Zenith Online: Rebirth of the Strongest Player



Unlike the first three rounds, where the moments of respite given to him amounted to nothing in terms of allowing Kieran to recuperate some of his somewhat impoverished Stamina, the fourth gave some leeway before its start.

Yet this period of reprieve didn't thrill Kieran. Instead, the allowance had an adverse effect.

'It's pretty much clear as day that my earlier guess was more or less spot on. If the trial itself is allowing me this much time to recover from exhaustion….'

Kieran's gaze grew sharp, focused, and grim as he clenched his jaw, fastening his grip tighter on Crimson Ashrune's hilt. '...The next round marks the beginning of madness.'

The pattern of this trial had already become clear to Kieran. At least, the part of the trial that he understood—the numbers. If there was any deeper meaning present in all of this, he could not yet see it.

Though insightful and discerning, Kieran understood that organizations like the War Deity Council tended to employ layered objectives.

ραΠdαsΝοvεl ƈοm Standing up a few moments later, Kieran dispelled the needless and valueless thoughts in his head, focusing on getting his breathing under control. His battle with the Fallen Commander was a true eye-opener, revealing to Kieran the issues that lingered within his Stamina.

In exchange for reduced Stamina consumption thanks to the remarkable quality of his blood, Kieran… received a similarly increased, yet situational Stamina consumption. Simply put, he tired slower, but that was only when he wasn't actively wielding the pristine blood circulating through his veins.

'My class is perhaps the only one that would create such a paradoxical outcome after consuming a highly sought after naturally formed elixir like the Quintessential Aether.' Unfortunately, Kieran understood that his abilities were admittedly subpar without his blood abilities. 

Every class had its own specialty to make it a viable promotion path. Without blood, Kieran's abilities, ignoring his subclass, were limited to pure physical might.

There was nothing he could substitute it for. 

Kieran wasn't a magical-based physical class like Soulless' Bladed Ghostmancer, Khaos' Spellblade, or the other classes that employed an ingenious fusion of magical and physical aspects.

Kieran was a hyper-augmented physical class. Even though Mana fueled all of his skills, they didn't carry much magical property. Mana played a subtle, supportive role when utilized in his situation, acting as the bridge to transport Kieran's physical might.

Luckily, while not in combat, with his focus vested singularly in recuperation, Kieran's recovery happened at an inhuman and frightening pace. By the time he was notified of the fourth round's beginning, Kieran could stand again with renewed vigor, each soft respiration sounding like the rumbling of a flourishing storm.

〈System: The fourth round of the «Immemorial Gladiator Trial» has begun. The resentful have understood, their misguided savagery now honed and focused. Ruthless and inexorable in their desires, the fallen legion of bloody war seeks to sunder, destroy and awaken.〉

All around Kieran, dense, alarming, and torrid crimson gas eruptions shot to the sky. Several of the branching rivers of blood seethed beneath Kieran's feet, as well as those in his general vicinity.

At that moment, Kieran could feel with unchallenged certainty—danger on all sides. There was no outrunning what was to come. No cowering from what should inevitably be. No averting his eyes from what was happening.

One by one, Fallen Gladiators bathed in the boiling blood of the crimson rivers clutched the banks of the War Phantasmagoria's many deposits of moistened and feeble stone, shattering them with their arrival.

Calm and unaffected by the sight before him, Kieran basked in the searing winds of this newly roused environment, his resolve settling deep in his eyes. He wasn't sure what it was about this environment, but it did more than test the extent of his physical tenacity.

There was no confirmation of it, but Kieran had a feeling this special environment was the culprit of his fluctuating mental state. At times, his conviction felt unshakable. But at other times, he found himself wondering about his future.

Was this him? A fallen individual, resentful and livid, only remembered by their ability to destroy. 

Part of Kieran understood that if he were to die… this could very well be his future. He had truthfully done nothing to make his mark upon history. What he possessed was fleeting, capable of being torn apart by the merciless and corrosive winds of time.

The more Kieran considered this while watching the Fallen Gladiators, seemingly empowered and ameliorated by the able leadership of a skilled commander, the more he realized its symbolic worth.

'It's a tradition in the War Deity Council, yes. But is that all it is? Lord Veradin's expression before I stepped forth was complicated. There was a strange type of turmoil in his eyes, almost as if he was refraining from cluing me in on something.'

As the curiosity in Kieran's gaze blazed, nestling itself in the center of his focus, the young man gazed at the many Fallen Commanders—ten to be exact. One had previously acted as a genuinely worthwhile opponent, nearly delivering critical wounds capable of interfering with Kieran's battle power.

