CHAPTER 61 - BLIGHTING PATH (Patreon)

Tulip blinked, confused, but didn’t question Zamian. Neither did Bohlo nor Kurt. After fleeing the Sanctuary with Marlos and spending a few days in the desert, they had acquired a very specific trait.

Obey first, ask questions later.

The trio turned and bowed their heads, facing the carved stones and fractured tunnel walls opposite from where Zamian had come. Kurt muttered something under his breath, blood dripping onto the floor, and Tulip rolled her eyes, though her head remained lowered. Bohlo only grunted, shooting a glance at his father, Soho, before eyeing his cracked axes.

Zamian muttered an apology without sound, lips moving wordlessly. Then, he stepped forward without hesitation.

He took a breath.

Blood still leaked from his body, and his bones hadn’t stopped aching. The pain was constant, the effort to control it even worse. What he was about to do would take more than just control. It would take precision.

He raised his fist.

And punched the air.

Just a motion, upward and empty, in the direction his friends were bowing.

Along his arm, Light’s essence surged.

A ripple of white exploded from his fist.

This wasn’t a technique. Just pure essence, the same trick he had once used in Yokki’s garden as a Zealot. Now, he adapted it again as a Chosen.

The pressure it released wasn’t enough to hurt anyone at his level, but it was enough to make a hole in the ceiling.

A bit farther, Velma and Marlos, locked in a skirmish, froze mid-step as they felt the surge of essence.

Rozzo’s awareness locked in, and even the two Warlord bodyguards shifted where they stood.

The blast of white howled forward like a roar. 

The ceiling, made of ruined buildings, fractured. Dust and debris rained down like ash from the sky. A hole ripped open in the earth, leading to the surface far above. The walls groaned as a wave of sand poured in from the new giant hole like water flooding a cracked tomb.

For a moment, the only thing anyone could feel was the echoing boom. It shook everything. The overload of noise and motion dulled all other senses.

Then, the tunnel behind Zamian trembled. 

Chains dragged along the floor as three figures approached. Earth’s essence surged around them, then diminished, like claws retracting to analyze their prey.

Zamian didn’t turn fully, glancing at the newcomer, getting himself ready for any threatening move.

Rozzo stepped through the haze. 

The Heir’s eyes weren’t wild anymore, but cold.

He stood, having appeared from the wall a bit farther to Zamian’s left, staring at the opened ceiling. His tongue moved slowly along the inside of his cheek while he was deep in thought.

The scar carved across his face pulsed, but he said nothing.

Behind him, the two bodyguards remained still. No mountain visages manifested behind them, but they seemed ready to act. This time, however, their focus wasn’t on Rozzo but on the newly created hole.

Then, two more figures arrived.

Velma and Marlos, walking side by side. Each one glaring at the other, white using their senses and instincts to understand the situation.

The Warlord’s hammer was loose behind her back, but her body still glowed faintly with a deep earthen hue.. Marlos’ halberd hung low, his single eye darting like a beast’s, reading every inch of the ruined corridor.

They all looked forward, before their eyes settled at Zamian.

His skin was pale but no longer deathly, and his wounds appeared closed.

To anyone unfamiliar with the Nameless Physique, it looked like he had healed.

And in front of him, bowing toward the hole he had created, were his three companions, bowing.

Velma’s eyes narrowed. She stepped forward but didn’t speak until she was close enough to touch Zamian.

“…Your wounds,” she muttered, the words hesitant, a change in her usual tone. “They’re closed.”

Zamian wiped his mouth. Blood still streaked his skin, but less than before.

“You’re wrong,” he said, tilting his head with a crooked smile.

Velma didn’t respond.

Rozzo did.

“What happened here?” His tone was calm, the same one a chief would use with his subordinates.

Zamian turned slightly, his smile unchanged.

Rozzo didn’t look at him but at Velma.

“Explain.”

Velma’s jaw tensed. Her eyes scanned the boy, the hole, the friends still bowing. “…I don’t like this,” she said at last. “There was a Chosen here. Unknown Pathway, same as the boy. And this kid, he said something about Dante and ran to his friends—”

Rozzo didn’t need to hear more.

The moment the words left her mouth, the scarred Heir’s body surged forward. Brown essence exploded beneath his feet, and his chains screamed through the tunnel.

The bodyguards shouted his name, but they were already late.

