Chapter 140: Awakening of the Astral Slayer

Ethan's ragged breaths came in sharp gasps, his body battered and bruised. Around him, the battlefield lay frozen in a surreal, unnatural stillness. The howling wind had ceased, the cries of the wounded muted, as if the entire world had been suspended in time.

And there, standing amidst the frozen carnage, was him.

The enigmatic old man who had first guided Ethan through the sandstorm and then again to the ruins. The one who had vanished like a ghost, leaving only riddles in his wake. His long, flowing robes, untouched by the blood-soaked battlefield, barely moved despite the eerie energy crackling through the air. His ancient face, carved with deep lines of wisdom and experience, bore the same unreadable expression as before. But his eyes…

His eyes held something more. A deep, unfathomable weight. A knowing. A judgment.

For a long, agonizing moment, the old man simply observed Ethan, as though silently measuring the sum of his existence, weighing him against an unseen scale of fate. Then, finally, he spoke. His voice neither loud nor soft, but echoing through Ethan's very bones with an unnatural resonance.

"You will fail. You will die meaninglessly, as long as you continue suppressing the Astral Slayer."

The words struck Ethan like a physical blow. His exhausted mind struggled to process them, but the name, Astral Slayer, sent a ripple of something primal through his soul.

His grip tightened around the dagger, its dark glow flickering, pulsing, as though responding to the name itself.

The old man's gaze drifted toward the weapon in Ethan's grasp, his expression unreadable but filled with something close to… expectation.

"That is its true name. Not just a weapon, but a relic born from the despair and sorrow of countless mortals who suffered under the tyranny of the false divine rulers of that ancient civilization."

A distant, fractured memory stirred at the edges of Ethan's mind. Images of celestial figures ruling over entire star systems, their power absolute, their cruelty endless. The empire lost to time, the oppression, the massacres…

Had these visions always been within him? Had the dagger shown him glimpses of a history that started on Kynara and should have remained buried?

His pulse pounded against his skull, his breath ragged as the old man continued, his voice layered with an eerie, otherworldly finality.

"And yet, it was also forged from the compassion of one Astral noble… one who wished to see the cruelty of her own race erased from existence."

Ethan's world tilted. He felt the weight of those words settle deep into his chest. The molecular dagger, the Astral Slayer, wasn't just a tool of vengeance. It was a promise, a defiance against the fate imposed by an empire that once reigned over the stars.

He stared down at the blade, its cold metal pressed against his palm. It had been waiting.

Waiting for him to realize what it truly was.

Waiting for him to accept it.

All this time, he had resisted it. Feared it. He had fought its influence, tried to keep it at arm's length, believing it to be nothing more than a powerful artifact. But now, in this frozen moment, as the battlefield stood in suspended ruin, he knew-

If he did not embrace it fully, if he did not become the Astral Slayer's true wielder in both body and soul, then everything would be lost.

The old man's expression remained impassive, but something in his gaze softened, just slightly.

"Recognize the suffering and despair of this ill universe, and defy the obstacles before you." His voice deepened, layered with an almost divine authority. "Your fate is unpredictable, stranger. The threads of destiny do not bind you, nor does the will of architect dictate your path. Only you can decide the road that you will walk."

The space between them seemed to distort, the edges of reality bending as though the moment itself could no longer hold its shape.

The old man took one step backward. Then another.

The wind picked up once more, his robes fluttering in the gust as his form began to blur. His presence, once as solid as the ground beneath Ethan's feet, began to fade into the nothingness of the void.

"My guidance ends here."

His voice drifted, carried away with the wind.

The moment the old man disappeared, the world snapped back into motion.

The battlefield's chaos resumed in full force. The psychic storm of the Resonance Amplification Device raging like an unholy tempest, its raw power distorting the very air. Screams of agony from both Syndicate soldiers and coalition forces filled the space between each wave of devastation, the sheer force of the energy bending steel, shattering stone, and reducing once-mighty warriors to nothing more than dust in the storm.

