Reborn: Apocalypse (Volume 3): (A LitRPG/Wuxia Story)

by L. M. Kerr

  Apart from that one group of skilled Torens, all the other attackers had yet to do anything that caught Micheal’s attention. As he battled, however, he continued to adopt certain stances that he saw from the enemy, as if he had gained several tidbits of inspiration over the course of the large-scale duel.

  Exhaustion had set into Micheal’s bones, true exhaustion that couldn’t be avoided. While he was winning this battle without a blemish to his record, he wasn’t able to sweep through everyone with pure ease.

  Every second that he fought required intense focus and attention. He had to plan out each movement he made; he needed to expend substantial amounts of mental energy tracking his foes and keeping his mind sharp.

  If he hesitated for even a split second, his weaker body would move too slowly to handle his enemies, and everything would fall apart.

  This style of fighting was incredibly dangerous. If it was in the real world, Micheal would never have accepted such a risk. However, in this dreamworld, he was greatly limited in how much he could prepare, and had to make do with what he was given.

  Micheal was running on his last legs and he knew it. Still, with a bit more than 50 enemies left standing, he didn’t show even a hint of weakness as he continued to fight off the Torens.

  Blow after blow, strike after strike, the battle continued to walk towards its inevitable end.

  Micheal settled into a type of rhythm. His movements became almost automatic as a haze of exhaustion settled onto his shoulders, one he wouldn’t have been able to shake if he tried. He was drawing on every bit of energy he could muster, to degrees unseen in any normal man.

  200 Toren bodies hit the floor.

  A small spark of relief burned in Micheal’s heart as he saw the pitiful number of enemies left. He was barely standing at this point, holding himself up with sheer willpower over anything else.

  Behind him, the bodies of his enemies littered the arena floor.

  His clothes had been torn and ripped to near shreds, but his body was completely uninjured. Not even a light scratch marred his white skin, a sight so absurd the Instructors watching off to the side could only shake their heads in amazement.

  Micheal swung his blade a couple of times.

  Several more Torens fell to the ground. By this point, the enemies left were mostly the stragglers that hadn’t bravely rushed forth. Most of them were weaker than the previous Torens, only fighting because they had to.

  They weren’t cowards, but they simply knew they wouldn’t have been able to compete with the other Torens.

  Finally, Micheal was left alone with one other Toren on the badly damaged arena grounds.

  The Ascetic Morkel. The name was both a title and a name, representing the respect and power this Toren held.

  The robed fighter studied Micheal with a calm gaze as he began to walk forward. The elite warrior had waited for everyone else to attack Micheal, watching every movement that Micheal made.

  The elite final warrior of the normal King’s Challenge had, somehow, still ended up being the final wall to overcome.

  Micheal’s lungs heaved, burning as if they had descended to the pits of hell as he recovered as much as possible, his sweat-soaked arms trembling as he raised them.

  The Ascetic wielded only a single sword in his hand, a slim broadsword that he held out in front of him, ready to react to anything Micheal did. Strings of red, Advanced Tier Sword Energy could be seen, wrapped around the sword in powerful waves.

  The Torens of this era were not yet full Deities. At this time, due to their own inborn deficiencies when it came to comprehension, even the best weren’t able to achieve a full understanding of the Master Tier of Sword Mastery.

  To have achieved a basic understanding of Advanced Tier Sword Energy at this Toren’s age was an incredible achievement, especially given that Torens could live for hundreds of years, at the minimum.

  Micheal’s gaze never wavered as he looked at the robed warrior. His breath gradually steadied as he zeroed in on his target, a sense of calmness overtaking him.

  This was his final enemy.

  Once he defeated him… he would have completed the challenge.

  A small smile reappeared on Micheal’s face.

  The Ascetic didn’t wait for Micheal to recover, nor did he try to talk or insult Micheal. Instead, he rushed in immediately. The powerful Toren had spent this entire time studying Micheal and waiting to find an opening to rush in for a surprise attack.

  The entire battle thus far, however, Micheal had yet to display even a single opening. Morkel had spotted several feints, openings that weren’t actually openings at all, but ones that were so well disguised he almost struck and got caught.

  As a result, he had been left unable to attack, and instead opted to wait for Micheal to wear down, spending that time trying to understand how Micheal fought. The end result: Micheal’s battle style was completely unpredictable and waiting to study that was a waste of time.

  Now, however, was the opportune moment to strike. Everything was lined up in his favor and the situation could not be more unfavorable for Micheal.

  The Ascetic’s eyes flickered as he prepared to leap forward, his eyes never leaving Micheal for a-

  Darkness.

  A gasp of utter confusion and outrage, as if life itself had betrayed him, escaped Morkel’s lips as he fell to the floor, knocked unconscious. The Toren didn’t even have a chance to attack as he collapsed, not even knowing how he was defeated.

  In the moment that Morkel moved to attack, Micheal struck.

  Once more, there was no opening to be found. So, Micheal had to create his own.

  He imbued his sword with one final draw of Sword Energy and Ki, preparing the same strike he had used to knock all of the other Torens unconscious. He put everything he had into this one, holding back nothing as he went all out with his final attack.

