A Journey Unwanted-Chapter 234 - 227: This was power?

[Aethel]

[The Grand Colosseum]

The Grand Colosseum was in a state of uproar.

𝘕𝘰—𝘶𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥.

It was pandemonium.

The air was saturated with a nauseating fear, as if the world had recoiled from what it had just witnessed. People clung to each other, their faces pale, their hands trembling as they tried to convince themselves that what they had seen had been some kind of cruel illusion, a trick of the Zephyra Illusora.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵.

Even now, the massive projection screens of the Zephyra Illusora flickered unstably, struggling to maintain coherence, as if the laws of reality were rejecting what they had been forced to display. The largest screen of all, the one suspended high above the colosseum, still bore the afterimage of that abominable transformation—𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬.

𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

Each element had been 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, disgustingly fused in an unholy display of something incomprehensible, spanning as large as a mountain. The mere 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 of that entity still lingered in the minds of all who had witnessed it, a brand upon their very souls.

A man screamed, clutching his head.

"What in the name of the Gods was that!?"

He wasn’t alone.

A hundred voices followed—𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥—𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯.

"A—A 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳!" someone bellowed, spittle flying from their lips.

"Should something like that even exist!?"

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

"I-I could feel it... the tremors spiraling through the realm..." A sorcerer clutched at his robes, his eyes vacant. His pupils were pinpricks, his face clammy with sweat. He swallowed, but it did nothing to ease the dryness of his throat. "...that... that was something on par with the Gods..."

Someone—someone sane—burst into a laugh so brittle it might as well have been sobs.

"By the Gods, what even is this festival anymore?!"

Monstrosity? Divinity? Demoniac?

No, it had been none of those things, it had been something else entirely.

And high above them, seated in his grand private booth, Emperor Aerious did not move.

𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤.

𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞.

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥.

His eyes, usually sharp, carried a tense gaze. When he finally opened his mouth, it was only to whisper—

"I don’t think that boy can be labeled as a mere monster anymore."

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦.

And from the corner of his eye, he saw that Thordan’s gaze mirrored his own. The weight of what had just transpired bore down upon Thordan. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, the cold sweat clinging to his skin. His breath came slow and heavy, as if he feared that exhaling too quickly might somehow shatter the fragile grip he had on his own sanity.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵... 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯?

The thought clawed its way into his mind, relentless and gnawing, sinking its fangs into the foundation of his understanding. He could not shake the sight—𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵. It was burned into the marrow of his bones, a afterimage permanently etched into his mind’s eye.

𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯? 𝘋𝘰𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘴? 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘴? 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴? 𝘌𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐞𝐮𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴.

No feathered blessing, no gentle grace—only mockery. Cruel distortions of what divinity should have been, their outlines ever-shifting between reality and something far beyond. They did not fly. They loomed.

Thordan’s throat tightened. He could still feel the lingering presence of that entity, as if its existence had warped the very 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 of this world.

"What... was that?"

The words barely left his lips, more an exhalation of disbelief than an actual question. He did not expect an answer—𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦.

He did not know.

But someone did.

𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭.

Amongst the sea of shaking hands and shattered minds, amongst the choir of people desperately 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘨𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨, there was but one soul untouched by the horror of it all.

The Archbishop.

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘵, 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘵𝘺.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵.

A single, idle observation, stated with no urgency.

("Hm. An angel.")

------------------

[???]

Escaping Dante had been far more of a struggle than any of them had anticipated. His tenacity, that relentless bloodlust—he had torn through them. It had taken everything they had just to shake him off, and even then, it had not been a clean escape.

Beatrice’s arm was proof of that.

The bloody remains of her left shoulder twitched, raw and exposed to the winds. Her fingers, the ones she no longer had, ached, the phantom sensation cruel. Dante had severed it as though he were merely swatting away an insect, as if her existence had never held weight in the first place. Blood dripped through her clenched fingers, pooling in the ruined ground beneath her. She barely felt it. Not because the pain wasn’t there—it very much was—but because something else had overridden it.

A far greater horror.

The three of them stood on a high cliff, the wind howling past, their eyes had been locked onto the abomination afar. That thing—that indescribable, impossible thing—was still burned into their minds, its image etched so deeply that even in their final moments, should they ever find peace, they would still see it lurking in the corners of their vision.

