Vastarael had seven pseudo-cores.
Vastarael didn't just have a single pseudo-core. He had seven. Seven pseudo-cores in his body, each acting as a miniature essence generator, a failsafe and a wellspring of overwhelming power.
A pseudo-core is basically an artificial nucleus of power, an imitation of the natural cores that beings are born with. It's like trying to mimic the sun's energy source but in a controllable, compact form. One gains it when becoming an Ascender.
For most people, having even one pseudo-core is a life-changing power-up. Imagine taking the most talented magician or warrior, giving them a pseudo-core and suddenly they're pulling off feats that would take others centuries to master. And Vastarael? The man's walking around with seven of them, each perfectly synchronized to pump out energy like a god-tier factory.
Then there's the way these pseudo-cores amplify his essence flow. His essence pool is already massive thanks to his Aeterium bloodline, but with seven pseudo-cores?
He's got so much essence coursing through him that it's almost absurd. Vastarael can summon circles, draw runes and wield Calimostria like he's toying with the universe's rules, and it's all thanks to the sheer output of these cores. He doesn't just rely on his natural talent or his training. His pseudo-cores make sure his arsenal is limitless. When one core starts to dip, the others automatically compensate, keeping his energy levels consistent no matter how intense the fight gets.
And the synergy between the seven? It's flawless. They don't compete with each other or overload him. Instead, they operate like an orchestra, each pseudo-core playing its part in perfect harmony. His heart keeps everything in balance. That's why Vastarael can keep pushing himself to the limit without burning out. It's why his Circlecraft is faster, his runes sharper, and his regeneration practically instantaneous.
But here's the most terrifying part: each pseudo-core can act independently if needed. If Vastarael somehow ends up in a situation where his essence network is completely severed (which is almost impossible, but hey, hypotheticals), the pseudo-cores don't need the network to function. They can operate as standalone energy sources, letting him channel power directly from one or even all of them. This means his opponents can never truly predict how much energy he has left or what he's capable of.
Fighting Vastarael is like trying to drain an ocean with a teacup. You think you've made progress, but then he just floods the battlefield with another wave of pure, unrelenting power.
And because his pseudo-cores are so deeply ingrained in his physiology since he has no heart, they've fundamentally altered his body. His muscles are denser, his bones stronger, his reflexes faster, all because the cores are constantly feeding energy into him. Even his sapphire glaive, Calimostria, is powered and enhanced by his pseudo-cores, making every swing of the weapon a clash of titanic forces.
Think about it this way: most beings would kill for one pseudo-core just to get a fraction of what Vastarael can do. But he has seven. It's why he can fight enemies leagues above his pay grade and still come out on top.
It's why he's always pushing boundaries that others wouldn't dare approach. It's why, even in the darkest moments, Vastarael is a beacon of overwhelming, unstoppable power.
And when he finally saw one of the four Winter Labors in front of him, he realized that he was going to fight a Divine.
The icy abyss stretched out endlessly before Vastarael, It was a wasteland of frost and death that seemed to drink the warmth from his very soul.
The ground beneath his feet was an unbroken sheet of glacial ice, so polished it reflected his image like a cursed mirror. Massive spikes of frozen crystal jutted out from the ground and ceiling like the teeth of some monstrous, otherworldly beast.
Snowflakes swirled in the air, falling so slowly it was as though time itself had chilled to a crawl. It was deathly silent. No wind, no creaks of ice shifting, no echoes of his boots on the frostbitten ground. Just the sound of his own breathing.
Then he saw it. Him.
Perched atop an enormous ice throne that radiated an aura of both power and suffocating cold sat the Winter Labor, Permafrost's Grasp.
The throne itself was carved from a glacier, with no attempt at elegance. The Winter Labor was impossibly tall, easily three meters, and his frame was all muscle, like a god sculpted out of ice and fury. His glowing white tattoos illuminated his bare chest, while a simple pair of tattered, frozen pants clung to his legs.
