Trials of Champions (VI)

Chapter 269

"Oh for the love of all that is holy!" Emma growled like a crazed beast, slamming her warhammer down and splattering a skull of the creature beneath her boot, killing it instantly. She was panting and heaving, sweat dripping like a waterfall off of her as her gaze dipped down the stairs where a new wave of the phantoms was 'spawning'. "Just how many of the cocksuckers are there?! I've already killed nearly two fuckin' thousand!"

"Is... is it like a survival mode or something?" Ethan mumbled, quite terrified himself. He'd already killed six mini bosses, his speed and efficiency increasing with each kill. Nonetheless, he was already on his knees, his legs trembling, more exhausted than he had ever been before in his life.

"I can't keep up with this pace much longer," Emma said, swatting away some sweat as she quickly caught her breath, awaiting the next wave. "I'm already halfway through my Mana and even if I purposefully slow down usage, I can at most last a few more hours. Afterwards, we'll have to retreat into the city or pray to the gods this shit finally ends."

"..." Ethan blankly stared at her, his gaze one of mockery-- not because she was unable to continue, but her complete lack of awareness. She'd already lasted and killed more than a ten strongest Paladins behind her could combined, and she was barely halfway, if even that, done.

"Any new notifications?" she asked, glancing at him.

"No."

"Tsk," Emma clicked her tongue, her expression angry. "That's why I hate this fuckin' place. There's always something. A quest says 'ey, go over there and fight a guy' bam, turns out it's not a guy, it's eight guys and one of them is a fuckin' wizard that whooped our asses and just toyed with us for three hours before declaring we defeated him. Same thing here. Ey, just fight a couple hundred dudes and you're done. Bam. We're in the thousands and nowhere near done. I swear, one day, I'll take a screwdriver and slam it up whoever-desgned-this-place's ass, intentionally eschewing any points of pleasure."

"I don't think--"

"Go run through the city," she said. "See if there's anything out of place. Maybe an item, a person, anything."

"Will you be fine?"

"Ah, I'll just espouse some more curses," she said. "Y'know, I've held back for six years now. Just tamed my tongue in front of my kids. This will feel therapeutic."

"No offense," Ethan said, standing up. "But you don't look like someone who would 'tame her tongue'."

"Yeah, well," Emma chuckled. "The things we do for our kids, right? Anyway, go now. No time like the present."

Ethan sprinted into the city while Emma took a deep breath and steeled her nerves, tossing the hammer over her shoulders. It felt heavier, as did her legs. She knew it wouldn't be the Mana to get to her-- but exhaustion. She was out of shape, well out of shape. After all, even though she jogged and worked out, she hadn't fought an actual battle in six years. And running and doing push-ups and pull-ups are in no way, shape, or form substitutes in terms of physical endurance for an all-out battle of fantasy-like creatures hellbent on killing people.

Chuckling bitterly at herself and swaddling away the hair strands that had glued to her face due to sweat, she took in another deep breath, hoisting the hammer firmly. Roaring from the top of her lungs, her body turned faintly crimson as crimson-shaded shards of blood erupted from her veins, forming scarlet arms and shields about her.

She flooded forward like a torrential storm, unbound, each swing of her hammer causing a maelstorm of blood to unshackle the life itself. Each hit caused a blowback, adding on a further cone-shaped eruption of blood that swarmed and drowned the phantoms. She was unstoppable, in no uncertain terms the reaper itself amidst the sheep.

"Another one?" a voice exhaled a sigh amidst the dimmed room. "I understand the Thief... but... this is highly irregular."

"You understand the Thief?" a feminine voice scoffed. "He's been jammed in the Genesis for six decades already. Hell, I didn't even expect him to complete the Mortal Cycle."

"The Warmonger is the most curious for me," another voice joined in. "Woefully inadequate in Mana manipulation, somehow... she's learning. Rather, by now, she's purposefully not doing as the trial tasked her just so she can remain in there for longer to train."

"Everyone orbiting the Thief is strange," a commanding, deep voice boomed out, silencing everyone else. "Their base talents, though adequate, are merely above average. Nonetheless, with each step, they move past the boundaries. He is using natural means of advancing through conflict."

"Should we increase the difficulty?"

"No, tempering with the Trials cannot occur this early on," the same voice replied swiftly. "But we will have to adjust the latter Trials to reflect their surge in strength."

