Chapter 24 — Ahh, So This is Power, 1
The west wing of the Noctis estate lay cloaked in silence, its stillness broken only by the faint, rhythmic hum of ancient wards pulsing beneath the marble floors like a heartbeat. Sylan had chosen this forgotten training hall with care—a derelict chamber where servants no longer ventured, its air thick with dust and disuse, granting him the solitude he craved. Shadows clung to the corners, undisturbed by the faint moonlight filtering through cracked stained-glass windows.
He stood at the hall's center, crimson eyes gleaming with a soldier's vigilance, scanning every exit, every blind corner. Years in the trenches had taught him to trust silence as much as he feared it. Tonight was no game of vanity—it was reconnaissance, a probing of the unknown within himself.
Test. Assess. Adapt.
The Crest thrummed in his chest, a restless force, eager to break free. Its power was no mere tool; it was alive, willful, a beast straining at its leash. The system's last message lingered in his mind, its cryptic words etched like scars: Hallowed Divine Abyss. Tier: ???. Abilities: █████. Not a skill, but a riddle, taunting him with its secrets.
"Show me," he whispered, voice barely a breath.
The response was instantaneous.
A torrent of golden radiance erupted from his palm, blinding as the sun itself, a divine light that seemed to hum with celestial hymns. But entwined with it came a jagged black flame, ravenous and untamed, curling around his wrist like a serpent. The air trembled with faint, ethereal chants, yet beneath them slithered an undercurrent of screams—a discordant symphony of exaltation and torment.
Sylan stood unmoved, his soldier's instincts locking his stance into a guard position, muscles coiled as if facing an enemy's blade. He studied the power surging through him, his mind dissecting its nature.
Power output… volatile. The Crest's will resists control, oscillating between extremes.
He pivoted, channeling the radiance into a controlled strike. The air split with a thunderous crack, dust swirling as if caught in a tempest. The marble tiles beneath his boots shattered, fractures radiating outward in a spiderweb pattern. A faint smile ghosted across his lips, sharp and fleeting.
This force warps matter itself. But can it bend will?
He turned inward, testing its limits. He directed the abyssal flame to his legs, the divine glow to his arms. For a fleeting moment, his body obeyed with lethal precision—his speed doubled, his grip crushing the hilt of his practice sword into splinters. The power felt like an extension of himself, a perfect weapon honed for battle.
Then the balance shattered.
The black flame surged, greedy and unrestrained, racing up his spine like wildfire. The golden light flared wildly, searing his vision white. Voices—sharp, accusing—flooded his ears, no longer whispers but a cacophony of judgment.
"…Traitor…"
"…Interloper, cloaked in stolen power…"
"…You do not belong…"
The Game's corruption bled into the Crest's essence, fragments of broken code and half-formed memories twisting into venomous mockery. His hand trembled, knuckles whitening as he gripped the fraying edges of his control.
Not mine. Not real. Focus.
But the backlash intensified. The walls of the hall warped, their edges smearing like wet ink. Shadows tore free from their anchors, writhing like serpents across the floor. The golden hymns fractured, blending with guttural shrieks that clawed at his sanity. And then came the weight—a crushing, imperious force, as if the Crest itself demanded all to kneel before its dominion.
A faint gasp broke the chaos.
Virelle.
She had followed him, silent as a shadow, her loyalty outweighing her caution. Now she stood at the hall's edge, brown eyes wide with terror, her slender frame trembling under the Crest's oppressive aura. Her knees buckled, her voice a fragile whisper, barely audible over the screams and hymns.
"M-my lord… please…"
Her plea cut through him, sharper than any blade. This isn't just power—it's dominion. It spares no one, not even allies.
Sylan's teeth clenched, his soldier's discipline snapping into place. On the battlefield, panic was death. Control was survival. He steadied his breath, fists tightening until his nails bit into his palms.
"Fall back, Crest," he growled, his voice low but unyielding.
The paradox resisted, its flames searing, its light blinding, its voices screaming defiance. But Sylan anchored himself in memory—the battlefield's mud and blood, the sting of betrayal, the crushing weight of the truck's impact. Pain he had endured once. Pain he could endure again.
Step by agonizing step, he forced the power down. The flames recoiled, hissing like a wounded beast. The radiance dimmed to a faint glow. The voices splintered into static, then silence.
The hall stilled, its desolation restored, save for the cracked marble and Virelle's ragged breaths. She collapsed to her knees, sweat soaking her dress, her body trembling from the effort of resisting a force she could never hope to match. Yet her gaze remained fixed on him, torn between awe and fear.
"My lord…" she whispered, voice hoarse. "That… that was not mortal."
Sylan glanced at his hand, where faint embers of black and gold still flickered along his skin. He clenched it into a fist, extinguishing the last traces of the Crest's power.
Not mortal. No. But mine.
He turned to her, his voice steady, laced with a soldier's command. "You'll speak of this to no one."
Virelle lowered her head, still trembling. "Yes, my lord."
Unseen, in the shadowed depths of the estate, Amanda Von Noctis stood motionless as a maid delivered a trembling report: cracked runes in the west wing, a tremor felt through the foundations. Darius, her silent shadow, narrowed his eyes, his expression unreadable. Neither spoke, but suspicion took root, a seed planted in fertile ground.
Back in the hall, Sylan raised his head, the Crest pulsing within him—restrained, but restless, a storm biding its time. Its promise of ruin and glory thrummed in his veins, both a weapon and a curse.
A faint, soldier-sharp smile curved his lips, resolute and unyielding.
"Ahh…" he murmured, crimson eyes blazing in the dim light. "…So this is power."
The words lingered in the silent hall, heavy as a death knell, resonant with the weight of a truth he could not yet fully grasp.