Chapter 7: Whispers from the Void
The Void was not merely an absence of light but an absolute negation. No warmth, no sound, no touch. Only the crushing weight of oblivion and the ceaseless thrum of Aethel's own tormented consciousness. For millennia, it had been agony, a living grave for a god unbound by time or space. But then, a flicker. A tiny, insignificant spark in the boundless dark. Jonathan.
From her throne forged from the shattered fragments of her own divine chains, Aethel watched. Her glowing crimson eyes, sharp as razor blades, pierced through the cracks in creation, focusing on the pathetic, desperate mortal she had chosen. She saw his fumbling, terror-fueled battles in the F-ranks, then the brutal efficiency he now wielded in E-rank Gates. A slow, cruel smile spread across her lips, a silent symphony of pure, desperate hunger.
He was becoming exactly what she needed.
The "System" was her masterpiece. A sugar-coated poison. Mortals craved power, and she would grant it, drip by insidious drip, disguised as a benevolent ladder to strength. They would scramble for it, worship it, and in doing so, they would worship her. Every stat point gained, every monster slain, every terrified glance Jonathan received from lesser mortals was a whisper of stolen reverence, a drop of sustenance for her starved essence. He thought he was growing strong for his mother. Aethel knew he was growing strong for her. The "seed of corruption" was taking root beautifully, twisting his desperation into a relentless hunger for more, a cold detachment from the violence he inflicted. He was her perfectly crafted weapon, a puppet on an invisible string.
Jonathan stepped into the quiet sanctity of his mother's small room. The air was thick with the scent of stale medicine and the soft, shallow breaths that were her constant companion. He pulled the small, intricately carved wooden bird from his pocket – a little something to bring her joy – and placed it gently on the bedside table. Its delicate wings caught the dim light, a fragile promise in a world that offered little. Then, from the heavy bag he clutched, he counted out a stack of Guild coins onto the rickety table, enough for several weeks of proper medicine, not the cheap, ineffective stuff Arthur had to scrounge for. He adjusted her blanket, his new strength making the gesture feel almost too delicate, as if the smallest touch might shatter her. He heard the familiar catch in her breath, but today, it seemed less pronounced, smoother. A small, fragile bud of hope bloomed in his chest. This was why. This was for her.
Just then, the door creaked open. Arthur, his grandfather, stood there, his eyes, usually clouded with worry, now sharp with something akin to apprehension. He looked from the coins to Jonathan, then back again, as if seeing the boy in a new, unsettling light.
"You look… well, lad," Arthur said slowly, his voice rough with age. His gnarled hand reached out, not quite touching, then pulled back. "Healthier than I've seen you in years." His gaze was searching, trying to peer beneath the surface. "You've… changed, Jonathan."
Jonathan just nodded, his gaze unwavering, silent. He knew Arthur could feel it – the shift, the aura, the palpable presence that now clung to him like a second skin, vibrating just beneath his quiet demeanor.
Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. "I've been reading the old scrolls again," he murmured, almost to himself, as if confessing a secret. "The tales of the First Gods. Of Aethel the Eternal, and Gustin the Creator. They say… they say ancient power leaves a mark. A hunger." He shook his head, a wry, disbelieving chuckle escaping him. "Nonsense, of course. Just old stories. But…" He looked at Jonathan again, a flicker of deep concern in his eyes, a wisdom that transcended his years. "Just… be careful, lad. The world has old teeth."
Jonathan simply met his grandfather's gaze, offering no reassurance, no denial. He knew the stories weren't nonsense. He was living proof. The hunger Arthur spoke of was already inside him, growing with every battle he fought, every stat point gained. He was changing, and he knew the price.
Later that day, back at the Guild Hall, the atmosphere was a low hum of tension, a nervous energy palpable in the air. Jonathan, having secured his mother's treatment, felt the solid weight of his earnings, a tangible proof of his monstrous efforts. The usual milling crowds seemed to part for him, whispers following in his wake. "That's Havery," he heard, "the one who cleared the E-rank."
He was about to head out when a sudden, ear-splitting crash echoed from the main training arena. A shudder ran through the Guild Hall's reinforced foundations. Jonathan whirled around. A massive, grotesque creature, all chitin and segmented limbs, thrashed against the reinforced barriers, its multiple eyes glowing with malevolent, intelligent fury. It was unlike any F or E-rank monster he had seen in the Gates. This was something else. Stronger. Faster. Around it, several high-ranked hunters, identifiable by their ornate Guild crests and confident stances, were engaged in a desperate, losing battle.
"The Beetle Tyrant," a voice beside him muttered, hushed with a blend of awe and fear. "It breached the outermost perimeter of the Red Gate. The Guild Masters are calling for all active high-rankers. It's an S-class threat."
Jonathan turned. Lilith stood beside him, her pink hair pulled back in a practical, battle-ready braid, her amethyst eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in intense, almost surgical analysis. She wasn't carrying her usual practice weapons; a serious, ornate blade, its hilt worn smooth, was strapped to her back. She looked utterly focused, a true hero in the making. Their eyes met. Lilith's gaze was sharp, probing, unblinking. There was no casual curiosity this time, but a profound, almost primal recognition.
"You feel it, don't you?" she murmured, her voice barely audible above the monstrous roar of the Tyrant. "Something… new. About that thing. And about you, Jonathan Havery."
Before Jonathan could respond, a siren blared, a piercing, insistent wail that signified a critical threat, an emergency that transcended rank. Lilith didn't wait. Her eyes flashed with fierce determination, already assessing the monster's weak points. "Stay out of the way, zero-ranker," she said, her voice now firm, a command more than a warning, her focus already miles away. "This isn't for you."
And with a powerful leap that belied her slender frame, she darted into the arena, a vibrant pink streak heading straight for the monstrous Beetle Tyrant, a lone, determined figure against overwhelming chaos. Jonathan watched, the cold fire in his veins pulsing, not just with hunger, but with a new, potent frustration that was rapidly becoming his own.