"... would you all stop fussing about like little bees?" an indifferent, even slightly bored voice suddenly sang out. "What's wrong with an actually talented generation, huh? I've been bored out of my mind judging the last eighteen trials. Absolutely nothing exciting happened ever since D'wwar got culled just before Ascension. And here, there's finally an opportunity! A chance for something fun to occur! Yet, all any of you can think of is... how to stop it? Damn. Am I just old?"

"You're the youngest of us all."

"Ah, so it's you who are old."

"What are you proposing? If we don't adjust, they'll all steamroll into the mid-strata."

"So what?" the indifferent voice said. "Every trial below 90th is just a plaything for the planet-natives. If they're truly talented and strong, adjusting trials would only make them stronger for the last stretch. Ride the wave, old ones. Don't you miss seeing Conquerors absolutely dominate and demolish?"

"If you looked past your personal entertainment, you would understand that unhanding them is too dangerous," the commanding voice said. "There is already a massive hold-up at the Demigod level. If it were up to me, I would ensure nobody Ascends."

"Oh, pardon me for not engaging in the hollow politics of the worlds," the indifferent voice scoffed. "Rapture is imminent, regardless of whether we have some fun or not. Especially with that last Divine dogging everything and everyone. Nonetheless, it has nothing to do with us. Our job is just to ensure that the Trials are fair and smooth-sailing. If we graduate a few more loonies, so be it. We may as well usher in the next age a few cycles quicker."

"Blasphemy!"

"Ah, he's right," a feminine voice said. "It's pointless to argue. Besides, there's only so much we can do. And that guy's likely going to clear the Genesis."

"Hah, that's a stretch. There's no way he's completing the Genesis."

"I'm smelling a b--"

"Wanna bet?"

"Always."

"Eight trillion judgment stones!"

"Fine. Anyone else want to jump in?"

"... ah, sure. Count me for eight as well. That he's going to fail."

"Put me down for ten that he will pass."

"Same."

"Fifteen that he will fail."

"..." K'tel stared at the dealing hands and smiled inwardly. The entire discussion was just a roundabout way of getting to here-- whether the Thief would complete the Genesis Cycle or not. Though his companions were certainly well ahead of the curve, in the end, he was the primordial anomaly. Within every simulation they ran ever since the Grand Reset, the Thief had never done all that well.

Knowledge, in the end, was not a substitute for every other aspect for what made one a Conqueror. Not to mention that the Thief's memories were, at best... muddy. The furthest he ever got was forty-fourth floor and even that was after mightily struggling.

Yet, with each month that had passed, the simulations changed. They kept being adjusted, over and over. Even if the Thief fails the Genesis, he's still projected to, at the minimum, challenge the Grand Guardian. And if he, somehow, endures the Cycle... there's no telling. Rather, simulations there cease to matter since the sheer impact of one enduring the Cycle cannot physically be calculated.

While the peak of the Mortal Cycle is solely about physical and mental endurance as well as the raw Mana manipulation and moment-to-moment judgment, the Genesis Cycle... is different. If the Mortal Cycle tests the peak of talent, then the Genesis Cycle tests the peak itself.

K'tel had never witnessed anyone endure the entire Cycle; in fact, of all those on this table, only one person did-- Head Judge A'nned. He never spoke of it, despite the innumerable times he was asked.

But, right now, everyone here was witnessing that potential-- though it was merely six decades, a literal star amidst the universe, it was the beginning. And for a strange reason, deep in his soul, past all the rational judgment... K'tel believed. Though he could rationalize it, claiming that anyone who had an actual Divine interested in them would naturally have the chance of passing, it went well beyond that.

The Thief had beaten the odds every single time-- and every single time, they were stacked against him. He was not meant for greatness; a paltry man, he was projected to fizzle out swiftly and quickly, making way for others. It was meant to be yet another run-of-the-mill, boring, uneventful generation of Conquerors... and it was, the last run. There were no stand-outs, no potential victors, nobody who caught anyone's eye. And yet, his return changed everything.

There were at least nineteen Demigod candidates, Conquerors with the potential to Ascend. And the world started with flat none. And if the Thief conquers the Cycle... his projection will likely land him squarely in the lands of the Divine. K'tel's lips curled up into a smile of excitement and expectation; though the job of a Judge was easy and painless, it was one of the most boring ones as well. Not anymore. That's why, despite all his teachings, he rooted for the Thief, rooted for the man who upstaged all expectations to conquer the unconquerable. To endure the entire Cycle. The length of the life of the entire universe that he had become. The length that even he, a Judge, couldn't fathom and that only the long-standing, mythical Divines could.

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