The Life After Death

  Chapter 20: The Weight of Power

  The next morning, Asmodean wasted no time. Before I even had a chance to finish the last sip of my water, he set his cup down and looked at me with that familiar, knowing smirk.

  "Alright, boy. Enough sitting around," he announced, stretching his arms. "We start today."

  I frowned, groaning dramatically as I pushed my cup aside. "Start what? Old man, please, just let me rest for once. I barely survived yesterday."

  He gave me a pointed look. "Survive? You sat in one place for hours absorbing a single manaheart. Hardly life-threatening."

  I shot him a glare. "My body says otherwise."

  Asmodean chuckled. "Well, your body better adjust quickly. From now on, we will focus on three things—mana refinement, controlling your magic seamlessly, and perhaps most importantly, learning how to conceal your manaheart."

  I blinked at him, rubbing the back of my neck. "Okay… but how exactly are we going to do all of that?"

  He gave me a sharp look, as if I should’ve already figured it out. "Simple. We will refine your manaheart every morning and evening. You will meditate, stretch your awareness, and learn to control its flow until it becomes second nature. As for your magic, you will no longer train them separately. I will drill you in moving between them naturally, without hesitation. And lastly, you will learn to suppress your presence—because the strongest don’t always announce themselves."

  I frowned. "Suppress my presence? You mean like how you disappear sometimes?"

  Asmodean smirked. "Exactly. If you want to stay alive when real threats come, you need to learn how to vanish without moving a step."

  I sighed, leaning back. "Great. So, in summary—I get no breaks, I get to be miserable, and I have to figure out how to not exist? Sounds fun."

  I paused, then squinted at him. "Wait a second… why the sudden enthusiasm to train me this hard? It’s not like I’m going to be fighting anything down here. What gives?"

  Asmodean’s expression shifted—not dramatically, but enough. The faint humour in his smile softened, replaced by a seriousness I rarely saw in him.

  "Boy," he said, tapping his staff lightly against the ground, "you’re a quadra-affinity mage. Do you understand what that means? If you try to use all four elements without proper training, you could drain your mana in seconds—or worse, your elements could clash and tear your body apart from the inside."

  I blinked. "…Oh. That sounds mildly important."

  "Mildly?" he snorted. "If you don’t learn to handle them properly, the drawbacks will cripple you. Your affinities aren’t toys. They demand discipline, control, and balance. That’s why you train—not because I enjoy tormenting you… though that is a nice bonus." He smirked.

  I stared at him, still waiting. He sighed.

  "And another reason," he added, voice dropping. "I want you ready for any danger that comes your way. Whether you see it coming or not." His gaze lingered on me with an unexpected softness. "Think of it as… my way of protecting you, boy."

  I swallowed, unsure how to respond. The old man rarely said anything that genuine. For a moment, I simply stared at him, the weight of his words settling in my chest.

  And so, my days became an unyielding routine of discipline.

  Morning and evening, I sat in stillness, refining my manaheart, stretching my awareness as far as I could. Each session left me drained, but I could feel the difference with every passing day—my manaheart strengthening, becoming more responsive.

  It was different now. Stronger, heavier, almost as if a second pulse had formed inside me. But more than that, I could tell Asmodean had me refining my manaheart differently than before.

  The way he had me channel it, the control he forced me to develop—it wasn't like when I first started. The shift from the Dawn to Sunstone was undeniable, but it wasn’t just the mana itself that had changed. It was how I used it, how I felt it. Asmodean wasn’t just making me stronger; he was making me intentional, precise.

  "Sit up straight, boy," he would say, nudging my back when I slouched. "Spine aligned, shoulders relaxed. Your breath must flow with your mana, not fight against it."

  Every session began the same way—legs crossed, hands resting gently on my knees, palms facing upward. My breathing had to be steady, controlled.

  Inhale, expand the mana, let it circulate. Exhale, refine it, condense the energy into something more efficient. The process required more than just focus; it demanded patience, discipline.

