Echoes of the Abyssal Blade: Path to Free Will-Chapter 67: Simmering Volcano

Upon stepping onto the sixth level, Jonan could feel the pressure reaching deep into his very soul, however, the changes were not as drastic as when he had ascended from the fourth to the fifth step.

His movements were once again restricted, but this time the nature of the pressure was different, while his physical body still experienced some strain, it was minimal in comparison, the true threat now was psychological, and it was the overwhelming fear that gripped him in his heart.

This fear was not ordinary, had he still been at the second or third step, he would have likely fainted from sheer terror, even without the added burden of physical pressure, the fear he now faced went beyond simple emotion; it began to induce vivid hallucinations, if his focus wavered for even a moment, he risked being pulled into a fear-induced illusion—an experience that could prove catastrophic.

Master Vega had warned him about these hidden attacks in the later steps, while the spiritual pressure on the body was formidable, it was the subtle, invisible mental assaults that posed the greatest danger, these could not be easily resisted, and recovery from them was often impossible.

Jonan could feel the harrowing effects of this fear gnawing at his soul on the sixth step. Yet, the reason he maintained a calm expression was due to his earlier breakthrough, where he had surpassed the limit of his intelligence attribute.

After a brief pause, Jonan was forced to sit down and center himself, he could feel his thoughts beginning to drift, but he knew he had to persevere, losing control now could plunge him into a mental abyss, one from which he might never return—his mind reduced to a vegetative state.

After a few moments of controlled breathing and sheer willpower, Jonan steadied himself, his mind was still under siege, but the worst of the hallucinations had passed, he was barely holding on—mentally threading the needle between madness and clarity, yet, somewhere within him, the determination to move forward blazed like a dying flame refusing to be extinguished.

And then, he rose, with slow, deliberate steps, he moved toward the seventh step.

As soon as the sole of his foot touched it, a violent shift rippled through his being there was no immediate crushing pressure like in the earlier stages, this time, the sensation was something far more insidious—like invisible hands reached into his core and began twisting him from the inside out.

He gasped, not from pain alone, but from the raw, disorienting violation of his very essence. Every muscle trembled, not underweight, but from a warping force that bent not just body and soul, but intention and emotion.

Fear was still there—it clung to him like an oil slick over his skin, but something new had awakened.

Anger.

It seeped into his bones like molten iron, slow and scorching, it wasn’t planted there by anyone, no—it had always been inside him, it was repressed, contained, and locked away due to his soft nature.

But now, the seventh step was tearing through those mental locks, and releasing his suppressed anger akin to to a breaking dam.

The memories flooded back, sharper than ever before, they were haunting and disturbing.

He saw Elias, who he considered to be a very rationale old man with a sense of humor, falling under the black ichor of the Monarch in the cursed front lines, he remembered Marla’s pale expression, while she was held on tight by Edric before they vanished in the Dark Tide, and his missing friends, with whom, he was always joking, playing and fooling around with them, they were his true friends, whom he desperately missed, and now, the guilt, the loss, the injustice of it all, coalesced into a singular inferno.

His fists clenched unconsciously, nails digging into the flesh of his palms until they bled, and his breath turned ragged, the pressure wasn’t just physical anymore—it was affecting his mental state, the spiritual pressure, as Master Vega had warned, was not just a test of strength, but a crucible for the soul, now it reached into the deepest corners of his mind and pulled forth the very worst of him.

And it was working, if it was on the battlefield, and if the enemy could bring forth such hidden repressed emotions in a warrior, a second wasted would be enough to decide the outcome of the battle.

Jonan could feel his sanity fraying at the edges.

Why should I be calm?

Why did they have to die?

I should burn this entire castle down!

The thoughts weren’t his—or rather, they were his, but they were twisted, and amplified, the seventh step was drawing on his unresolved grief and channeling it into an unrelenting fury, his mind was no longer a sanctuary but a battlefield, he grit his teeth, trying to summon reason, he had broken through the intelligence attribute limit, which is why he could control his sanity and beware of it for a bit, unfortunately, he was losing his mind little by little, but faster.

And it did—but only barely.

The boost in mental resilience helped him see what was happening, he recognized the manipulation and the distortions of thought, but recognition was not immunity, with every second, it became harder to distinguish between real thoughts and conjured rage.

His eyes were red now—not from strain, but from sheer emotional overload, the whites were bloodshot, and the irises pulsed with a dim, eerie glow, his breathing grew deeper, heavier, almost bestial, at one point, he nearly screamed—not from pain, but from the overwhelming need to let it all out, to cry, to howl, to destroy.

But he didn’t, and he tried controlling himself.

He dropped to his knees on the seventh step, a low, guttural growl escaped his throat, followed by a shudder that rippled down his spine, he knew that if he didn’t calm himself now, it would be over, he couldn’t lose himself in entirety.

Master Vega’s voice echoed in his memory, calm but absolute:

"The seventh step is not about pressure. It is about distortion. Your emotions will be turned against you. And if you give in, you will not return the same man." 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

Jonan clutched his head with both hands, fighting to filter his thoughts, he used the intelligence attribute’s clarity like a shield, forming a mental bulwark around his sanity, he tried to visualize memories—not of loss, but of hope, the way his friends had laughed and enjoyed each other’s company, their hunts that they went on, whilst enjoying their life, and his moments with his cohort was not much, but they did help him in escorting him to the front lines, and they went through quite life and death experiences, like with the abomination, where they were certain of their death and worst of all, it was due to him, they were all forced to be on such a dangerous mission, where they eventually lost their lives.

He clung to those moments, using them as anchors.

But the spiritual pressure was relentless.

The anger turned inward.

You didn’t save them.

You were weak.

You’re still weak.

His body trembled violently, blood dripped from his nose, his ears, and even the corners of his eyes, the pressure was not just twisting him, it was scouring him, looking for something to break.

He screamed then—not in surrender, but defiance.

A guttural roar shattered the silence of the realm, the air trembled, and the red in his eyes began to dim—not because the anger left, but because he was taking control of it.

"I know I’m angry!" he shouted to no one and everyone. "I should be! But that rage belongs to me! And I will use it where it will really be needed!"

For a moment, it felt like the step recoiled, the pressure lessened—not vanished, but acknowledged his resistance.

He didn’t stand up, not yet.

He stayed there, breathing hard, his shoulders shaking, but something had changed, the thoughts were still dark, still violent, but they no longer surged uncontrollably, he had managed to tame the rage.

Sweat soaked his robes, mixing with streaks of blood and grime, he had aged in spirit, no doubt. Something inside him had cracked—but not broken.

Jonan opened his eyes, now steady, the glow receding, the silence around him seemed almost respectful now, like the spiritual pressure itself had acknowledged his endurance, his control over his anger couldn’t be seen, but he could feel now that he would be better in controlling his anger now.

But he knew this was far from over.

If the seventh step had drawn outrage, what awaited him on the eighth?

He glanced forward, the next step looming above him like the open maw of a beast, waiting patiently, he sat down for some time, adjusting himself, and then after standing up, he retreated.

The next day he crossed all the steps and was sitting again at the seventh step, and he had made up his mind to move forward either way despite his fear.

He was still on his knees, but his head was high.

And slowly, he rose again, moving forward to the eighth step.