CHAPTER 64 - FEAR (Patreon)

After hearing the voice, Zamian tapped his pants once, fingers brushing against the faint outline of the ginseng root. The moment the previous Side Quest ended, and before anyone noticed, he had slipped it into his pocket. It was also the first time he had a pocket to store something after a Quest, thanks to the outsiders who had given him these clothes.

Zamian didn’t know if it was a root, a fruit, or a rock, but it was yellow and as big as two hands. 

Focusing on the current situation, he turned slightly, his eyes landing on Marlos. The bald man stood a few steps ahead with his usual carefree posture, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed something else. There was no joy in his gaze, no arrogance, only the heaviness of someone who had decided to do something reckless without knowing any other way out.

‘With everything so erratic, we never talked about our goals here,’ Zamian thought, sighing inwardly. ‘I spent so much time thinking about myself that I forgot Marlos also wanted to see his blighting brother.’

Marlos noticed Zamian's concern and gave a short, amused breath through his nose before chuckling. “Ohohoho… No need to fret. I’ll go alone,” he said, stepping toward the sealed doors without waiting.

Nothing happened.

Marlos scratched the side of his face. “Always has to be dramatic. Ohohoho…”

“I’ll go with you, don’t worry,” Zamian said, stepping forward.

He turned to the others, his gaze passing over Tulip, Bohlo, and Kurt. They looked tired, staring at him with clenched fists and tense jaws. Kurt was as pale as Zamian, his trembling lips and hands easy to see. Peter and Joshua stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Velma, however, was the most relaxed. Her eyes flicked from the door to the group, smiling with her eyes alone.

“You better be here with them when I come back, Warlord Velma,” Zamian told her.

She didn’t move, her eyes now fixed on him.

“And they’ll be safe. You won’t dare hurt them, right?”

His eyes gleamed white, essence flooding his body as he finished the sentence. Even the guards looked at him when he did this, their golden bodies glowing with a faint brown hue.

Velma’s fingers twitched, and for a moment, she studied him not with annoyance but caution.

Zamian turned before she could speak. Marlos followed him, a half-surprised look on his face as he nodded once.

Then, the doors opened just enough for them to pass.

Inside, the corridor was narrow and curved, colder than the outside and filled with a strange scent. It was a mix of herbs and floral notes, with a faint acidic tang. The air felt thick, like walking through layers of steam, though it was dry to the skin. Crystals embedded into the walls carried the magma’s glow through thin slits, casting quiet colors across the floor. There was no pattern that Zamian could see as some stones flickered and others pulsed slowly.

They walked in silence, and all they could hear were their footsteps against smooth stone. Even with his enhanced hearing, Zamian picked up nothing. It was as if no one else was alive in this place other than him and Marlos.

Worse still, his vision only caught the gray essence in the air.

Then the corridor opened.

The room was wide and tall but without decorations, except at the center, where a golden throne stood. It wasn’t raised or placed on a platform but sat low, half-submerged in a shallow pool of dark, still liquid. Crystals lined the floor around it, and the air smelled even stronger here.

Zamian’s eyes found the figure seated at the center, the source of the gray essence flooding the room and the entire Pyramid.

An old man.

Naked from the waist up, thin to the point of looking broken, the man’s limbs were narrow, arms unusually long, his chest sunken. Cracks lined his skin like carvings on dry stone, and some of them ran so deep they looked like wounds. But there was no blood leaking from his wounds, only gray essence, invisible to the naked eye.

His hair was long, streaked with black and gray, falling loosely behind his back, while his beard touched his stomach. His skin held a dull, heavy tone, leaning toward gray.

After Zamian and Marlos arrived, the man didn’t move or speak. He just sat there, eyes closed.

Zamian’s eyes locked onto the glowing gray line above his head.

[LEVEL 6 - IMMORTAL TIER - HOLLOW PATHWAY]

His thoughts froze.

Even the Children of the Verdant God hadn’t reached that.

‘Is the Sultan still human?’

Zamian said nothing, just staring and not blinking.

Marlos stepped beside him. “He changed,” he whispered with a bitter voice. “He looks stronger, yes, but also sick. Seems like he won’t live long. That he hasn’t lived for a while.”

Then, slowly, the eyes opened. Two dull pupils, sunken and quiet, pure gray canvas, locked onto Zamian. 

