand how it was possible, or what kind of power he wielded.
Though he had appeared for only a fleeting moment, he was already revered as the most powerful Ascendant in history.
“Ah…”
Beneath his barely visible eyelids, memories of when he first clenched his fists and dedicated himself to training resurfaced. From awakening mana and becoming a superhuman, to surpassing hierarchies through countless battles.
Looking back, his life had always been a continuous cycle of struggle, combat, growth, and yearning.
That fact alone was the only value left to him now.
“Hahaha.”
He had thought he became numb to all stimuli, but it was a misconception. He had merely stopped because he recognized this as his limit, the end of the talent bestowed upon him.
He still, in a corner of his heart, wished to see realms beyond.
“What… comes next?”
Flash!!
At that moment, the long-forgotten illusion unfolded before his eyes.
The first illusion: silently punching before a cliff. The second illusion: endlessly walking down a blood-soaked battlefield.
But the third illusion he encountered was completely different from anything he had vaguely imagined.
A thin man dressed in pristine white priestly robes.
Gone were the bulked-up physique and scars; he stood neatly, his back turned, hands clasped behind him.
There were no sheer cliffs, no burning battlefields, no people worshipping him.
His back was to the viewer, standing alone and detached, gazing up at the dark sky, having abandoned everything.
From beyond the dark sky, countless ominous gazes, whose origins he couldn’t discern, caressed the man.
A blurry figure, no longer bound by worldly affairs, seemingly connected to something beyond the heavens.
“…”
What could have happened? Beyond the illusion, flickering faster than his own lifetime, what had the man become?
Even before he could fully form that question, the moment he faced the man, he realized.
The third illusion he encountered. The fact that this illusion would never change again.
“Is there… no fourth?”
[…]
Yes, this is the end.
This is the final stage of the life granted to him. The very edge of the destiny set by the heavens.
Even this illusion, which had changed its scenery with every turning point in life, serving as a new stimulus and challenge.
This world, perfected through two causal cycles, now hurtling towards complete destruction.
In this world, the challenge of ascension is not permitted, nor does the hope of a ‘next’ exist.
The moment he faced the man for the third time, he understood the most crucial secret of this world.
Even that the man who had appeared before his eyes all this time might be a being who had traversed the world’s causality.
As he realized this, his mouth involuntarily opened.
“If there’s no next, then why are you here?”
[…]
“What answer did you choose, to still remain in this world?”
It was ironic.
He had striven his entire life to achieve his desires directly and never rely on luck.
Yet, only at this final moment did he realize he had been relying on this man all along.
If he couldn’t find the answer himself, he at least wanted to know. If he couldn’t face the ending alone, he at least wanted to understand it.
A question born from pure curiosity and yearning, disregarding even his own death.
To that monologue, uttered without expectation of a reply, an answer came for the very first time.
[Do you wish to challenge ascension…?]
“…!!!”
A voice so chilling and serene that even he, who had been muttering without thought, flinched in surprise.
The man still stood, his hands clasped behind his back. Beyond the faintly swaying priestly robes, the man’s voice quietly resonated.
[The threads of fate between you and I are very thin and faint; our encounter, in truth, holds no meaning…. ]
A natural and subtle transmission of voice, so much so it was hard to believe he had been silent for decades.
His mind seemed to be slowly drawn in by that whispering voice. From his dazed eyes, he saw the man slowly turn around.
[That you observed my foolish days and gained inspiration was merely a trivial coincidence, due to your vessel being similar to mine.]
“…”
[And so, I paid it no mind, intending to forgive it as a momentary aberration….]
The man smiled.
[But you desire more meaning from me, don’t you?]
The man, his face obscured by a pristine white halo, slowly stood before him.
A snowfield covered in frigid snow.
Before he knew it, he was facing the man at the edge of that pristine white blizzard.
He knelt, looking up at the man, while the man stood with hands clasped behind his back, looking down at him.
He, still staring blankly at the man, asked.
“…If I challenge ascension.”
[…]
“If I do that, will I know what comes next?”
[No, it is worthless.]
But the man smiled and shook his head at his question.
[You are not ready, and this world will no longer respond to yearning. Even the most noble challenge will lose its meaning and fade….]
“…”
[That is why I intend to gather the faith of the lost and seek a new meaning.]
Fwaaaah…!!
The halo that appeared behind the man’s face seemed to intensify for a moment.
[If salvation does not exist in this world, if ascension is merely a brief reprieve….]
The man, after a long pause, slowly turned his gaze and spoke. As if directly looking at someone secretly observing this memory from somewhere. As if he knew that, and was here just to deliver this answer.
The Pontiff smiled.
[Then I must become their salvation.]
… … … … …Ah, yes.
He had heard a similar answer somewhere before.
A conclusion that, while clearly starting from the same point, had now diverged in completely different directions.
The Godslayer who declared he would shoot down gods.
The Magic Gunman who overhauled and modified his abilities from their very root.
Someone who had once undoubtedly dreamed the same dream as Lennok, but had arrived at their own unique answer.
And he had heard the question that was the root of that yearning somewhere before.
“…Ah.”
That the Pontiff himself was clearly aware of this very moment. The moment he realized that the Pontiff had, therefore, transmitted this fragment in a form known to both of them.
Lennok realized that he was now standing outside of Dorye’s memory.
“…”
In the end, the Pontiff himself did not directly show Lennok his true nature. Instead, he merely vaguely illuminated the path he had walked, borrowing ‘Dorye’s memory’—a memory within a memory.
Ascendant Dorye. For what reason had the monster, renowned as a Berserker centuries ago, become the Pontiff’s vessel? And why the Pontiff himself came to embody such causality.
Only that subtle distance remained, seeming to narrow yet never quite closing.
The dual contradiction of openly revealing his vulnerabilities, while simultaneously subtly hiding and concealing them, as if to say they would never be permitted.
The moment Lennok, realizing this, suddenly lifted his head.
“Ah, you’re awake now. I was starting to worry when you’d finally come to.”
The tranquil sanctuary of Mugan.
A black throne situated in the center of a colossal cathedral. The Ascendant’s body, perched on its edge, was calmly looking down at Lennok, its eyes open.
Skin stained dark like ink. Hair bleached pristine white. And two dazzling, burning eyes between his dark eyelids.
Propping his chin, he tilted his head, smiling faintly as he gazed at the speechless Lennok.
“I’ve been waiting.”