Rozzo shot into the hole, vanishing upward, and the two Warlords responsible for him could do nothing but follow. The duo’s bodies merged with the walls, phasing upward through the earth as if it were water.

Velma didn’t give chase, but her stance shifted subtly. The ground beneath her feet pulsed with brown essence, her fists tightening into a ready grip.

Zamian turned to his friends, and without a word, they raised their heads.

No one spoke.

Tulip blinked, still unsure whether what she had just done was a blasphemy or brilliant improvisation. Bohlo scratched his head. Kurt stood without expression.

Zamian moved among them, eyes drifting toward the unconscious bodies tossed aside like broken tools, far less carefully placed than Soho, who still rested in relative comfort.

Paul. Peter. Joshua.

And Edmund.

Only one hadn’t survived.

He nodded toward the first two, whose ribs were still sunken in from the fight. “They’re alive. Kurt, pick them up. Bohlo, can you carry Uncle Soho, please? I’ll grab the last one guy.”

The bearded outsider nodded, tying the edges of his satchel around his neck, then hoisted the two bodies under his arms like sacks of flour. Zamian stepped beside Joshua and pulled him up over his shoulder with a practiced motion.

The group began to move.

Velma’s eyes flicked between Zamian, his companions, and the gaping hole behind them. Her attention shifted to Marlos, who had already walked ahead without waiting.

She wasn’t leading anymore.

She rushed forward to match his pace, refusing to let him out of her line of sight. 

Bohlo followed, his father secure on his back, his hand clasping the remaining light source. Tulip trailed behind, her eyes shifting to Zamian now and then, not speaking. Kurt walked stiffly, blood still dripping from his busted nose, but he made no complaint as he carried Paul and Peter’s limp bodies.

Zamian brought up the rear, glancing at each of them in turn while carrying Joshua.

No one spoke. Marlos kept one eye on Velma, clearly prepared to block any sudden movement. He wasn’t just worried about protecting himself, but if Zamian did something reckless again, he'd be forced to intervene.

Velma, meanwhile, sweated lightly, brown waves of essence pulsing from her feet at intervals. It seemed like a way to reassure herself they weren’t being followed. 

She wouldn’t depend on just her enhanced eyes anymore.

After hours of walking, the silence unbroken, Zamian slowed his pace.

“We need to rest,” he said quietly. “A few hours. Maybe a day. We’re all tired.”

Velma stopped walking. She didn’t turn to face him, but her scowl would have said everything about how she felt regarding the request. 

After thinking for a moment,  she nodded.

They settled near a low, squarish ruin half-collapsed and shaped like a misshapen cube. It looked like it had once housed something important, but time and sand had worn it into forgettable stone.

Zamian nodded toward Tulip and the others but didn’t say anything else. The tension had rooted too deep for casual words. Even Marlos was quiet.

Dropping Joshua unceremoniously to the ground, Zamian walked past the next room and sat against a cracked wall. 

No one followed him.

Bohlo arranged his father, Kurt checked the unconscious bodies. Tulip leaned against the far wall, arms crossed.

Everyone was in silence, Velma glaring at them. 

Zamian took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He willed himself into his dark space.

‘Time to cultivate.’

A moment later, inside that deep void, he saw faint streaks of green floating across the black backdrop. Attack fragments of Nature’s Pathway, likely remnants of Fern or the other two.

The figure of white light stood as always, holding the Soul Tome with a glow that pushed back against the green influence, washing it away with constant light.

Zamian quickly placed himself between the figure and the Tome, unwilling to waste time.

He began to pour memories into the Tome again, starting with his fight against the Chosen, his moments of desperation digging through caves, his reunion with Tulip and Bohlo, and the chaotic confrontation with Rozzo.

As always, his instincts whispered corrections to the flaws, demanded clarity, forced him to reflect deeper. 

Time passed.

He adjusted and refined the information put in the Soul Tome, locked into a trace, until the Tome began to shine brighter. Then, his thoughts slowed.

His instincts had gone quiet.

Looking around, he realized all traces of green had been purged from his soul space. But he wasn’t happy. In truth, as he wasn’t stopped by an outside force, he wanted to keep cultivating.

But his Pathway wouldn’t let him do it.

‘Blighting Path. That’s what you should be called.’

Cursing inwardly, he understood it was time to leave.

As he willed himself back into his body, a final thought passed through his mind.

‘If I’ve recovered enough, maybe it’s time I help Marlos teach Velma a lesson.’