He lounged there like a king, one hand lazily gripping the armrest, the other resting on his thigh, his posture oozing arrogance and disdain. His eyes stared down at Vastarael like he was something to be pitied... or crushed.
Vastarael didn't say anything at first. He stopped a good twenty meters from the throne, staring at the figure before him, his sapphire glaive Calimostria resting in his grip, its blade shimmering faintly. He let the silence hang for a moment longer.
Finally, the Winter Labor spoke, his voice deep and resonant, like ice cracking under pressure.
"So, you're the little mortal who's come to entertain me. A First Class Ascender, hmm? They must be running out of warriors if they're sending a hatchling like you to face me. Tell me, boy, do you even know who I am?"
Vastarael rolled his eyes, "Oh, I know who you are. Permafrost's Grasp, one of the oh-so-mighty Winter Labors. Congratulations. Do you want a medal or something?"
The Labor's chuckle deepened, turning into a rumbling laugh.
"Ah, I like you. Bold. Foolish, but bold. It will make breaking you so much more enjoyable. You know, it's been centuries since I last fought someone who wasn't crushed within seconds. Mortals these days... so weak. So... brittle. But you. You have a spark, don't you? Something different. Perhaps you'll last a minute before you beg me for mercy."
Vastarael snorted, adjusting his grip on Calimostria.
"Beg you? Look buddy, I get it. You're big, you've got the glowing tattoos, the whole half-naked ice king aesthetic. It's very intimidating, really. But let's not pretend you're anything more than another overgrown, self-absorbed Divine who thinks he's untouchable. You're really not."
The Labor's expression shifted, his icy grin turning into something darker.
"You've got quite the tongue on you, boy. I wonder how long it'll last once I rip it out and freeze it as a trophy."
"Wow, original,. Let me guess, you're going to talk about how superior you are and how I'm wasting your time? Please, save it. I've heard it all before from movies. You're not special, Permafrost. You're just another relic clinging to an illusion of relevance."
That struck a nerve. The Winter Labor's grip on the armrest of his throne tightened, ice cracking under the pressure. But even as his aura flared, sending a wave of bone-chilling cold washing over the chamber, he didn't lose his composure. Instead, he smirked, though there was no humor in it.
"You've got fire, little one. I'll give you that. But fire burns out quickly in the cold. And I am the cold. The frost that creeps into your bones, that freezes the breath in your lungs, that whispers death into your ear when the warmth fades."
"And yet, "Vastarael said, stepping forward, his glaive pointed directly at the Labor, "you're still sitting on your ass like a lazy king instead of doing anything about it. Guess the frost isn't as dangerous as it likes to brags itself to be.,"
The Labor stood. His full height loomed over Vastarael, his glowing tattoos casting long, ominous shadows across the icy expanse. The throne behind him began to crack and splinter under the pressure of his rising power, until it shattered completely, the shards scattering across the floor like glass. He flexed his fingers, each movement radiating raw power as frost spread from his feet, covering the ground in a thicker layer of ice.
"Careful, boy. You're walking on very thin ice."
Vastarael smirked, unfazed by his threat.
"Good thing I know how to swim."
The Labor actually laughed at that, but it was a dark, cruel sound.
"You're amusing, I'll give you that. But amusement won't save you. You may think you're clever, but cleverness won't stop me from grinding you into the frost."
"If you're so confident, why don't we skip the foreplay and get to it? Or are you afraid I might actually surprise you?"
For a moment, the two stood in silence, the air between them charged with tension. Then, slowly, the Labor's grin returned, sharper and more predatory than before.
"You're bold, mortal. And boldness... deserves an answer."
With that, Permafrost's Grasp slammed his foot down, the impact sending a shockwave of frost rippling across the chamber. The spikes of ice around them began to glow faintly, their edges sharpening into deadly points. The temperature plummeted even further, the cold so intense it made Vastarael's breath crystallize in front of him.
"Come then, little Ascender. Let's see how long your fire lasts in the face of eternal frost."