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Book 4 - Chapter 53: Endless Struggles [1]

  Scott’s gaze drifted back toward the shadows. Just like before, their forms remained indiscernible—wisps moving like smoke in the fog. Then his eyes settled on the blacksmith.

  He posed a question. “What are those exactly? And why didn’t you stop the ones in my previous weapons from leaving?”

  The blacksmith met the question with a lazy, indifferent gleam. His eyes briefly flicked to the drifting shadows before returning to Scott.

  “Some call them the essence of a great weapon,” he began, his tone didactic. “Soul. Ego. Essence. The term doesn’t matter—across timelines, it’s all the same. Once a weapon loses its shell, the ego can’t be contained—not without risking self-destruction or corruption. Either would diminish their value. So, they’re set free. If you want them back…” he paused, “you’ll have to earn it. They must recognize you. They can’t be forced. Many have tried. Many more will. But it always ends in failure.”

  Scott’s brows furrowed. He turned his attention back to the retreating shadows.

  Does that mean I’ve lost all the abilities tied to the Chains of the Abyss? He remembered how he’d retrieved the chain, how it had been transformed by the nihilistic zone.

  Wasn’t it bound to me?

  His eyes returned to the blacksmith. “So depending on which ego I retrieve… the properties of my new weapons could change drastically, right?”

  “That’s a crude and simplistic way of looking at it,” the blacksmith replied. “But you’re not wrong.”

  Scott’s gaze lingered on the divine ores. “These materials… Can weapons forged from them kill gods?”

  For the first time, a smile curled the blacksmith’s lips.

  “What a dangerous question,” he said, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Do you think gods are chickens to be slaughtered so easily?” He crossed his arms, amusement dancing across his scarred features. “While it’s possible to slay a god, it’s no simple feat.”

  The smile faded.

  “Even your previous incarnation needed the might of the council—and the…”

  He stopped, as if realizing he had wandered too far. A moment passed. He exhaled, then resumed, voice quieter.

  “If you wield enough power… yes, you can slay a god. But that’s not something the current you should be worrying about.”

  Scott didn’t respond. He simply stared.

  So there were others involved in the death of the former Mad God… beyond the gods themselves. Who were they?

  While his thoughts spiraled, the blacksmith’s voice cut through again.

  “That’s enough talk. Tell me—will you attempt to retrieve the egos, or should I forge your order without them?”

  Scott’s brows pulled together. “How do you retrieve them? Is it possible to gather more than one for a single weapon?”

  “Yes,” the blacksmith answered flatly. “But I have no intention of telling you how to retrieve them. The current you has no chance. Don’t underestimate them.”

  Scott frowned, turning back to the shadows. Are they really that powerful?

  Aside from the constant sense of being watched, he couldn’t feel a shred of energy from them. Nothing threatening. Nothing… present.

  His gaze returned to the blacksmith. “Then what must I do to be considered ready?”

  The blacksmith grinned once more, and this time, his scars writhed like living worms across his face.

  “Another pointless question,” he said, derisive. “You already know what you must do. If you don’t… then forget about ever retrieving them.”

  With that, the blacksmith produced his hammer from thin air and resumed striking the ore on the anvil.

  Scott watched in silence.

  It didn’t take him long to understand what the blacksmith meant.

  Fuck… he cursed internally, his expression souring. Do I really have to go back there so soon?

  His mind conjured the chaos beyond the sand dunes—hundreds, maybe thousands of versions of himself rampaging through the desolate stretch in an endless, brutal struggle for supremacy.

  Even though the Guardian had sealed the cracks in that space, Scott had no interest in returning. Not yet. Not so soon.

  His gaze shifted between the drifting shadows and the open case of divine ores.

  Then he looked at the blacksmith again.

  He doesn’t seem like the type to bullshit. If he says the egos can make the weapons stronger, there’s no reason to doubt him.

  The only question is—what should I do?

  The thought of Zara and the others being awake tugged at his sense of urgency. He wanted to leave. Quickly. But… opportunities like this didn’t come often.