  "Push too hard, and you'll scatter your mana like dust in the wind. Too soft, and it stagnates, useless," Asmodean would remind me, watching carefully. "Find the balance, boy. Control it. Make it yours."

  It wasn’t easy. At first, my mana resisted, flaring wildly as if rejecting my command. My breath would hitch, frustration would rise, and Asmodean would only shake his head. "You're forcing it again. Feel it, boy. Guide it. Not everything is meant to be beaten into submission."

  After weeks of practice, the shift became undeniable. My manaheart no longer felt foreign or unstable. It was settling, responding to my will in ways it never had before. For the first time, I wasn’t just manipulating mana—I was becoming part of it.

  "It’s a strange thing, isn’t it?" Asmodean said one morning, catching me staring at my hands. "The feeling of power settling into your bones."

  I nodded slowly, flexing my fingers as I exhaled. "It doesn’t feel like it did before. It’s... anchored. Like it’s truly mine now."

  Asmodean grinned. "And about damn time, too. I was starting to think you were going to stay weak forever."

  I scowled. "Old man, if you’re going to insult me, at least let me enjoy my newfound power first."

  He laughed, the deep, hearty kind that always managed to catch me off guard. "Fair enough, boy. But power’s only as good as the one who wields it. Now, let’s see if that Sunstone manaheart of yours can actually back up your words."

  In between my mana refinement, Asmodean pushed me to harness all four elements in fluid succession, forcing me to break free from the rigid structure I had relied on before.

  No longer was I allowed to treat them as separate forces—I had to weave them together, moving from one to the next without hesitation.

  "You’ve been thinking of them as tools," Asmodean said, watching me struggle. "That’s your mistake. Fire, water, earth, air—they are not things you use; they are extensions of yourself. Move between them as you move your limbs. Make them part of your instincts."

  It was a frustrating process. My mind fought against the idea of switching freely, of treating them as one cohesive force instead of individual powers. Every time I tried, it felt like my body was fighting itself—fire clashing with water, earth resisting air. But Asmodean was relentless, making me repeat the exercises over and over, forcing me to break past the rigid way I had been using them.

  "You're thinking too much," he would say, shaking his head with a sigh. "Stop over analyzing and let it flow, boy."

  Some days were worse than others. I would send out a burst of fire only for it to fizzle into steam as water surged unintentionally. A gust of wind meant to push forward would instead stir the earth beneath me, throwing off my stance.

  Frustration boiled over more than once, leading to me shouting at Asmodean that this was impossible. He only ever responded with that amused smirk.

  "Impossible? Boy, you're doing it right now. You just don’t realize it yet."

  "Your manaheart is like a muscle," he reminded me for what felt like the hundredth time. "Neglect it, and it weakens. Train it, and it grows stronger."

  And, eventually, he was right. Slowly, without me even noticing at first, I began to transition between the elements without having to think.

  The shift became smoother, the hesitation disappeared, and instead of battling for dominance, the elements wove together, feeding off one another.

  At first, it was subtle—barely noticeable. A gust of wind would no longer disrupt my control of fire, instead fuelling it, bending it into something more refined. Water didn’t just douse flames—it cooled them, shaped them, turned them into something I could use rather than something that opposed me. Earth became more than just a foundation—it was the very anchor that stabilized my shifting control.

  One day, during a session near the stream, I instinctively lifted my hands, letting the mana flow freely. A stream of fire burst to life in one palm while water spiralled in the other. Instead of cancelling each other out, they moved in harmony, intertwining as if they had always belonged together. The moment was fleeting, but I felt it—a connection deeper than anything I had known before.

  Asmodean, watching from his usual spot, let out a low chuckle. "There it is," nodding approvingly. "You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling it."

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  Excitement surged through me. "I—I did it, didn’t I?" Staring at my hands in disbelief.