  Before Morkel even began to move, Micheal already knew he couldn’t let the warrior get close to him. Micheal was simply too tired, and the elite final enemy of the King’s Challenge was clearly too powerful.

  So that just meant Micheal needed to launch his attack from afar.

  And so he did.

  He aimed his sword carefully, holding it out in front of him as if he was waiting for the Ascetic to attack. As he held it, however, he positioned it so that the point was placed directly towards Morkel’s eyes. This was a small trick that made the entire large sword seem like a small point in the Ascetic’s vision, tricking him into thinking it was small and staying still.

  Normally, a trick like this would do little. As long as your foe kept his guard up, this type of tactic was ultimately useless and more or less a one-trick pony. As soon as they realized what you were doing, you could never get away with it again.

  Fortunately for Micheal, he only needed this to work once.

  All he did was thrust his sword forward in a single, stabbing motion. The Ascetic was around 6 meters distant, meaning such an attack was ultimately doomed if it wanted to reach the warrior. Micheal could’ve used his Impact Release Ability, but doing something like that would defeat the purpose of this entire battle.

  Instead…

  As soon as his arm reached the peak of its extension, stabbing forth with all of his might…

  He detonated the Ki in his sword once more, causing it to explode internally.

  Over the course of this battle, not only had Micheal used Advanced Tier Sword Energy extensively, he had also used his weapon over and over and over. It had taken a huge amount of damage, no matter how magically tough it was.

  All of that added up, bit by bit, leaving it in a rather delicate state by the time the battle ran its course.

  When Micheal gave it that final nudge, his sword was finally unable to hold up any longer…

  It literally exploded in his hands.

  And when it did explode, the tip of the sword shot forward, imbued with Advanced Tier Sword Energy and the vibrating Ki Energy that Micheal had left behind.
This small chunk rocketed through the air, moving so quickly it was almost impossible to see.

  The Ascetic Morkel had his guard up and was ready for anything.

  Anything he could reasonably conceive.

  An exploding sword used to attack from a distance was not one of those things.

  Micheal’s sword tip may have been only a couple of inches long, but it was imbued with extremely pure Advanced Tier Sword Energy, enough to completely blow past Morkel’s guard and blast into one of the Toren’s pressure points.

  And just like that…

  The hidden master within the challengers, the elite warrior that had proven the downfall of even the toughest fighters that went up against the King’s Challenge in Micheal’s original life, collapsed to the floor without even a whimper.

  Defeated.

  Leaving one man to stand alone, surrounded by the bodies of his enemies.

  Victorious.

  A veil of silence covered the grounds as the onlooking Instructors remained mute, none of them able to offer up anything of note. Only the heavings of Micheal’s burning lungs sounded off in the air as he fell down on one knee, doing his best to not fall unconscious. His body was screaming at him, telling him he had overdrawn his stamina far, far too heavily.

  Finally, after several seconds passed…

  A familiar voice echoed out, cutting through the fog in Micheal’s mind. When Micheal heard this voice speak, even his fatigue couldn’t hold down the spark of vicious joy that formed.

  “…How did you do that?”

  .

  Chapter 18

  Some time before this…

  .. .. .. .. .. ..

  Yvvtal the Destroyer was bored.

  Dreadfully bored.

  It was the curse of being nigh-immortal.

  As a member of a species that could live for centuries, or even thousands of years, it was not a particularly unusual state of being. Most Torens lived in a state of constant training and constant battle, keeping themselves entertained with an ever-increasing thirst for strength.

  He had been like that once, long ago, back when he was a young Toren of merely 50 years. An innocent, naive Toren that knew naught of the ways of the world.

  And, unsurprisingly, his naivety led to betrayal. A rare Magic Beast that was worth a fortune, a team of secretive ‘allies’ that cared for only themselves, deadly, Soul-rending poison in the dark of the night…

  He should’ve died then and there.

  But he didn’t.

  And perhaps he should thank those long-dead ‘allies’ of his.

  After all, it was only because of them that he learned the Truth.

  A large, grand castle stood atop a 1000-meter-wide obsidian platform. This castle had several large towers, arcing bridges that connected them, a steep wall that stood proud and tall. It was the very picture of royalty, a fierce edifice that inspired a sense of nobility and awe.

  Beyond that castle was endless, black nothingness. A void that seemingly had no end, one which falling into could cast you into a pit of eternal despair.

  The Magic Core of Yvvtal’s Inheritance, the central area that controlled and stabilized the various magical Spells, creations, and dreamworlds that formed a large Inheritance. This Core had grown slightly dilapidated, the ancient Magic Yvvtal had cobbled together to create it slowly weakening with the passage of time, but it was still something to see.

  Within this great castle, there was a large, grand throne-room, with towering black pillars supporting a higher arching roof and lit by several glowing white torches. A splendid red carpet led up to a raised throne, upon which a figure sat.

  A Toren with a lined face and tired eyes, with golden skin slightly paler than regular Torens. His body was just as muscular and lean, still giving off a sense of vivid vitality and power.

  His face was as handsome as most Torens were, but with the addition of a large, well-maintained silver beard. Unlike other Torens, he had no other hair on his head apart from his beard and eyebrows.