  If I settle for a normal forging, I’ll still walk away with something incredible—but not the best. And like the Guardian said, I’ll have to confront that thing behind the door before I cross the Point of No Return.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Scott’s thoughts swirled as the rhythmic sound of hammer strikes echoed through the enclave.

  Whether I do it now or later… it won’t matter. I’m stuck here until the war hammer and chains are finished. There’s no telling how long that’ll take…

  His expression darkened.

  No matter what I choose, I’ll be wasting time. So rather than sitting on my ass—now, more than ever, might be the right moment to confront it.

  Scott’s hands balled into fists, his resolve hardening. I can’t keep avoiding this. Let’s settle it now—once and for all.

  The hammer blows ceased. Silence followed. Then the blacksmith’s voice rang out, steady and deep.

  “Good,” he praised. “One should live with resolve. So what if the trial exceeds your capabilities? As long as you breathe, you can hope. And as long as hope exists, a way forward will always emerge. Remember that... and good luck.”

  Clank. Clank.

  The rhythmic hammering resumed.

  Scott focused on the sound for a moment, then exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

  One breath—Clank.

  Another breath—Clank.

  The echoes gradually faded, giving way to low murmurs that steadily intensified.

  Whispers became shouts. Shouts twisted into war cries and screams of anguish. Explosions erupted—deafening, countless in number—their shockwaves rumbling beneath Scott’s feet. The stench of blood, smoke, rotting corpses, and ash clawed into his nostrils.

  Scott opened his eyes.

  The misty realm of grey and shifting shadows had vanished, replaced by a battlefield of despair. Corpses sprawled as far as the eye could see—countless in number, each bearing his own face. The sky overhead pulsed with madness, lit only by a singular celestial body—a blackened moon, burning silently in the void.

  It loomed above the carnage, its sick radiance stoking the fires of slaughter and chaos.

  Scott lowered his gaze.

  A pool of blackened liquid—thicker than tar, more viscous than blood—stretched before him. It led directly to a massive door bound by thousands of chains. Two colossal silhouettes flanked either side of the door, unmoving.

  He exhaled again and stepped forward.

  As if recognizing his intent, the corpses blocking his path sank into the black pool without resistance. The twisted doppelg?ngers around him—incarnations of his own fractured emotions—remained locked in savage battle, consumed by madness.

  Step by step, Scott moved forward.

  Above, the black moon pulsed—and the all-seeing eye opened.

  The towering guardians stirred.

  With slow, deliberate movements, they began to unravel the chains that bound the door.

  Scott didn’t stop. He kept walking, eyes fixed ahead.

  The door creaked open—barely an inch—and a colossal pressure descended.

  Corpses ruptured into inky mist. The battling incarnations collapsed into prostration, their forms disintegrating with tortured wails.

  Then came the tendrils—hundreds of thousands—snaking out from the thin crack in the door. They paused, hovering before Scott... then pivoted toward the remaining incarnations.

  Scott stood motionless, watching.

  The prostrating figures trembled violently under the tendrils’ scrutiny. Yet somehow, they held together.

  Then—like puppets answering a hidden master—they began to rise.

  The chains loosened further. The door opened wider.

  More tendrils emerged, coiling around the risen incarnations. Cracks spread across their forms, glowing black. Their movements grew stiff—mechanical.

  Another deafening clank echoed.

  The door now stood halfway open.

  From the darkness beyond, countless eyes, each resembling the all-seeing one above, blinked into view—watching, unblinking.

  The altered incarnations began their approach, shambling toward Scott like puppets on strings.

  Still, Scott didn’t move. He drew in a breath, eyes focused. This is only the beginning. There's still so much more—

  Suddenly, something yanked him down.

  The inky pool surged, swallowing him whole.

  Beneath the surface, the darkness teemed with corpses—shattered remnants devoured by the abyss. They swam toward him in eerie silence, clawing with rotted hands, dragging him deeper.