  For a moment, he was silent, his crimson eyes studying me. Then, with a satisfied nod, he smirked. "Hmph. Took you long enough."

  I let out a breathless laugh. "Old man, just admit it—I did good."

  Asmodean exhaled through his nose, walking over and resting a firm hand on my head, ruffling my hair in the most unceremonious way possible. "Aye, boy. You did good."

  I blinked at him, momentarily stunned. It was the first time he had ever openly acknowledged my progress like that. For all his taunts, all his lessons, there was something undeniably warm in that moment.

  That night, as we sat by the fire, Asmodean handed me an extra portion of berries without a word. I smirked. "So this is your version of a reward?"

  He chuckled. "Eat, boy."

  "One successful attempt doesn’t mean you’ve mastered it. You still look like a toddler stumbling around. But… you’re getting there."

  I grinned despite his jab. For the first time, it felt real—like I was finally starting to understand what he had been trying to teach me all this time.

  It wasn’t about controlling them. It was about understanding them. Letting them move as one, letting them become part of me.

  Another skill he hammered into me was the art of suppressing my mana.

  "Anyone with a strong manaheart leaves an imprint. If you wish to walk unseen, you must learn to bury your presence."

  This was by far the hardest lesson. The idea of actively concealing my manaheart felt counterintuitive. I had spent months learning how to control and refine it—now I had to suppress it entirely, make it disappear as if it never existed.

  "It’s about willpower," Asmodean explained, crouching beside me as I struggled to follow his instructions. "Your mana is like your breath. If you do not control it, others will hear it. Silence it, boy, and no one will know you’re there."

  But it wasn’t as easy as just thinking about it. The moment I tried to suppress my mana, it fought against me, flaring up instead of shrinking down. It was like trying to hold my breath without gasping for air. I gritted my teeth, forcing my mana inward, only to have it surge back up like an uncontrollable tide.

  "Again," Asmodean ordered, his voice patient but firm. "You're shoving it down forcefully. That won't work. It's like pressing your hand against water—it will always push back. Instead, make it still."

  Still? How the hell was I supposed to do that? I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "This is impossible."

  Asmodean smirked. "Then it’s a good thing we have time, isn’t it? Let’s make it more interesting."

  And just like that, my training became a game of hide and seek.

  Every day, Asmodean would tell me to suppress my mana, then vanish without a trace. The challenge was simple—find him before he found me. But that was easier said than done. He moved without sound, his presence completely undetectable, blending into the cavern like a shadow. Meanwhile, I stuck out like a beacon, my mana humming loudly in the air.

  Some days, I thought I was making progress, only for Asmodean to appear behind me, knocking me over with his staff. "Dead," he would say simply before walking off.

  Other times, I tried holding my breath as if that would somehow help, only for him to chuckle from the darkness.

  Are you trying to pass out, boy? That’s one way to disappear, I suppose. His voice echoed in my head.

  It took weeks of constant effort, of failing over and over again, before something clicked.

  One evening, as I focused harder than ever, I felt it—my manaheart, instead of resisting, simply settled. It was different this time. I wasn’t forcing it down, wasn’t trying to suppress it like an uncooperative force fighting back.

  Instead, I let it slow, let it ease into silence as if it had always belonged there. It was like holding my breath, but without tension—like melting into the space around me rather than standing against it.

  The air around me shifted. The weight of my presence faded. And then, something remarkable happened—I couldn’t feel myself anymore. The hum of my mana, the constant thrum I had always been aware of, was gone. It was as if I had stepped outside of myself, dissolving into the cavern like mist. I felt weightless, like a shadow among the rocks.

  And then, for the first time, I heard Asmodean curse under his breath.

  His crimson eyes flickered with something I had never seen before—genuine surprise. He glanced around, his head tilting slightly, his gaze sweeping the cavern as if searching for something. For me.

