I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 629: It is the duty of the weak to be stepped on by the strong

The Ashen Clearing still reeked of death.

Not the fresh copper scent of creature’s slaughter, but the deeper corruption of bodies left long enough for decay to settle into stone.

The swamp beyond the pale ground continued its eternal work of dissolution, dark water lapping at scattered remains that would eventually disappear into mud.

Jack Kaiser stood at the clearing’s center, alone.

The Clan Leader and the surviving Blight Demons had fled the moment his shadow fell across them. No words were necessary. They understood what his presence meant after watching a thousand of their kin reduced to ash and char remains.

His white hair caught what little light penetrated Floor Twenty’s perpetual gloom. His yellow-orange eyes tracked across empty space where translucent forms lingered.

The souls of the fallen were still tethered to this location by the violence that had claimed them.

They couldn’t escape. Death in Tartarus Spire was a normal thing except for those bound to Jack Kaiser’s will.

For the unbound dead, the interval between dying and whatever came next was an eternity compressed into moments.

They would remain here until Jack decided otherwise.

He raised his right hand.

The gesture was casual, almost dismissive, as if he were swatting at an irritating insect rather than initiating a process that would unmake the fundamental essence of bound creatures.

”Come forth”

The Mistborn appeared out of nowhere, translucent forms that had been fading at the edges, existing in that liminal space between death and binding.

Ninety-three of them, their pale shapes writhing as they sensed what was about to happen.

Jack’s chest opened. Not in ways that produced blood or exposed internal organs.

The Mask of the Soul Warden pulsed with dark energy, and reality bent inward around his core. An imperceptible vortex materialized, exerting a gravitational pull that defied conventional physical laws and affected its immediate surroundings.

The Mistborn’s screams resonated with profound despair, echoing through the clearing and across the swamp.

This auditory manifestation conveyed the disintegration of entities, their fundamental essence being irrevocably unmade.

It represented the reversal of existence, where consciousness dissolved into its constituent atoms before complete obliteration.

Jack watched with the detached observation of someone monitoring a process he’d already calculated the outcome of.

His expression didn’t change as ninety-three voices rose in unison, each one adding to a symphony of suffering that painted the clearing in sound.

”It is the duty of the weak to be stepped on by the strong,” he stated, his voice cutting across their screams with the authority of a king pronouncing judgment.

The words weren’t meant to comfort them. They were doctrine, delivered with absolute certainty, the philosophy of existence itself made manifest through his voice.

A fundamental truth that necessitated no justification, hesitation, or acknowledgment of clemency or concession.

The Mistborn convulsed as they were drawn inward. Their translucent forms began fragmenting, breaking apart into component pieces that scattered like ash before being consumed entirely by the vortex at Jack’s core.

The process demonstrated remarkable efficiency. Within moments, they were assimilated, their essence transmuted into raw spiritual energy, which the Soul Well then processed with the efficacy of a furnace consuming fuel.

The clearing fell silent except for the distant sound of swamp water shifting.

His attention shifted toward the dead Blight Demons.

Eight hundred and seventy souls lay scattered across the Ashen Clearing. Bodies that had been killed hours before, their flesh already beginning the process of desiccation that came from being exposed to Floor Twenty’s corrupted atmosphere.

Jack’s right hand extended again, fingers moving through patterns that activated Soul Magic at scales that transcended normal necromancy.

The Soul Warden’s Chain manifested and initiated an assault.

It traversed the clearing with fluid, dark motion, appearing deceptively simple yet possessing a profound impact that resonated through the environment.

In its wake, souls were forcibly extracted from their deceased vessels and drawn irresistibly towards Jack’s location.

The process was notably intense. Souls that had achieved the tranquility of death were abruptly reanimated, compelled to confront the formidable force that had asserted its dominion over them.

The first batch rose: seven Blight Demons, their translucent forms dragged upward from their dead flesh with force that made them scream in unified horror.

They knew what was coming. They’d watched the Mistborn disappear into Jack’s core. They understood they were being harvested for fuel.

That their existence had been reduced to a simple accounting measure.

Jack spoke as they convulsed through the air, pulled toward the vortex that had begun opening in his chest once more.

”It is the duty of the weak to be stepped on by the strong.”

The phrase emerged from him like a law being declared. Not spoken with anger or satisfaction, but with the tone of someone stating something so obviously true that questioning it would be absurd.

The seven Blight Demons were consumed in seconds, their screams joining the echoes of the Mistborn in a harmony that existed only in the space between life and death.

A notification erupted:

[100 Souls Processed]

[Mask of the Soul Warden: 1.8% Repaired]

[Soul Army Capacity: 500 → 600]

The Chain lashed out again.

Two hundred Blight Demons rose from their corpses, their translucent forms dragged upward in a cascade of writhing shapes.

The collective cries of those who preceded them resonated, forming a chorus that sent ripples across the swamp’s surface.

The gravitational pull from Jack’s core rendered escape, negotiation, or resistance impossible.

Their essence was inexorably dissolving into a power source that would facilitate their master’s growth.

Jack’s chest expanded further as he prepared to assimilate the subsequent group.

He remained silent throughout this particular instance. The doctrine had been articulated. The philosophy was comprehended.

Further discourse was deemed superfluous. The sheer act of consumption, the undeniable reality of his absolute dominion over all that had unwisely resisted him or existed within the sphere of his influence, sufficed..

The two hundred were consumed in seconds, their forms fragmenting as they were pulled into the vortex, as they were broken down into constituent parts of spiritual energy that the Soul Well processed with industrial efficiency.

Two notifications erupted in rapid succession:

[200 Souls Processed]

[Soul Army Capacity: 600 → 700]

[300 Souls Processed]

[Soul Army Capacity: 700 → 800]

The atmospheric conditions within the clearing were transforming. The ambient air was reacting to the substantial spiritual energy being channeled through Jack’s core.

A restructuring of reality was underway. The light-colored stone underfoot seemed to be compacting under the intensity of his presence.

The Chain manifested again, its edge glinting with dark energy that made the air around it shimmer and distort.

Three hundred more Blight Demons were torn from their corpses and dragged into the vortex.

The intensity of their voices escalated, not from heightened torment but from cumulative resonance.

Each previously consumed entity had imprinted upon the fabric of reality, leaving an echo of distress that subsequent victims could perceive.

They were acutely aware that they were being assimilated into a system that had already processed their kin.

They recognized that the vortex at the core of Jack’s being was becoming saturated with the essence of their lineage, converting them into a resource for their master’s proliferation.

Jack repeated the phrase as they were consumed.

”It is the duty of the weak to be stepped on by the strong.”