It had not belonged here.

No, it had not belonged anywhere.

And yet, for one fleeting moment, it had existed.

It had been wrong.

Horribly, unforgivably wrong.

"What in the... what was that!?" Beatrice finally gasped out, her voice hoarse. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. Her remaining arm trembled as she instinctively clutched the ruined stump of her missing limb, as if she could somehow hold herself together. Her fingers dug into the open wound, but she barely reacted. The pain was irrelevant.

The memories, however, were not so kind.

That unholy image refused to leave her mind. The twisted eyes—so many of them, each layered upon the other in impossible rings, watching, screaming in silence. The wings that did not flap but rather distorted space, their presence unraveling the fabric of reality. That body—a writhing paradox, neither physical nor spiritual, neither divine nor demonic, something else entirely.

It had been looking at them.

It had been aware.

And worst of all—it had shrunk.

It had condensed.

Something so vast, so utterly incomprehensible, had been forced into a mortal shell. A reality-defying thing had been compressed into the frame of a mere human, something fragile and breakable. Something laughably small in comparison. And that fact alone...

That fact alone was more terrifying than the form itself.

Ezerald was pale. The unsettling, near-corpse-like paleness of someone who had just brushed against something they were never meant to see. She swallowed, her throat dry. Her lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out.

"I..." she exhaled, her breath unsteady. "...I couldn’t sense any mana from it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Her voice was quiet, like she was trying not to wake some monster still lurking in the shadows. "And yet... that thing radiated power. A presence unlike anything I’ve ever felt... something almost beyond even the Primordial Gods... and the Greater Dragons..."

Her body shuddered.

Her mind rebelled against the concept of what she had just seen. It did not fit. It did not belong. It was a mistake that had somehow been made real.

From beside them, Aegraxes finally spoke.

"Mikoto Yukio."

His tone was unreadable, his gaze did not waver, as if he were merely observing a natural phenomenon. As if he had already known.

Beatrice’s head snapped toward him. "That was Mikoto Yukio!?" She barked out, her breath hitching. "That—that thing!? That wasn’t a transformation! That was something out of a nightmare!"

But Aegraxes merely continued, unshaken.

"It seems he has learned Arcane Ascendance. His body could not contain it, and so, for a brief moment, his true nature was revealed. That form... it was never meant to reside on this plane. Not here, not in the mortal realm, not in any reality comprehensible to us. It is something that belongs solely to the Plain of Elysium. A domain where only the Gods and the Greater Dragons may exist and the true forms of the Ancestors. And yet he was able to create a perfect shell to contain that power."

"...He’s that strong?" Beatrice finally managed.

"Indeed." Aegraxes’ voice was quiet. Almost thoughtful. "But it stands to reason... Mikoto Yukio was never just some ’random’ mortal chosen by Octavia. His soul, from the very beginning, was wrong."

A moment passed.

Ezerald frowned. Beatrice said nothing.

Aegraxes closed his eyes.

"His soul was always dimmer. Smaller. It is a fragment." The words lingered in the air, heavier than the weight of Beatrice’s missing arm. "There are at least eight of them," Aegraxes continued, "each scattered across the realms. The Navigator Gods, Iponder how I had not known sooner."

"The Navigator? Was he not killed by the Trickster Gods?" Ezerald questioned.

The name felt foreign on her tongue, distant, as if speaking it might invoke something they were not meant to understand. A part of her wished she had never asked.

Aegraxes responded with an unreadable smile, one that carried neither warmth nor mirth—just a quiet amusement that sent a shudder down Beatrice’s spine.

"It caused Octavia great grief," he murmured, the edges of his voice curling with something almost like mockery, but not quite. "She defied Death itself to reclaim her lover’s soul."

A moment of silence followed.

The sheer absurdity of that statement hung in the air.

To defy Death.

Not evade it. Not deceive it. Not bargain with it.

But defy it.

It was an act so fundamentally impossible that even among the divine, even among the ancient beings who shaped the foundations of existence, it was unheard of.

Beatrice let out a slow, disbelieving exhale.

"That damned Goddess really is unhinged," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Her fingers twitched against the torn fabric of her blood-soaked dress, pressing unconsciously into the open wound where her arm used to be. "Who the hell thought it was possible to go against Death and actually win?"