  "Well, well... you actually did it," stepping into view. He hadn’t been able to sense me. Not at all. A slow grin spread across my face as the realization hit me. I had vanished from his awareness entirely.

  "Took me long enough, right?" my voice light with excitement as I released the suppression and let my mana flood back into me.

  For a moment, he was silent, still watching me with that unreadable expression. Then, with a satisfied nod, he smirked. "Hmph. Didn’t think you had it in you."

  Instead of his usual sharp retort, he placed a hand on my shoulder, gripping it firmly. "Good work, boy."

  I blinked at him, stunned.

  I looked away, suddenly embarrassed. "You’re just saying that because you finally lost."

  He chuckled. "Maybe. Or maybe you’re finally starting to understand."

  Through it all, Asmodean remained the same—cryptic, firm, but undeniably present. But there were moments, ones unspoken, that made him feel more like family than just a mentor.

  During the coldest nights, when the cavern air bit through even my thickest layers, I would wake up to find his tattered cloak draped over me.

  At first, I thought nothing of it, assuming I had pulled it over myself in my sleep. But one night, curiosity got the better of me. I kept one eye half-open, pretending to sleep, and caught him in the act—silently placing the cloak over me before stepping back toward the fire, his expression unreadable in the dim glow. He never said a word about it, and neither did I. But in that quiet moment, as I felt the warmth settle around me, I knew it meant something.

  Then there were the lessons that weren’t about magic or strength. One evening, when I sat beside him rubbing my sore arms, he picked up a jagged stone and began carving something into it.

  His movements were slow, deliberate, as if shaping the stone helped him shape his thoughts. The fire crackled between us, casting flickering shadows along the cavern walls.

  "When you can’t fight, you prepare. When you can’t prepare, you endure. And when you can’t endure—" he tossed the stone aside, "—you find another way."

  I frowned, shifting where I sat. "And if there is no other way?"

  Asmodean let out a breath, his gaze locked onto the flames. "There’s always another way. You just have to be willing to see it. Most fail not because they lack strength, but because they refuse to look beyond what they know."

  I mulled over his words, letting the weight of them settle. "Is that something you learned? Or something you lived?"

  For the first time, he didn’t have a sharp remark. Instead, he merely glanced at the stone he had tossed aside, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee. "Both."

  I studied him, watching the way his gaze lingered on the fire, distant in a way I had never seen before. There was weight behind that word, something more than just an answer—it was an admission. A truth carried on his shoulders for far longer than I had been alive.

  His fingers stilled against his knee. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he exhaled, slow and measured. "Sometimes, boy, there is no difference."

  A chill crawled down my spine, though the fire burned hot between us. I wanted to push, to ask what he meant, but I knew better. This was one of those moments—the kind where words didn’t explain everything, and asking more wouldn’t get me anywhere. So I sat there, staring at the flickering flames, letting the silence stretch between us.

  For once, I didn’t need an answer. I already understood.

  There were no grand speeches, no overt words of wisdom, just moments—small, fleeting, and yet more telling than anything else.

  Time slipped by faster than I had expected. The training, the rituals, the relentless discipline—each day blurred into the next. Before I realized it, the fifth month was upon me, bringing with it an unsettling realization.

  Asmodean had been quieter lately. His sharp remarks softened, his movements slower. At first, I thought nothing of it—until I truly noticed. The way he exhaled heavier after standing, how his hands trembled just slightly when he thought I wasn’t looking. The air around him, once filled with an unmistakable presence, felt... thinner.

  I convinced myself I was imagining it. He was Asmodean—the strongest presence I had ever known, the one who had pushed me to my limits and beyond.

  But the signs were undeniable.

  I began noticing the small things; the extra moments he took to rise to his feet, the way he leaned a little heavier on his staff when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. Even his laughter, once sharp and unwavering, now carried the weight of something deeper.

  One evening, after an exhausting training session, I caught him sitting by the fire, staring at his own hands. His fingers flexed slightly, as if testing their own strength, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  "Old man, what's wrong?"

