Chapter 120
Being the source of the disruption and discomfort, Kei Y already felt several trained senses pressing on him as whispers rippled through the stands. Everyone was wondering the same thing—how could a mere Recruit Class radiate such intense bloodlust, strong enough to alter the very ambient temperature?
They already knew of him, of the extent his maliciousness could go—after all, they’d seen what he did to Dione in his match. But this? This was a new window into the depths of this peculiar, dangerous child.
Kei Y ignored the curious glances thrown his way, his attention seemingly fixed on the match below. But his hands betrayed him, fidgeting restlessly with the fabric of his clothes. He tugged at the sleeves, adjusted the collar, shifted in his seat as if nothing sat quite right.
It hadn’t been long since he’d made them, but now… they were starting to feel wrong. Too tight. Too suffocating. The subtle irritation gnawed at him, each tug of the fabric feeding into the storm already simmering beneath his calm exterior.
Among those staring, one pair of eyes stood out. Soulless eyes, void of emotion, void of humanity, void of even the will to live. For a brief moment, as she looked upon Kei Y, she thought her daughter’s fate had been… merciful. A hollow thought crossed her mind: he had the potential to make her suffer so much worse. After that, her gaze calmly returned to the match. But something about her shifted. Her appearance, her demeanor—subtle cracks began to show, slipping through the mask she wore. People who had once been confused about Kei Y’s strange comments regarding her “overweight” now began to glimpse fleeting distortions, faint outlines of something truer beneath her crafted shell. Their confusion wavered, unease creeping in as if his words might not have been the ramblings of a cruel child after all, but hints of a reality they had failed to see.
Unluckily for Kei Y, not everyone kept their tongue in check. The muttered comments around the arena all reached his ears. Most he ignored. But one particular voice—from Jerusalem’s side—snapped his attention. The moment Kei Y’s gaze slid to the figure, he didn’t need to guess. He knew exactly who it was. The Specialist Class who had spoken could only be one figure from mythology.
“Heh, do you mistake me for that deceased Crown Princess you killed? So weak, yet so daring—the likes of you think your meager stre—”
“Kei, can you take that deranged bird’s voice away from him before I pluck his feathers in front of everyone?” Kei Y interrupted flatly, speaking to Kei M.
Kei M acted quickly, silencing the man mid-sentence. The Specialist’s lips kept moving, but his voice was gone, snatched away entirely.
Kei Y’s phrasing, however, left the audience confused. “Bird? Feathers? Wings?”
Dozens of confused looks turned toward the Specialist from Jerusalem. Even his own Crown Prince stared at him strangely.
“Hmmm. Feathers? Wings?” the Crown Prince muttered aloud, his face betraying his thoughts. “Doesn’t sound bad, actually.”
The Specialist felt cold sweat bead on his forehead. His outrage at being silenced paled compared to the horror of realizing his own Crown Prince might actually be considering the idea, as though Kei Y’s strange comment had sparked genuine inspiration.
Kei Y, for his part, didn’t care. He ignored them all, his frosted gaze already locked back on the match below.
“He really is troublesome, isn’t he?” Japan’s Emperor murmured to his daughter, the Crown Princess.
“If I face him,” she replied calmly, her eyes still closed, though faint light flickered beneath her lids, “I’ll be sure to set him—and his attitude—straight.”
“You think he’ll be more fun to fight when he’s angry?” China’s Crown Prince asked suddenly, practically bouncing in his seat with excitement after what Kei Y had just done.
His father, the Emperor of China, gave him a sharp, steady look. “If you don’t learn to reign yourself in soon, you’ll regret it when it’s too late.”
The Crown Prince only grinned, never looking away from Kei Y. “No I won’t.”
The Jerusalem Specialist noticed his voiced was being restrained and scoffed haughtily, drawing on his will to undo Kei M's silencing, but the act of doing so he faced far more resistance than he expected before being "freed" from Kei M's muteness.
