Chapter 318: Vanitas [10]
"...What the fuck happened to you, brat?"
Zen found himself genuinely speechless.
The battlefield around him was already horrifying enough. Bodies of cultists littered the ground as a result of his own rampage through the hideout.
Yet somehow, the sight surrounding Fyodor was far worse.
Because the corpses around him were not casualties of battle.
They were sacrifices.
Zen’s gaze slowly shifted toward the depths of the underground chamber. Only then did he realize the true nature of the dungeon hidden under the cult’s base.
Rows of prison cells stretched throughout the darkness. And inside were occupied by a mix of corpses and the living. Men, women, children, there was no discrimination.
The victims varied in age, appearance, status, and background. The only thing they had in common was the terror visible in the eyes of those still alive. Many of the surviving prisoners immediately recoiled the moment their eyes landed on Fyodor.
That alone told Zen everything he needed to know.
Fear like that could not be fabricated.
It was the fear of people who had witnessed something they were never meant to see.
"..."
For several moments, Zen remained silent. Then he slowly looked back toward Fyodor.
The man himself appeared far too calm. As though standing amidst a mountain of sacrifices and terrified prisoners was the most natural thing in the world.
And strangely enough, whatever happened to him throughout these years was not what troubled Zen the most.
"How are you still alive?"
Because by all logic, this should have been impossible. A couple of centuries had already passed.
Yet Fyodor remained, standing right in front of him. Looking older, certainly. Changed, undoubtedly.
...But alive.
By ordinary human standards, Fyodor should have died a very long time ago.
Even if he had possessed exceptional talent. Even if he had become a powerful mage. Even if he had somehow extended his lifespan through magical means.
There was a limit to human capabilities. Even Zen himself could not defeat the passage of time outside of reincarnation.
But Fyodor had transcended human logic.
"It’s been a while, Archmage," Fyodor said. "Or should I say... Mary’s brother."
"...."
Zen’s expression darkened as countless thoughts raced through his mind. This version of Zen no longer resembled the man Fyodor had met all those centuries ago. That body had died long ago, followed by countless others throughout the cycles.
Yet somehow, Fyodor recognized him immediately. Specifically, as Mary’s brother, or rather, Melissa’s.
The very identity Zen had possessed during the lifetime when Melissa had called herself Mary.
"If you don’t tell me what the fuck you’re doing," Zen said coldly, "I’m going to blow your head off right now."
The stone beneath his feet cracked.
The threat was not an exaggeration.
By this point, Zen’s patience was already wearing thin. He had discovered a cult dedicated to Araxys, found a dungeon filled with sacrifices, and encountered a man who should have died centuries ago.
The fact that Fyodor was still breathing was already a miracle.
Yet contrary to expectation, Fyodor merely laughed.
"Haha. Let’s calm down here for a second. To begin with, I’m not your enemy, Archmage."
Zen did not lower his guard. "Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you."
"You’re still asking the wrong question, Archmage."
The underground chamber suddenly felt much colder than before.
Fyodor slowly raised his gaze. "The real question isn’t whether you should kill me."
"...."
"The real question is whether humanity can even begin to stand against the Alephs."
There it was again. Another piece of forbidden knowledge that Fyodor should not have possessed.
The Alephs were not some ancient legend recorded in history books. They were not a topic scholars discussed. The overwhelming majority of humanity did not even know such entities existed.
Yet Fyodor had casually spoken their name as though discussing the weather.
Zen no longer believed coincidence could explain anything standing before him.
Fyodor immediately noticed the look on his face. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
"Hahaha... You have that look again." Fyodor shook his head. "That look asking how I know these things."
His smile widened slightly.
The urge to blast his head off was rapidly increasing. Unfortunately, the urge to learn the truth was beginning to win.
Fyodor slowly spread his arms.
"I’ll answer every question you have."
His gaze swept across the chamber.
"But there’s a condition."
Zen immediately frowned. "A condition?"
Fyodor nodded. "Yes. For every person you kill in this room, I’ll answer one question."
Several prisoners visibly paled, staring at Fyodor as though he had finally lost his mind.
