Kaisen tore off his breather and inhaled.
The air wasn't corrupted.
The shift from the blood-soaked altar to… this… had been instantaneous. One moment, the triumphant, hateful faces of his betrayers.
The next, this crushing, silent chamber.
This had to be the Guardian Temple's heart. The air was clean, heavy, carrying an age that pressed down like a physical weight.
The walls—milky-white stone—glowed with a soft, internal light, illuminating the space without casting a single shadow.
Beautiful, yet terrifying.
And hanging in that light, a string of glowing crimson script hovered like a wound in the air:
[ You now stand before an Ascendant: Karihad, the Godslayer. ]
The words burned into his vision.
Ascendant.
The term surfaced from the dustiest corners of the Institute's archives—a myth, an impossibility.
A being that had transcended Levels and Ranks entirely, existing on a plane beyond categorization. Legends from the oldest, half-remembered whispers of the divine war.
And yet apparently, here one was.
A voice, rough and ancient—stone grinding against stone—echoed from a simple dais at the far end of the chamber.
"Who is this?"
A second voice, female and clear, answered with formal respect. "He is the chosen, Sire."
The ancient voice vibrated in Kaisen's bones, irritated. "I asked you to bring me a successor… a warrior of renown, a soul tempered. And you bring me… this?"
A third voice, strong and blunt, a man's, joined in: "Yeah, he doesn't really look like much."
Kaisen kept his head down, heart hammering like a trapped bird. Fear, cold and sharp, pinned him in place.
"Who are you, boy?" the ancient voice demanded again, impatience now a blade's edge.
Swallowing hard, Kaisen forced his gaze upward.
The dais was a throne. And on it sat a figure that stole the air from Kaisen's lungs.
He had the shape of a man but radiated pure, oppressive power. Wild, unruly dark hair just like his own framed a face carved from severity. His eyes… twin pools of chaos. They glowed with a shifting, impossible spectrum—blood-red, abyssal black, corrosive green—all the colors of doom.
He wore armor of black metal that drank the light and radiated despair. Just one glance at it made Kaisen's knees buckle; he had to wrench his eyes away to keep from collapsing.
His gaze darted right.
The female voice.
A girl stood there, posture loose but coiled with readiness. Long white hair spilled over her shoulders like a waterfall of snow. Intelligent eyes studied him with open curiosity. She wore dark, tactical gear—combat shorts, sturdy boots, a long, lethally elegant katana at her waist.
Beside her stood the man who'd spoken. Tall, athletic, brown hair swept back from a composed face. He wore deep blue robes embroidered with silver thread, ceremonial and immaculate.
The trio were contradictions.
The ancient voice—Karihad's voice—cut through Kaisen's observations.
"I asked you a question."
Kaisen's mind scrambled for a title, a lineage, a defense—anything to keep from being obliterated. Nothing came but the barren truth.
He realized this might be his last moment of existence. He chose to meet it honestly.
"I'm… I'm Kaisen."
"Kaisen?" the voice boomed, unimpressed. "Kaisen of what? What great achievements do you have to your name that permit you to stand here?"
The figure on the throne turned his multicolored gaze to the white-haired girl. His irritation was a sharp, tangible force.
"Iris, what is this?"
The girl, Iris, replied calmly, though a faint crease of concern formed between her brows. "I don't know. The ritual was performed correctly. He was the one chosen."
Something in Kaisen cracked. Not his fear—something deeper. It didn't vanish; it hardened into bitter, self-deprecating clarity.
They weren't seeing a challenger. They were seeing a mistake. A misdelivery. As always, he was an inconvenience.
He straightened his back despite the ache from the altar's edge. Drew a slow, steady breath, channeling the cold calm of a lifetime spent facing danger with no power to counter it.
"I'm not here because of any great achievement," he said, his voice gaining strength, losing its tremor. "I'm here because I committed the greatest sin anyone can in this world."
He lifted his chin. "I was weak."
The throne room went still. Listening.
"Too weak to stand up for myself when they pushed me forward. Too weak to fight when they held a blade to my throat. Too weak to do anything but hide, years ago, while the corrupted devoured my family alive." The memory tore through him, raw and unfiltered. "Perhaps I'm even too weak to accept that dying might be easier than living like this."
His hand closed around the cheap, standard-issue training sword at his hip. The metal was cold, flimsy, but it grounded him.
He rolled his shoulders like a fighter, though it felt absurdly inadequate here.
"I don't know who you are or why there are three people in a Guardian's temple," he said, defiance flickering through his fear. "But I know my only way out of this rift alive is by defeating you. That's the rule. I want to live. I want a chance to be stronger. My life won't end here—not as a sacrifice. Not as a mistake."
He raised the sword high. It trembled in his grip, its poor balance threatening to snap under the tension. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temple. His heart pounded a frantic drum.
He poured every ounce of will, every shred of bitter, desperate hope into a single, roaring challenge.
"So quit your yapping, stand up from that fucking throne, and come face me!"
The words echoed in the vast chamber, a profane prayer.
"Because I might not be able to win against you, but I'll be damned if I don't die trying!"
He fell into the most stable stance he could manage, sword trembling but steady, pointed at the god on the throne.
Silence flooded the room, deeper than before.
On the dais, Karihad, the Godslayer, leaned forward slightly.