Chapter 76: Tribulation Might
"He’s already using absorbing tribulation might...it’s been only three hours."
Standing inside the dungeon, Banshee spoke quietly, her eyes fixed firmly on the pool where Ethan remained submerged, tracking every faint pulse of light rippling across its surface, her arms crossed tight against her chest.
She could still remember Hela’s attempt at this same class, the first day alone leaving her hands covered in blisters so severe they’d had to soak them in medical liquid for days before she could attempt it again. The girl hadn’t complained once, not that Banshee had expected her to. Stubbornness ran thick in that family, thicker than most people gave them credit for.
The hands were the only real conduit for absorbing tribulation might, and out of fear it might cripple her permanently, they had eventually called off the attempt after several grueling days of failure. No one had wanted to be the one to explain to Arian why her daughter could no longer hold a weapon properly.
"His hands are strong."
Arian could only manage those few words, watching the same rippling surface with an expression that hadn’t fully settled into anything recognizable yet. She didn’t understand how Ethan had reached this point in so little time, and the not knowing sat uneasily with her, gnawing quietly at the edge of her composure.
"We don’t have anyone qualified to train him further. I already prepared materials for a different class before this even started. Are we really going to see this through?"
Ghost spoke from the side, arms crossed, his tone carrying genuine hesitation now, glancing between the pool and Arian as though hoping she might reconsider the entire arrangement.
Earlier, he’d treated this whole exercise as little more than a learning experience for Ethan. The kid was gnawing at a tree far too large for him, and that kind of failure was considered a necessary lesson for most talented individuals passing through White Tower’s doors. It built character, or so the reasoning usually went.
Who could have predicted he’d actually succeed this quickly?
"The Demi-human, Servos, has lightning-based abilities. Bring him over."
After a brief moment of consideration, Arian arrived at a solution, her voice settling back into something firmer, the earlier uncertainty already smoothed out of her expression as she made up her mind.
Just as Ghost had explained to Ethan earlier, this was only the first stage of the Tyrant Blade’s requirements. Once Ethan absorbed a sufficient level of tribulation might, he would move directly into the next phase.
And that threshold had arrived far sooner than any of them had anticipated.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,
"Huuuu"
Ethan drew in a deep, ragged breath of fresh air as his eyes snapped open, a faint trace of magical light still lingering within them, the surface of the pool settling into stillness around him.
"Long time no see."
As his gaze swept across the room, he noticed the old Demi-human standing off to the side, bound tightly in heavy chains.
"Hehe, how the tables have turned, huh? You know, we Demi-humans are far more humane than your kind."
Servos offered a tired smile, his expression worn thin from whatever months had passed since his capture, the chains around his wrists chafing visibly against skin that had long since grown raw beneath them.
Ever since being taken, he’d been kept in a damp holding cell, fed sparingly, and questioned repeatedly about the Maqaua clan’s inner workings, the same handful of questions circling back around every few days regardless of what he’d already answered.
It had been an exhausting stretch of time, to put it mildly.
"Well, you did put us in cages."
Ethan said it plainly, slowly rising from the pool, his skin still shimmering faintly with residual sparks of lightning that danced across his frame with each movement, the water sluicing off him in slow, deliberate streams.
"Fair."
The old man’s smile lingered as his eyes traced over Ethan’s newly defined muscles, brimming visibly beneath the crackling light still clinging to his body.
"You’ve gotten strong."
He muttered it under his breath, though loud enough for Ethan to catch clearly, something almost wistful buried underneath the roughness of his voice.
When they’d first met, Ethan hadn’t even secured his second summon yet. Now the boy stood at tier 7, only a single tier removed from where Servos himself had settled long ago, a gap that had once seemed unbridgeable in the span of only a few months.
"Thank you."
Ethan offered a small smile, his gaze drifting briefly toward the window where the others watched from beyond the glass, their attention fixed entirely on this unfolding trial, a dozen quiet faces pressed close to the barrier separating them from what was about to happen.
"The second requirement is the tempo requirement. You’ll need to fight him while maintaining a consistent sequence of successful hits, slowly building your power with each connection. Once you reach a tempo of fifty consecutive strikes, you’ll officially become a Tyrant Blade."
Ghost explained the mechanics from behind the observation mirror, his voice carrying clearly into the chamber, each word measured and deliberate as though he’d delivered this same explanation more than once before.
At this point, virtually everyone of significance within White Tower had gathered to watch. This had quickly become one of the more interesting spectacles the organization had witnessed in some time, whispered conversations already circulating along the observation gallery, wagers being quietly exchanged between those who thought they knew how this would end.
"However, I must warn both of you. Fifty strikes can, and will, kill him if it reaches that number. So he will do whatever necessary to protect himself, short of killing you outright."
Ghost added the warning carefully, his tone shifting into something more serious, and the room fell into a heavy silence between the two combatants, the weight of what was coming settling fully into place, neither of them moving to break it first.
No one wanted to die, even a captured dog like servos, especially not to someone from a different race.
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