  His head lifted slightly, his crimson eyes meeting mine. For a moment, I thought he might tell me. Instead, he smirked, his usual confidence slipping back into place like a mask. "Worried about me, boy?"

  I crossed my arms, scowling. "No. Just making sure you don’t drop dead before my training is finished."

  He let out a chuckle, but it lacked its usual bite. "Hmph. Cheeky brat."

  The tension passed, but the unease remained. I started paying closer attention after that—watching the way he moved, the way he would sit a little longer by the fire after our training, how his exasperated sighs came more often.

  But no matter how much I wanted to push, I knew better. Asmodean didn’t talk about himself unless he wanted to. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he had to say.

  Then, one night, we sat by the fire, our usual routine. The warmth flickered against the cavern walls, the faint sound of the stream humming in the background. But something was different.

  The mana around us felt lighter, thinner, as if the air itself had lost a weight I hadn’t realized was always there. For weeks, I had been sensing the shift, noticing how Asmodean no longer carried the same overwhelming presence. It was as if he had stopped suppressing himself entirely—only instead of feeling stronger, he felt... diminished.

  I had told myself it was just his focus on the rift, that he was drawing from the surrounding mana to create my way out. But now, as I sat across from him, I couldn’t ignore the gnawing thought in the back of my mind. Had he gathered too much?

  I grinned, trying to shake off the unease as I retold one of my early training failures, expecting his usual sharp remarks.

  Instead, his breathing was slower than before. I told myself it was nothing, but something gnawed at the back of my mind. The firelight flickered against his face, and for the first time, he looked… tired. Not just physically. Something deeper.

  Asmodean’s smirk faltered. His shoulders slumped slightly. And then—he collapsed.

  My breath caught as he fell backward, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. The crackling fire and the faint whispers of the stream were the only sounds that remained.

  "Old man?" I called out, scrambling to my feet. "Asmodean!"

  I barely took a step before a strange pressure built in my skull, like something unseen was pressing against me. My vision blurred at the edges, the cavern walls distorting.

  Then—searing pain exploded through my skull. A white-hot sting, like something had pierced straight into my mind, sent me crashing to my knees.

  I gasped, clutching my head as agony tore through me. A scream ripped from my throat, but it was drowned out by the sudden flood of images flashing through my mind.

  Chaos. Terror. Shadows stretching across a ruined landscape.

  Screams—endless, desperate screams, mingled with the scent of blood and fire. I saw figures running, stumbling, falling, consumed by something unseen.

  I felt it all. Fear. Pain. Survival. Death. And through the nightmare, a voice—soft yet urgent, cutting through the madness.

  "Save them."

  It was a woman’s voice, distant yet familiar, like a whisper carried in the wind. And then—silence.

  I gasped, my body trembling as I wrenched myself back into reality, drenched in sweat, my breath ragged. My limbs felt weak, my mind still reeling from whatever I had just seen. My stomach churned, my fingers digging into the cold cavern floor as I forced myself forward.

  What was that? What the hell is going on?

  Shaking, I crawled toward Asmodean, my vision still swimming. He laid motionless, his breathing slow, too slow. I grit my teeth, summoning whatever strength I had left, and hooked my arms beneath his shoulders.

  Straining, I dragged him toward the nearest rock, struggling to steady my own body as I pulled him close. I let his head rest against my lap, my own chest rising and falling in ragged gasps.

  The fire flickered beside us, the cavern eerily quiet. My pulse still pounded in my ears, my mind trying to make sense of the vision, of Asmodean’s collapse, of everything.

  But exhaustion took over before I could think any further. My head tilted back against the cold stone, my hands still resting against Asmodean’s shoulders, and before I knew it, my body gave in.

  Eyes fluttering shut, I drifted into unconsciousness, the last thing lingering in my mind—Asmodean.