From that dry throat came the same voice as before.

“Don’t listen to him,” the Sultan rasped. “Unlike me and Dante, this old brother of mine never understood that living isn’t just breathing, eating, and fighting. It’s about your feelings.”

As if in response to his words, the essence in the room stirred, and Zamian could only see it because of the Luminous Senses working together with the Insightful title, as he felt nothing. The Sultan, still seated on his throne, had activated a technique strong enough to pulverize him, making the gray essence thicken above them.

Still, Zamian didn’t move.

There were only two reasons for that.

The first was the silence from his instincts. Of course, he knew they could be wrong. The Sultan was certainly powerful enough to hide his intent and unleash a lethal attack in an instant.

The second reason was the most important one, however, and it was about how the Sultan had spoken of his father.

There was no hatred in the Sultan’s voice when he mentioned Dante. No pain, no spite. He had placed Zamian’s father on the same level as himself, in a way.

Still, Zamian didn’t drop his guard. He made his Light’s essence surge, running wild through his body in preparation to defend himself and flee.

Two seconds passed.

Nothing came.

He let out a slow breath.

Above them, on the dark ceiling, images began to form. The scene showed the Oasis from above, as if seen through a bird’s eyes. People walked, talked, bartered. Families gathered in courtyards, ate meals, argued in quiet tones. Zamian looked away from most of it, as those and more intimate private moments weren’t his to see.

What drew his attention were the gray lines wrapping around everyone, all of them flowing toward the Pyramid.

The image shifted, closing in on a narrow alley, where two drunken men were fighting and a half-dressed woman, older than both, sat on the ground, crying.

The gray lines moved.

One man turned and fled. The other stopped, looked at the woman, helped her up, and after a hug, they left the alley together.

Zamian narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand what the Sultan meant to show.

“Marcus—” Marlos began.

The Sultan chuckled. “Call me Sultan. That name means nothing now, and hearing it only irritates me.”

He tapped the armrest of the throne with one thin finger, the sound echoing across the room. “And stay quiet while I speak to the boy.”

Zamian frowned, seeing Marlos clench his fists and stay silent. After a moment, he stepped forward, cupped both hands, and gave a short bow.

“Sultan, I’m Zamian Greenfield—”

“I know.”

Zamian blinked, caught off guard by the interruption. The Sultan’s tone wasn’t annoyed, however, so he continued.

“I came from the Sanctuary to tell you Elwood betrayed your deal—”

“What does it mean to be alive to you, Zamian? What do you truly live for?”

Again, he was cut off. Zamian glanced at Marlos, who gave a helpless shrug. The man looked tense, sure, but mostly confused.

Zamian straightened, arms behind his back, and took a second to think.

‘What is this old blighting thing doing?’

He didn’t want to provoke the Sultan, so he answered sincerely.

“Being happy, I guess,” he said with a half-smile. “Doing what you can to be happy. I like talking to my father, spending time with my friends, cultivating, learning more about this world and the Pathways. If someone doesn’t find a reason to be happy, they’re just existing.”

A quiet moment followed before the Sultan spoke again.

“What if your happiness causes the sadness of others? People you don’t know. People you’ll never meet. What if they’re in your way?”

Zamian hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It depends on what they’re doing. What kind of people they are. Of how they are blocking my path.”

Another pause.

The Sultan gave a hollow laugh.

“To your father, life is about family. Bonds made by blood and feeling. A connection that’s not always chosen, but that should be cherished and nurtured.”

His voice grew bitter.

“In the Desert, that idea broke. Family betrays family just to survive.”

Zamian wasn’t sure, but he thought the Sultan looked at Marlos when he said that.

“For me,” the Sultan said, his tone heavier, “life has always been about fear.”

He exhaled slowly, and the sound filled the room.

“At first, I feared starving. Then, I feared being tortured during war. After that, losing what I cared about. Fear of having no family. No legacy of my own. Fear of my mind breaking. Of being too weak to move forward. Fear of being forgotten. Fear, fear, fear...”

The gray essence above them swirled again, forming a new image: the God’s Tree, towering in the distance.

The Sultan pointed at it, his thin finger trembling.

“Fear of that thing using this planet as nothing more than a tool to grow stronger until there’s nothing else but dust.”

Then he turned his gaze back to Zamian.

“Simply for his happiness.”