And standing amidst it all, at the heart of this maelstrom, was Drakor.

His form, now beyond human, floated ominously above the battlefield, his new divine-like body pulsing with radiant waves of raw psychic might. The golden glow of his transformed figure cast eerie, shifting shadows over the war-torn ground, the flickering light reflecting off the remains of those who had dared stand against him. His eyes, burning like twin suns of malice, locked onto Ethan. Then, with a slow, predatory motion, he floated toward him.

A dark chuckle rumbled from his throat, deep and filled with amusement. "Look at you, mortal," Drakor sneered, his voice reverberating unnaturally through the battlefield. "Crawling in the dirt. Bleeding. Struggling for a victory that was never yours to claim. Pathetic."

Ethan's body screamed in agony. His wounds throbbed with every beat of his heart, his muscles strained just to keep him kneeling. Blood dripped from his lips, staining the battlefield beneath him. Every fiber of his being begged him to stop, to give in, to let the darkness consume him.

And yet, he wasn't broken.

Because something was stirring deep within him.

The dagger in his grasp burned. Not in pain, but in awakening.

The dark glow around it surged to life, no longer a faint flicker but a roaring inferno of swirling, violet-black energy. It coiled around his arm, creeping up his body like a living shadow, enveloping him in an ethereal haze. The pressure of the battlefield, the overwhelming psychic storm that had threatened to crush his very mind, was no longer suffocating him.

It was bending to him.

It was being purified and becoming his.

His mind shattered through the final restraints of hesitation, through every doubt, every fear, every lingering restraint that had held him back. The Astral Slayer pulsed with unrestrained might, and for the first time, Ethan did not suppress it.

He embraced it.

Ethan's breathing steadied, deep and controlled. His heartbeat, which had pounded in desperation moments before, now beat with eerie calm. His vision sharpened, the battlefield no longer just chaos but a path. A path leading directly to Drakor.

The ancient energy within the blade coursed through his veins, weaving into his very being. His eyes, once human, transformed. Two endless vortexes of black and violet, like gateways to something far beyond mortal comprehension.

The battlefield was no longer a place of death.

It was a place of reckoning.

Slowly, he placed his foot forward, planting himself firmly against the war-torn ground. The mere movement sent a ripple through the air, an unseen force vibrating outward like a silent war drum.

Drakor's mocking grin faltered, if only for a moment.

Ethan straightened, the weight of his exhaustion vanishing as raw power surged through his limbs. The storm around him bent and warped, psychic energy no longer bearing down on him but swirling with him, answering him. He exhaled, gripping the dagger tighter, its power fusing with his own in perfect harmony.

And then-

BOOM.

A massive shockwave erupted from Ethan's form, sending out a pulse of sheer psychic force that blasted across the battlefield. The air cracked like thunder. The ground quaked beneath his feet. The remnants of fire and dust were violently pushed aside, revealing him standing at the very center of it all. An unmoving force against the storm.

Drakor, still hovering above, narrowed his glowing eyes. He felt it, something had changed. An instinctual fear appeared inside him.

"…Interesting." His voice was softer now, but laced with a hint of something new. Something unfamiliar.

Doubt.

Ethan rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers around the hilt of the dagger. His gaze, unshaken, met Drakor's own.

"I've heard enough of your manic speeches," Ethan said, his voice low and steady, filled with quiet, eerie calm. "I will erase your cursed existence for good this time."

For the first time since his ascension, Drakor's smirk twisted into something else.

Irritation.

Hatred.

And then, amusement.

The Overlord of the Syndicate let out a cold laugh, his form crackling with golden energy as he descended toward the battlefield. The psychic storm intensified once more, warping reality around him.

Ethan lifted the dagger, letting its dark glow illuminate his stance as the final clash loomed closer.

No more waiting. No more hesitation.