Torment's Belief could help mitigate the effects of damage, but he wasn't immune to it. In its current state, the skill wasn't impervious and certainly wasn't perfect. As long as the damage Kieran sustained was perverse and inexorable, Torment's Belief would be rendered null and void.

Of course, Kieran had never experienced that kind of damage, so he wasn't aware of the exact nature of attack he had kept a watchful eye on. All he could do was assume—assume the absolute worst and devise ways to circumvent that outcome.

Different from the first three rounds, Kieran seemed less resigned and cautious. With thousands of enemies standing before him, refraining from using his larger skills was no longer viable, especially not with the monstrosity currently forming in one of the thickest rivers of blood.I think you should take a look at ραΠdαsnovel.cοm

Despite its incomplete form, Kieran could feel the bolstered sentience of these enemies, the level of clarity in their menacing eyes reaching a level previously unseen in this trial. All of this was a contribution of that forming fallen entity. As the notification warned, the fallen had become honed in their purpose, aware of what needed to happen.

Something, someone… somehow… must fall.

With Crimson Ashrune held at an angle, its sharp and imperceptibly damaged edge crackled with a dreadful wisp of energy. 

The wisp grew into a tangible, frightening spark, which then exploded into billowing clusters of menacing tendrils. These tendrils resembled thundering flames that moved with the fluidity of water but flickered with the rigidity of steel.

Soon, those tendrils converged before Kieran's torso, forming a ring that enveloped him in an aura seemingly beyond reproach. Following its appearance, some of the Fallen Gladiators recoiled, a sense of unavoidable and torturous death washing over them.

"There's too much on the line for me to be apprehensive. I have to be better than that. I must overcome all that comes before me… even if it doesn't take place the first time around," Kieran muttered.

A sentence echoed in his mind. A sentence that Nameless had spoken to him. 

Not too long ago, the Ego of the Ancient Compendium had made it clear that a boy scared to fail had no place talking to it. 

Why dread failure when failure is wiser than victory? 

Did Kieran resign himself to a supercilious outlook that matched those he despised? A superficial and vain strength that could only conquer those beneath him? 

What happened to his aspiration to reach the top, first standing beside Scar, then Agrianos before surpassing them both, becoming his own story and not a facsimile of his predecessors?

Many confuse loss with weakness. But this notion usually stemmed from one's unwillingness to accept that they were not perfect. And so, in that loss, they found their value diminishing.

However, that was true weakness. 

The act of losing wasn't the definition of being weak, but the act of letting that loss extinguish one's drive was. It highlighted the infirmity of one's resolve.

There was no reason to accept defeat, but there was plenty to learn from it. Inconsistencies, incongruities, imbalances—all of this could be noticed quicker before an overwhelming and seemingly insurmountable foe than it could against an unworthy opponent.

In that case… the Fallen Commanders… this growing, monstrous, and potentially herculean titan—could all serve Kieran well.

Seconds later, the Dread Culling that usually embraced Kieran's torso horizontally was displaced, reappearing behind his back while flowing vertically. Like the disk of a condemned god, forsaken to live in and produced the purest of dread, the Dread Circlet became Kieran's trusted ally tasked with protecting his rear.

When diving into a seat of opponents, one's rear was the most vulnerable.

A deep and shrill voice, less inhuman than before but far more fearsome, shook the War Phantasmagoria. "Members of the Forsaken Blood Legion. Those who perished upon the Sundered Isle… let your fury flow. Eliminate the unworthy. How can they live when your story has ended?"

Understanding that his call to action was the cue to war, Kieran readied himself, brandishing Crimson Ashrune. A semblance of his former battle style peered through his actions, an intangible but fascinating manifestation overlapping with Kieran's body.

If one looked closely, it would become blatantly clear that Kieran and this peculiar manifestation bore a striking resemblance. 

The manifestation was Kieran—another version of him. A convalescent yet unyielding Kieran.

As the Forsaken Blood Legion, complete with hundreds of improved Fallen Gladiators, stampeded into war, the intrepid Kieran reciprocated. 

One man against nine hundred and ninety-nine mighty opponents.

Yet his presence was in no way inferior to this large collective. Ignited and fueled by the condemnation of this ghastly regal voice, Kieran's colossal aura flourished, resembling a crimson sun. 

A star of smoldering wrath needless of direction. Conceived in the heat of passion, Kieran was the embodiment of fury, wrath, and indignation.

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