Even Zen looked genuinely confused.
"You decide who lives and who dies."
A strange feeling settled in Zen’s chest.
"Again, I’ll answer every question. But for every answer you seek... You’ll have to decide whether another life is worth it. A price that needs to be paid."
The underground chamber became silent.
Fyodor was not testing his morality. He genuinely believed what he was saying.
"Let’s see here..."
Fyodor began pacing throughout the chamber.
Every prisoner he passed instinctively recoiled from him, shrinking deeper into their cells.
Eventually, he stopped before a mother and child.
The woman immediately pulled the child behind her the moment his attention settled upon them. Her body shook as she wrapped both arms around the young girl, as though desperately trying to shield her from whatever was about to happen.
Fyodor crouched slightly and then pointed toward them.
"Kill both of them and ’ll answer three questions at once."
The mother immediately paled. The child began crying.
"What do you think?" Fyodor smiled. "Not a bad deal, huh?"
Silence filled the room.
The mother tightened her embrace around her daughter. The little girl buried her face into her mother’s chest while trying to suppress her sobs.
"Fyodor... what happened to you?"
"Are you sure you want to waste your question on that?"
"You lost your family. You lost your home. You lost Mary. You watched people important to you die. You watched innocent people suffer. And somehow, after experiencing all of that, you became this."
Zen slowly looked around the chamber.
"You know how it feels to lose... so why let others suffer as you did?"
Fyodor shugged. "Never mind. We can start with that."
A smile slowly returned to his face.
"But I won’t answer unless you do it."
The chamber fell silent again.
The woman instinctively pulled her daughter closer. The little girl buried her face against her mother’s chest, too frightened to even look at the two men deciding their fate.
Meanwhile, Zen simply stared.
"...."
Then, eventually, he sighed.
"You must think I’m a fool, Fyodor."
"That’s not true. I genuinely respect you—"
Crackle——!
The spell activated instantly.
One moment, Fyodor was speaking. The next, he was dead as Zen activated his magic without the slightest hesitation. His body collapsed onto the stone floor, lifeless and motionless.
For a moment, the underground chamber fell silent.
Tak. Tak. Tak——!
Then, footsteps echoed from somewhere.
The sound reverberated throughout the dungeon as though its owner had no concern whatsoever for the corpse lying on the floor.
"Time’s ticking, Archmage. Do you want answers or not?"
Zen turned. And there he was again. Fyodor. However, this time, he had a completely different face.
"...."
Zen’s eyes narrowed as he stared between the corpse on the ground and the man now standing before him.
At that moment, everything finally clicked into place.
Fyodor was not reincarnating, hor had he somehow achieved immortality.
...He was switching bodies.
"Tsk."
Zen clicked his tongue and killed Fyodor. Yet for every kill, the man would rise again from the dead in another body. At some point, he even started switching with some of the prisoners inside.
"Congratulations, Archmage. You killed one of them. Now ask away."
This was disturbing. Utterly disturbing.
"...What’s your connection to Araxys?"
"I am his messenger. His Prophet. The day he opened my eyes was the day I was enlightened."
Despite his irritation, Zen carefully restrained himself from asking too many questions at once. If Fyodor was telling the truth, then there was only one source from which he could have learned about the Alephs, the cycles, and everything else he should not have known.
Araxys.
It had to be Araxys.
"How much do you know?"
Fyodor chuckled. "Probably not as much as you, Archmage."
"Don’t play games with me."
"Araxys values you more than you think," Fyodor continued. "As I am the Messiah, you, Archmage, are its angel."
Zen immediately frowned.
The statement alone was enough to make him want to kill Fyodor again.
Squelch——!
And that was exactly what happened.
The questioning continued. Question after question. Answer after answer.
Whenever Fyodor became too vague, Zen killed him. Whenever Fyodor began speaking in riddles, Zen killed him. Whenever Fyodor’s smug expression became particularly irritating, Zen killed him.
And every single time, Fyodor returned.
Each time he returned, he wore a different face.
Each time he returned, he simply continued the conversation from where they had left off as though dying had become little more than an inconvenience.