  Scott twisted, landing a punch that caved in a skull. His elbow shattered another as he kicked free, propelling himself upward.

  Above, the burning moon shone like a beacon.

  Below, the dead surged after him.

  I can breathe just fine… but it still hurts like hell. I need to get out. Now.

  He broke the surface, gasping for air—just in time to see a boot descending toward his forehead.

  He raised his arm instinctively.

  Crack!

  The impact smashed him back into the dark. He reeled, limbs flailing, and the swarm closed in—hundreds of thousands of corpses leveraging one another to drag him deeper into the abyss.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! The pattern changed, Scott cursed inwardly, staring at the tendril-controlled incarnations standing above the point of his descent. And the crack’s closing… slowly, but surely.

  If that thing seals, I’m fucked. He grit his teeth. I can’t afford to waste time.

  But his limbs were bound tight. Hundreds of corpses clung to him, dragging him deeper with every passing second. Some slammed themselves into his form, fusing with it. His skin began to blacken where they succeeded.

  Scott struggled, summoning all his strength—but the corpses clung like a tide, infinite in number, unrelenting in their desperation. These weren’t just corpses. These were physical embodiments of his emotions—the incarnations slain in the endless warzone—each one seeking to become one with him again.

  He roared, a guttural defiance lost in the waterlogged silence. For a fleeting instant, the corpses binding him exploded into fragments, repelled by the raw force of his will. But then more came, surging in to replace the fallen, slamming into him with relentless fury. His skin darkened further, veins bulging with tainted pressure.

  Above, the crack narrowed further, the tendril-bound puppets watching like sentinels.

  Then—The voices.

  Anguished. Furious. Desperate. Twisted echoes of a pain too deep to forget.

  "Why? Why did you leave us?"

  "You discarded us! You should suffer too!"

  "Why did you resist madness? Why not just give in?"

  "It's not fair! If we suffer, you should suffer more!"

  "Even in death, I have no peace. Your existence stole mine!"

  Their words pierced deeper than any tendril, their fury a storm of blame. The corpses crashed into him like waves, merging with his form, leaving claw marks and bruises behind. Others latched on, dragging him down further into the abyss.

  Scott said nothing. No point in talking to emotional fragments. His focus was on escape—but nothing he did made a difference.

  If only I could use the nihilistic zone... These damn emotions wouldn’t—

  His thoughts were ripped apart by screaming agony.

  A hand—ice-cold and skeletal—pierced his chest. Fingers wrapped around the raw manifestation of his heart.

  They squeezed.

  Scott let out a bloodcurdling scream as unbearable pain radiated through him. He convulsed violently, as if drowning and burning at once. The hand didn’t crush his heart. It savored it. Pressing in slow, deliberate pulses to amplify the torment.

  "You should’ve listened!" a voice shrieked. "Heartless swine! You trapped me here!"

  "Die! Die! DIE!"

  "Why you? You’re pathetic! Useless! Why wasn’t it me!?"

  Scott’s screams echoed through the abyss—then broke into manic laughter.

  His glazed eyes twitched with madness. “You still don’t get it, do you?” he cackled. “You’re all losers! Nothing’s ever gonna change that!”

  The corpses shrieked. Those with mouths gnashed their teeth. Those with claws ripped into him.

  Flesh tore.

  Bones cracked.

  Eyes gouged. Guts pulled from his body. His limbs torn like paper. Yet through it all, he laughed—a sound more terrifying than his screams.

  “Is that it?” he roared, broken and bleeding. “You think this is enough to drown me in madness?”

  His voice thundered through the abyss as the feeding frenzy continued. Pain seared through every nerve—but his mind refused to collapse. He felt everything, and still, he endured.

  And then—Something changed.

  The corpses that had devoured him began to burst. Blood sprayed like black rain. The pieces of Scott they had consumed reformed, only to be shredded again by the next wave of corpses.

  A cycle. Endless.

  Suffering. Regeneration. Suffering again.

  And through it all, Scott refused to yield.

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