Aegraxes continued as if she had not spoken.

"But it seems she was too late. The soul she recovered... it was broken. Fractured beyond repair. Mikoto Yukio is merely a fragment of what was once whole." Aegraxes mused. "Octavia most likely placed Mikoto Yukio’s soul within another realm before tearing him to this one."

Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath, her throat tightening at the implications.

"Then..." She swallowed, her voice nearly lost. "That means there are others?"

Aegraxes inclined his head slightly, his expression unchanging. "Most likely."

The words were simple, devoid of emotion.

"There are but seven realms in total," Aegraxes continued, "a fragment of the Navigator’s soul is no doubt within each. Though I know not of the last fragment."

Silence fell upon them again.

Beatrice clenched her jaw. Seven realms. Eight fragments.

Mikoto Yukio was not alone.

But before the weight of that revelation could settle, Aegraxes continued, his voice dropping slightly, as if already considering the next move in a game none of them had truly been playing.

"This Ascendance of Mikoto Yukio irks me. If the Ancestor of Wisdom does not succeed in killing him..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Then we will have to forcibly transfer him to the realm closest."

"Transfer him?" Beatrice echoed.

Aegraxes nodded. "Yes. Along with the Knight and the Defier."

Ezerald’s brows furrowed slightly. She knew exactly what realm he was referring to before she even spoke the words.

"The realm the dragons reside in."

"Yes," Aegraxes confirmed without hesitation. His expression did not change, but there was something final in his tone. "In due time, the two shall awaken and bring an end to those three. If not them, then little Alice might succeed."

That name.

"Alice?" Neither Beatrice nor Ezerald had ever heard that name before, but Aegraxes did not elaborate.

For the first time, he let something remain unsaid. Instead, he merely let out a slow breath, closing his eyes. "For now, enough mana has accumulated. I shall begin the first calamity. I forfeit from this festival."

The words had barely left his lips when the air around them shifted.

A deep hum vibrated through the ground beneath their feet, followed by a sudden, blinding light as a white glyph spread out beneath Aegraxes’ feet.

Beatrice barely had time to flinch before the monotone voice rang out.

"The contestant has forfeited and shall be withdrawn from the festival."

The light swallowed him.

For a fleeting moment, the entire area was bathed in a blinding white light, and when it faded—

He was gone, nothing remained, only the wind and the silence he had left behind.

Ezerald exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. "So this marks the beginning of this era’s end." Her words held no triumph, no satisfaction.

Only inevitability.

Beatrice glanced at her, something unreadable flashing in her tired red eyes. "You sound as though your heart isn’t in it."

Ezerald did not answer immediately, when she finally spoke, her voice was honest.

"I would be lying if I said it was."

Beatrice did not react. She did not admonish her, nor did she press further.

She only listened.

"Unlike you, I did not have anyone in that era," Ezerald murmured. "My birth-givers died in some meaningless squabble between a God and a Dragon. I was raised absentmindedly, but I never felt as though I fit in with our brethren."

There was no bitterness in her words. No resentment. Just a hollow acceptance of what had always been.

Beatrice stared at her for a long moment before speaking. "Then why do you support Aegraxes?"

A faint chuckle escaped Ezerald’s lips—one that held no humor, only exhaustion. "I suppose... I wanted a goal." She paused, exhaling shakily. "I... I had no one. Yet here I am, aiming to wipe out billions in order to bring back my brethren I did not even care for." Her lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Do you ever dwell on Dante’s words?"

Beatrice went still, for a long moment, she said nothing.

Then, finally—

"I would be lying if I said I wasn’t." She clicked her tongue, her fingers pressing more loosely against the bloody stump of her missing arm. "Our kind sought to abandon me just because of my nature. My decay—" her voice wavered, for just a second "—that was all I was good for. It was Arne who stood by my side, who accepted me. I... I just want Arne back."

Her voice cracked.

"Hell, I don’t even care about exacting revenge on Mikoto Yukio. Everything would be fine if Arne was at my side once more."

Ezerald did not respond.

She only watched as her brethren trembled, as her breathing grew unsteady, as the blood-soaked ground beneath her deepened in color. And in that silence, as the wind carried away their words, she could not help but wonder—

Was what they were doing truly the right path?