The process repeated itself countless times.
The underground chamber gradually became quieter as the surviving cultists and prisoners disappeared one by one.
Eventually, even the bodies became difficult to distinguish from one another.
All that remained was the endless cycle of questions, answers, death, and rebirth.
Neither man seemed willing to stop.
Fyodor continued speaking. And Zen continued killing him.
The conversation stretched for hours. Perhaps even longer.
And when the questioning finally came to an end, there was no one left alive within the underground chamber.
And despite all the answers he had obtained, the only thing he felt was exhaustion.
* * *
"...Fuck."
The cycles of reincarnation were finally beginning to weigh heavily on him. For centuries, he had continued moving forward, convincing himself that he could endure just a little longer, survive just one more lifetime, and solve just one more problem.
But even he had limits.
Not merely mentally. His actual capabilities were beginning to stagnate as well.
Every reincarnation forced him to start over from the beginning. Every lifetime required him to rebuild his foundation, reestablish his influence, and recover knowledge that could only be properly utilized after reaching a certain level of strength.
The process had become exhausting.
"...I can’t keep doing this."
He was reaching his limit.
There were simply too many things demanding his attention—research, powers to cultivate, and many problems requiring solutions.
The list only continued growing with each passing lifetime.
And the worst part was that progress had begun to slow. Zen was no longer making the breakthroughs he once did.
He found himself dividing his time across dozens of different projects, with each one important enough that abandoning it felt irresponsible. The result was that everything moved forward, but nothing moved forward quickly.
His research was becoming stagnant because there simply was not enough time.
No matter how many lifetimes he accumulated, there were still only so many years within a single cycle. Every moment spent studying one subject was a moment taken away from another.
Meanwhile, Fyodor continued moving.
According to everything Zen had learned, Fyodor had dedicated himself entirely to preparing for Araxys’s return. Every cycle ultimately traced back to the same objective.
Bringing Araxys back.
Naturally, Zen moved to stop him every time.
Whenever he discovered a cult, he destroyed it. Whenever he uncovered one of Fyodor’s plans, he sabotaged it. Whenever Fyodor’s existence surfaced, Zen hunted him down without blinking.
Yet despite all of that, the problem never truly disappeared.
Because Fyodor always came back.
Every time Zen killed him, another body appeared.
Every time a scheme failed, another emerged elsewhere.
Every time Zen believed he had finally gained ground, Fyodor simply resurfaced somewhere beyond his reach and continued working toward the same objective.
The realization was infuriating.
For all intents and purposes, Fyodor had become pseudo-immortal. Death had become meaningless to him.
And unfortunately, the same could be said for Zen.
The two had become trapped within a bizarre stalemate stretching across countless lifetimes. One sought to prevent Araxys’s return. The other sought to ensure it happened.
Neither could permanently kill the other.
Neither could permanently escape the other.
And after centuries of this endless struggle, even Zen had to admit something.
Fyodor was too much.
In any case, one day, while carrying out his duties as the Archmage, Zen witnessed something unusual.
At first, he almost ignored it.
The fluctuation was incredibly subtle. Weak enough that no ordinary mage would have noticed it. Yet after countless lifetimes of research and experience, Zen’s senses had long since surpassed what could be considered normal.
"Huh?"
His gaze shifted toward the source.
From a distance, he saw a blonde child standing within a training field. The child appeared no older than ten years old, yet the mana surrounding him behaved in a manner that immediately caught Zen’s attention.
The child was manipulating polarity. North and south poles. Attraction and repulsion.
The forces themselves were still crude and underdeveloped, but the foundation was undeniably there. Objects shifted unnaturally around him as opposing forces collided and interacted according to his will.
Zen narrowed his eyes.
The more he observed, the more certain he became that what he was witnessing was not ordinary magic.
Curious, Zen began looking into the child’s background.
The answer did not take long to find.
The boy belonged to the Aetherion Family.
A family of monarchs that had long since separated from the Holy Empire and established the rapidly growing nation now known as Aetherion.
