I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 848: Fractured Mind

The vertical shaft of Floor Thirteen dropped into an abyss where ambient illumination ceased to exist.

Stagnant strata of purple-black necrotic miasma clung to the vertical basalt walls like wet grease, coating the stone in a slick film.

Every hundred paces of lost elevation increased the atmospheric weight against the chest, thickening the air with the alkaline stench of pulverized marrow, and old iron left to corrode in subterranean humidity.

Fifty paces above the subterranean floor, the Disaster-class Dragon flared its massive obsidian wings, banking its heavy frame toward a broad shelf of black shale.

Its talons gouged deep, smoking furrows into the brittle rock as it ground to a halt, refusing to advance a single pace further down the spiraling incline that descended into the darker belly of the chasm.

The beast folded its wings tight against its armored flanks, lowering its heavy horned skull until its jaw rested flat against the stone, its golden slit-pupil eyes fixed on the shadows below with stubborn, unyielding contempt.

Theo Althalos clung to the high leather harness, his left arm hanging completely limp against his hip.

Where the pressurized water javelin on Floor Eleven had shattered his silver pauldron, jagged shards of plate remained driven deep into the shoulder muscle, weeping a continuous mixture of bright elven blood and dark, clotted fluid down his vambrace.

His breath rattled in his bruised chest, his silver armor dented across the floating ribs, blackened by sulfuric foam, and smeared with crusted indigo demon blood.

His golden hair was plastered flat against his forehead, and his cold cerulean eyes were bloodshot from straining against the perpetual gloom.

“Move, beast,” Theo snarled, his voice hoarse and cracked from the caustic air scraping his throat. He drew back his right boot and drove the armored heel violently into the dragon’s ribs. “The trial path continues below. Take us down into the pit.”

The Disaster-class Dragon did not roar.

Nor did it shift its wings.

It rotated its heavy hips, snapping its armored tail with a short, dismissive flick of pure kinetic force.

The thick, scaled ridge of the tail caught Theo across his uninjured right flank, tearing his grip from the leather harness and hurling him over the precipice of the shelf.

Theo cried out as his body crashed against the steep, loose shale switchbacks below, tumbling fifty feet through the jagged scree before slamming violently into the solid basalt floor of the lower gorge.

His enchanted broadsword clattered five paces away, scraping against the stone.

Theo lay in the dirt for several seconds, coughing up a thick spit of copper-tasting blood, his vision swimming with gray spots of exhaustion.

The impact had re-fractured his collarbone, the broken ends grinding together beneath his skin with every ragged breath.

He dragged his right arm underneath his torso, his fingers clawing through the black dust as he forced his battered body onto his knees.

He looked up the cliff face. The dragon remained perched high on the ledge, resting its snout upon its talons, watching his struggle with the detached disinterest of an apex predator observing a dying beetle.

“Ungrateful reptile,” Theo hissed through clenched, bleeding teeth.

He forced himself onto his feet, his boots dragging heavily through the black dust as he retrieved his broadsword with his right hand.

He had no mount left. His armor was in ruins, his left arm was useless, and his light mana was running dry within his meridians, stifled by the necrotic miasma that actively leached radiant energy from his body.

Yet his aristocratic pride, drilled into his psyche through centuries of House Althalos doctrine, refused to let him yield.

He limped down the dark, descending corridor, his right shoulder brushing against the wet stone walls to maintain his balance.

The passage wound through ancient, forgotten ruins beneath the Spire.

Lining the dark corridor were the petrified, calcified remains of ancient challengers from eras long past, warriors of ancient races whose bones were fused directly into the basalt walls, their armor rusted to fine powder, their ribcages hollowed out by centuries of necrotic decay.

To a common soldier, the sight would have presented a terrifying omen of death. But Theo’s fevered, exhausted mind twisted the grim corridor into validation.

“A test of perseverance,” Theo muttered to himself, his fingers tightening around the leather-wrapped grip of his sword until the knuckles turned white. “Only an officer of the Sovereign Vanguard possesses the discipline to walk through the tombs of the unworthy. When I ascend the Sun Throne, the bards will sing of how I marched through the valley of the dead on foot.”

He staggered through the final archway of the ruined hall, pushing past a heavy curtain of purple-black mist, and emerged onto the threshold of a colossal, subterranean amphitheater.

Theo stopped dead in his tracks, the breath catching in his throat.

The arena was massive, spanning half a league across, carved entirely from ancient black obsidian that gleamed like wet glass under the cold illumination of thousands of pale, spectral violet flames floating in iron braziers along the perimeter.

Filling the towering, tiered stone stands that encircled the arena floor were thousands of silent, disciplined demons.

Horned dread-rank minotaurs, four-armed shadow stalkers, and lines of white-armored dark elves sat in absolute, unbroken order.

There was no jeering, no bloodthirsty roaring, no chaotic brawling among the abyssal ranks.

They sat with their hands resting on their weapons, their amber and crimson eyes fixed upon the arena floor with the eerie, mechanical discipline of an immortal vanguard.

At the highest tier of the arena, carved from a single block of dark granite, sat the royal viewing box.

Seated in a row of ornate stone chairs were the ten newly appointed Council members, their rich emerald velvets and layered crimson silks looking fragile against the dark stone.

Elowen Ashwood sat with her hands trembling in her lap, her sharp green eyes wide with dread. Sable Malakor sat rigid, her knuckles pale against the dark leather of her bodice, while Sirius Anake leaned forward, his scarred jaw set hard as he stared at the arena floor.

Beside the Council sat King Maelor, his massive frame upright, his hands resting heavily on the pommel of his greatsword, his golden eyes watching the arena with stoic, unreadable intensity.

Yet none of the high-born elves occupied the center of the platform.

Rising above all other seats in the royal box was a colossal, monolithic throne of dark basalt and petrified bone.

Seated upon it, leaning casually to his right with his chin resting against his knuckles, was Jack Kaiser. His dark coat fell over the armrests, his heterochromic eyes observing the arena with the quiet detachment of an emperor overseeing a routine morning inspection.

Standing as silent, obedient servants on either side of Jack’s throne were Ren Ryzard and Loryn.

Ren stood on the right, his hands resting lightly on the pommels of his katana, his posture relaxed, his blue eyes tracking every movement in the pit.

Loryn stood on the left, his skeletal frame slightly hunched, his clawed fingers twitching rhythmically against his thighs as his sunken eye sockets burned with violet flame.

Theo’s mind fractured as he looked at the royal box. “The Council. Your Majesty. Why are you seated beside the human?”