410 Poignant Madness
The cadaverous being in the distance had undergone a genuinely astonishing transformation.
Its ivory and distressing bones could no longer be seen, now wrapped in a layer of robust, sinewy muscle. Lacking any kind of dermis, it looked like a skinned abomination—grotesque yet teeming with rugged might.
However, this scene was transient at best, vanishing a few moments later once a squall of armor fragments circulated around its very body and joined with its flesh. Calling this being an armored nightmare was not an overstatement.
After all, it possessed armor for skin. What kind of power was needed to breach this nigh-impregnable defense?
Kieran estimated only his strongest state could contend against it. However, this was only the fourth round. He wasn't too sure he was afforded that luxury. Then again, if he were, this wasn't a battle he could prolong.
If it were up to him, of course.
There was no telling just what caliber his opponent had reached. It was possible he'd even take a submissive and seemingly inferior role if his opponent's might proved to be absurdly overbearing.
As the armored colossus stood, towering above Kieran at a staggering height of roughly three meters, its crimson eyes exuded a ghastly presence and radiated a sinister, forebodingly ominous light.
"Many of the Forsaken Blood Legion has fallen to your relentless and merciless blade, yet I can still sense hesitation and reticence in your blade. You are not ready for war—real war. You do not carry that unconquerable valor that transcends one's body—one's physical yet horrifyingly limited shell."
The armored colossus' deep voice carried with it the chill of the underworld, the grim temperance of a seasoned general prepared to take a life, the sharpened understanding of one who had been embraced by demise.
Shockingly, despite having faced these perils, the armored colossus did not seem embittered.
As Kieran stood some distance away from this armored colossus, a question rose to the forefront of his mind, soon rolling off the tip of his tongue without the slightest of obstructions.
"What are you?"
"What am I?"
The armored colossus' tone sounded somewhat bemused, probably shocked that this was the matter Kieran chose to focus on. It had questioned the young human's stoicism and drive, yet he didn't retort.
"Yes. All of you… what are you? What is this place? Your awareness is obviously much higher than those I have previously fought. I presume my best chance of learning of your origins is through you," Kieran said.
All the while, he continued to grip Crimson Ashrune upside down, using the sturdy blade as an unwavering brace to recover as much as possible.
The armored colossus switched its posture, its eyes becoming somber and heavy, as if reliving times of great peril. Eventually, those emotions cleared, transferring to its even yet clearly proud tone.
"We are those of the past that have walked through the Sundered Isles, triumphant yet lost in the end. Once a feared legion, our revenants have been delegated to a fate of bloodied wails and perpetual combat to hone and sharpen a future generation of warriors."
This much, except for the mention of some Sundered Isles, fell within Kieran's expectation. The environment and the tribulation that comprised the setting felt like a test.
A test of mettle, willpower and firm resolve.
'The general purpose of War Phantasmagoria should be to create seasoned war veterans, merciless tools of murder, ready to obey the most inhumane of commands. But for me, it feels different. I never intended to be an instrument of the War Deity Council's machinations, and Lord Veradin probably sensed that. What if the Relic sensed it as well? Could this be a modified form of what's usually revealed to the War Champions?'
Curious, Kieran could only pose the question to the armored colossus.
"Have you sparked up this same conversation with others?"
"No."
This answer piqued Kieran's curiosity. Didn't it align with his suspicions that something unusual was occurring?
If he was the only individual that this armored colossus conversed with, wouldn't it suggest that, just like with his other run-ins with historical transgressions, there was a deeper meaning embedded?
Something he could uniquely gain.
Met with this understanding of possible authenticity, Kieran's gaze flashed with a strange light.
The armored colossus' laconic answer was then continued, leading Kieran to become far more dubious.
"Until now, you are the only challenger of the War Phantasmagoria that hasn't dived straight into battle or attempted to destroy me before I could manifest properly. That being said, you are similarly one of the weakest to ever step foot in here. Probably… I've learned that even the most unsuspecting can turn out to be an absolute nightmare—a freakish opponent of unprecedented and inexplicable might."
Most people would attempt to clear the trial as quickly as possible, ignoring all else about it.
But not Kieran.
There was an innate attraction compelling him to face everything the trial had to throw at him. Though painful, and at times truly excruciating and nearly unbearable, Kieran had to abide by these instincts that had never led him astray.