  He was dressed in a set of loose, purple robes and adorned with a glowing necklace that gave off faint particles of energy. Everything about him bespoke a sense of royalty and might.

  “My Inheritance has been opened up again, after so many years…” This kingly figure spoke aloud to himself, his voice containing hints of disinterest.

  “If only I hadn’t set that stupid entrance ritual.” He sighed. In the past, rituals like that were very much expected in normal Inheritances, and he'd gone with the flow and made his a little more stringent, hoping to kill off some of his own kind with it. Now, thousands of years later, all it served was to make it very difficult for people to discover his hidden tomb.

  His Inheritance had appeared a grand total of 6 times. However, the last time it was discovered was more than 1,000 years ago. He had sensed the presence of intelligent species near his tomb countless times. None of them ever managed to complete the ritual he’d set, unfortunately, even when he did what he could to lower its requirements.

  “If only I had a body.” His mouth twisted slightly. He could do a great deal here, in his Soul form while he controlled the Magic Core. But the outer exterior of his Inheritance, including how to open it, was something he couldn’t change. He had formed that barrier, and much of his Inheritance, using the Divine Language that his kind had discovered, a magical tongue that was said to hold the secrets to divinity. It could only be modified by a living being.

  “Perhaps I will finally find a worthy host.” Yvvtal couldn’t help himself as he sighed again and rubbed at his forehead. He frowned after a moment.

  In his youth, he had searched for power eagerly, as every Toren did.

  After he learned the Truth, however…

  He had done everything he could to grow stronger.

  When he felt that he ran into a wall, something stopping his growth, he blasted through it at full force, letting nothing stand in his path. This thirst became an overwhelming desire, one that became his very reason for living, an obsession tied to his Soul. It became a part of his personality itself.

  He’d gone as far as sacrificing even his ability to feel, becoming an emotionless killer that cared little for the lives of others. Those deaths outraged others, but to him, it felt meaningless.

  He was merely guiding them on their way to the afterlife a little early. His patients, as he called them, never suffered consciously and were treated quite well, even as they perished. He did not relish the suffering of others, despite what others claimed. He simply was doing what needed to be done.

  To understand the limits of his body, to find out what and how he could use his Physique. To test new ways of growth, new modifications, new potions. To find the information he desperately needed.

  Through that, he’d discovered a slew of techniques and powers, gained new Abilities and strength.

  It was a necessary evil if he was to break past the chains that reality had cast on him. The Truth demanded it.

  Society rejected him for those actions. But, given that society was bound by those same chains, he accepted that.

  Alas, in the end, he failed and perished.

  And now, here he was alone. A remnant of his kind, on a world his race had left behind.

  “Melancholy, is it?” The words echoed out from his deep voice in the still air, carrying a hint of sadness. The emotions he had cast away had returned to him, in part, as he carried on in solitude.

  Solitude that had spanned thousands of years thus far.

  Despite that, his resolve never wavered.

  He might only be a small, weakened version of his once-powerful self, but he would persevere.

  Not because he wanted to, but because he must.

  The Truth he knew would not allow for anything else.

  “…”

  A short amount of time later…

  “…”

  Yvvtal sighed once more, a habit he’d picked up, as he scanned the information a small, floating blue Orb was
giving off. This was the Core Orb of this Magic Core, an Artifact he could use to control and monitor the entire Inheritance.

  Several beings had finally entered his Inheritance. However, just like before, these creatures were not Torens, or of any race he recognized. They looked vaguely similar to his own kind, but were far, far weaker. It was incredibly demoralizing.

  All these years of waiting, only to be disappointed once more.

  After a few moments, though, a small smile appeared.

  If things went like they had in the past, a vast number of other beings would soon arrive at his doorstep. Even if this new race was pitifully weak, in sufficient numbers, there was a chance for a mutation or something unique to be born within them. The previous times his Inheritance had been opened, beings visited it typically for a dozen or more years.

  It was only when vast wars broke out, deadly plagues spread, or some other large-scale incident took place that the numbers dropped off, and eventually vanished entirely.

  “My Inheritance is growing weak.” His smile turned into a frown after a moment. If he didn’t pick an Inheritor with this set of beings, he might not get a second chance.

  “…”

  A short amount of time later…

  “…”

  Yvvtal sat upon his throne once more, a perplexed look on his face.

  “What an odd… human.” He had managed to glean the name of this species from the other humans inside his Inheritance.

  Only one of the humans had challenged his King’s Challenge, the secret testing site he had to gleam for his true Inheritor and for the body he would take over.

  This human was even weaker than some of the other humans. His physical power was nothing special, as far as Yvvtal could tell. The human’s Soul was strong, much stronger than that of the other humans’, but still incomparable to Yvvtal’s own.

  He had talked to the human briefly, and found the interaction to be incredibly… odd.

  The human believed in some clearly wild stories, just wild enough that they piqued Yvvtal’s interest.

  “He’s just too weak.” Yvvtal sighed. He could accept a host that was weak, as long as that host was special enough when it came to what he wanted. However, the human was just pitifully weak.