Over the generations, the family had expanded into one of the most influential bloodlines on the continent, producing rulers, generals, and powerful mages in nearly every era.
And of course, Zen knew exactly where that family originated.
Because tracing the lineage backward revealed a history he knew all too well. It was a history nobody else in the world could have possibly known.
The Aetherion bloodline had descended from the very first family he had ever created.
The first life he had built after creating his own reincarnation cycle.
Without realizing it, centuries upon centuries had passed since then. Zen couldn’t even be blamed for not remembering his wife’s name.
Yet somehow, that bloodline remained.
Not only had it survived, but it had flourished.
Zen found himself staring at the child for far longer than intended.
One of the very first fields of magic he had researched at the beginning of his reincarnation cycles was the manipulation of polarity.
Back then, he had spent years studying attraction and repulsion, north and south poles, and the countless ways such principles could be applied through mana.
Now, however, he had long since surpassed the need to research it.
After countless lifetimes, the subject had become second nature to him. Yet as he watched the blonde child manipulate those same forces, he realized that his work had not disappeared with time.
The stigmata he had left behind throughout the generations had continued evolving long after he was gone. Passed from parent to child, generation after generation, it had survived the rise and fall of kingdoms, wars, and entire civilizations.
And now, after all this time, it had somehow found its way back to him in the form of a descendant.
"...What’s your name?"
The sudden question caught the child completely off guard.
The blonde boy immediately froze before turning toward him. The moment he realized who had spoken, his eyes widened in shock.
"A-Ah?"
The child nearly stumbled over his own words.
"Archmage...?!"
His reaction was understandable.
After all, regardless of status, age, or nationality, it was difficult not to recognize the Archmage. Even amongst royalty, meeting someone of Zen’s standing was not an everyday occurrence.
"I-It’s Asterion, sir! Asterion Uriel Aetherion!"
Zen blinked. Then a small smile appeared on his face.
"Ah, my." He placed a hand over his chest. "Where are my manners? I should have recognized you immediately, Your Highness."
The Fourth Prince of Aetherion, Asterion, Uriel Aetherion.
This encounter proved to Zen that his decision to create families throughout each cycle had not been for nothing.
"...."
That was when an idea struck him.
For centuries, he had struggled with the same problem. There was simply too much to research and too little time to do it all himself. Every cycle forced him to start over, and every breakthrough came at the cost of neglecting something else.
Yet what if there was another way?
What if he could further his research without directly involving himself?
What if he could continue developing his abilities without personally spending centuries refining every single concept?
The more Zen thought about it, the more appealing the idea became.
After all, bloodlines evolved.
And if that was the case, then why not use them?
And so, ever since that day, Zen began intentionally passing down his personal techniques through every family he created.
The ability to manipulate polarity.
The ability to slash through reality.
The ability to distort dimensions.
The ability to interfere with souls.
And countless others.
Whenever a bloodline demonstrated compatibility with a particular field, Zen would leave behind a foundation for them to cultivate. Over generations, those descendants would refine, improve, and evolve the techniques far beyond what any single lifetime could achieve.
To Zen, it was merely another solution. Another method of overcoming the limitations imposed by time, and another way to continue progressing even when he was absent.
However, unbeknownst to him, that single decision would become one of the most significant turning points in the history of the world.
Because humanity began growing stronger.
Far stronger than it ever had before.
With each passing generation, more stigmatas emerged. More bloodlines inherited extraordinary abilities. More individuals began touching concepts that should have remained far beyond the reach of mortal beings.
The collective strength of civilization steadily increased. Generation after generation. Century after century. Without realizing it, humanity had begun climbing.
And with every step upward, the balance of the world shifted.
The realm itself gradually approached the lower tiers of the Upper Realm.
As a result, the veil that separated humanity from the higher realms began to strain.
Small cracks slowly formed throughout its structure, invisible to nearly every living being.
And eventually, one of those cracks widened slightly. Enough for something beyond to notice.
But that was all it took.
Because through that tiny fracture, the Alephs finally found something they had been searching for.
An anchor point.
A foothold.
A place from which they could eventually reach the world once more.