Despite his current inability to activate his Vengeful Soul, Kieran could feel parts of his intrinsic and bestial instincts sharpen, pinpointing the weaknesses in his opponent with greater clarity, without having activated his True Unveiling Eyes.
"Hellbent and focused only on fighting to the bitter end, most challengers refrain from asking the more pressing questions. For example, why is it that their opponents' cunning, intelligence and ferocity continues to increase with each new round? And how far can it increase?"
As the armored colossus spoke, an ashen odachi appeared in its right hand, the curved and horrifyingly sharp blade creating an effortless fissure in the ground. Holding its grip, the odachi released large streams of crimson mist, interspersed with sinister ghastly intent.
As this mist flowed, solidifying and connecting with the flowing rivers of blood that spanned endlessly, as if attempting to swallow the horizon to no avail, they seethed, and the War Phantasmagoria trembled and cried.
A forlorn and despairing cry.
In the background, several of the Fallen Gladiators were clutching the ground, their grip unyielding, their spirits blazing like revenants that refused to return to the damning, nether-like embrace of their perverse death and inhuman fate.
"Until you defeat me… this round shall never end. And unfortunately for you, I was reanimated to make that as difficult as possible."
All of Kieran's progress had seemingly been erased.
Every last Fallen Gladiator, and now the Fallen Commanders that had been defeated in the end, were remodeled, reinvigorated and reinstated by the power of the seething crimson rivers, which this armored colossus seemed to have greater authority over.
On the verge of being overwhelmed by these returning foes, Kieran sighed.
"So that's how it is. This round was designed to stress how vile and debilitating hope can be. Hope has no place on the battlefield. Everything must be achieved by clawing for it as mercilessly as possible."
As Kieran spoke, his eyes shimmering with clarity, a dense and destructive blood mist seeped from his pores. His hair swayed, soon becoming frayed like a beast in the wild after being met with a perilous ordeal. The faint crimson color in Kieran's eyes deepened, resembling gems soaked in blood.
In the depths of his frenzied pupils, though, a glimmer remained.
Intrepid and steadfast, everything about Kieran seemed to become… abhorrent. Like the embodiment of bloodthirsty madness. Kieran had decided to rely upon a skill, and did so at a level of seamlessness previously unreachable.
The lessons in this trial helped Kieran understand how to find partial clarity in the madness. So, while his body exuded a climbing brutal aura, and his eyes glossed over with wrath, persistent clarity shone through, remaining intact.
There was a disorderly harmony in Kieran's current actions that perhaps only an insane person could detect. After all, seeing the fragments aligning in the chaos required a peculiar understanding.
Admittedly, this had to be related to Origin Principles embedded in Kieran's soul.
Each one could manifest as a transcendental power outside Kieran's realm of understanding and control. Outside, however, didn't mean that it didn't influence Kieran's habits, mannerisms and behavior.
It could even be said that Kieran was fated to follow the direction these principles paved for him.
Principles fabricated by the world—perhaps the universe—itself.
"Make it as difficult as you must; I will remain unbroken and my steps inexorable," Kieran said, his tone calm even despite the bestial snarl that accompanied his deep voice.
"We shall see. Many have claimed as such, even I. In the end, life and fate are cruel, oftentimes obscuring our understanding of the inevitable until the bitter end," the armored colossus retorted calmly.
Afterward, the armored colossus raised its odachi to the sky. In this position, it seemed desolate, lonely and in need of solace, but that impression was quickly displaced by the most abhorrent rage Kieran had experienced thus far.
His couldn't be included in the approximation before his rage radiated outward, affecting his surroundings, generally out of his own detection. Such as… the incident with Soulless.
"Wallow in despair. Sing the tragic melody of unavoidable peril. Enact your will… Deidamia—a hymn dedicated to the flawless destroyer that touches all. "
The world grew bleak, destitute and devoid of all movement.
In this strange phenomenon, Kieran found himself wondering if he was still alive. Though, why would he question that when he could still call upon his five senses, symbolizing the active breath of life flowing through him?
Bemused by the development, Kieran looked for the armored colossus' blade, finding that it once more rested by its side.
The difference now, however, was that the armored colossus' helmet was gone, revealing cascading hair made of pale blue, barely incandescent flames.
A strange feeling washed over Kieran as he looked into the eyes that nearly matched his own in terms of poignant madness.
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