"A haughty bastard indeed" Kei M chuckled, as he noticed Kei Y vanished
"Trying to silence me? you truly know no boun.......... huh? what's that?" The Specialist said as he glanced upwards noticing something, more technically a presence above him
Before he could react, the figure's hand swung down fiercely aiming for his head
With a scoff, the Specialist acted to deflect and restrain the person but found his movement faltering slightly and a heavy wind pressed against him before he could prepare himself for it. The wind was so sudden, the robes of Jerusalem's Crown Prince flew covering his face blocking his sight from his Specialist being struck down directly on his head with a brick
"You like to keep talking don't you?" Kei Y asked as he swung down repeatedly with his brick weapon. Each strike disoriented the Specialist, as the runes Kei Y redrew on the brick was meant to disorient people who it made contact with
The Specialist staggered under the impact, but Kei Y didn’t relent. He swung again and again, the rune-etched brick whistling with each strike. Every blow carried a faint distortion, the disorientation rune buzzing against the Specialist’s senses, warping his balance and scrambling his thoughts.
Ordinarily, such runes would have been shrugged off by someone of his cultivation, little more than an annoyance. But the repeated strikes stacked their effect, slipping past his defenses, slowing his reactions by fractions of a second. Fractions that Kei Y exploited mercilessly.
And then—Pristine Aether surged. The subtle power amplified the rune’s influence, dragging the Specialist’s thoughts into a mire of delay and dizziness. His arms felt sluggish, his perception splintered.
Kei Y’s brick rose and fell like a judge’s gavel, pounding the Specialist with brutal precision.
The proud warrior looked helpless.
The entire arena froze. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the ongoing clash in the arena seemed to fade into the background.
All eyes were on the Recruit Class boy beating down a Specialist with a brick.
And for Mahoraga’s sake, it was almost a blessing. For a brief moment, no one cared that he—The Divine General—was being toyed with by a child.
Whispers tore through the crowd at the bizarre sight. Another Specialist from Jerusalem doubled over laughing at his teammate’s humiliation, wheezing so hard he could barely breathe. “I always knew that mouth of yours would be your downfall—hit him! Hit him again!” he cheered, delighting in the spectacle of his comrade being beaten senseless.
The Crown Prince of Jerusalem, meanwhile, adjusted his robes after they’d been whipped about by the sudden wind. But as he looked closer, his composure cracked. Two…? He realized it wasn’t just one Recruit Class beating down his Specialist.
“China’s Crown Prince, what are you doing?!”
Up in the stands, China’s Emperor groaned into his hand, his entire face sinking into his palm. He had already been exasperated by Kei Y’s antics, but now—now it was worse. Much worse. He muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl of despair.
“He is so troublesome… under no circumstances can I let the two of them interact—Sun…” He turned his head, only to find the seat beside him empty. His Crown Prince had already vanished.
China’s Emperor nearly cried on the spot. “Damn it, you jackass! Get your dumbass back here before you make it worse!”
Down in Jerusalem's waiting area, China’s Crown Prince was having the time of his life. His laughter rang out as he gleefully joined Kei Y in pummeling the Specialist, bouncing on his feet like a child who’d just been let loose on a playground.
“Leave me alone, you old fogey!” he shouted back toward the stands, not even looking up. “I’m having fun! Take this—and that—and this again!” His fists, feet, and even elbows struck down in a rhythm that was more playful than lethal. He even leapt into the air, dropping an elbow dramatically onto the poor Specialist’s side.
The Specialist, already reeling from Kei Y’s rune-laced brick disorienting his mind every time it connected, could do nothing. Each time he tried to gather focus, the world tilted, his balance faltered, and another strike crashed into him.
The scene was so absurd, so surreal, that Japan’s Emperor instantly snapped into motion, hoping that his Crown Princess would join in the festivities.
“Can’t you lighten up a bit?” Japan's Emperor sighed. “They’re having fun. Just let them… in fact, why don't you join them?”
“I am not joining!” she snapped, her voice sharp, though the faintest waver of temptation cracked her tone. Her lips pursed, her glow fluttering faintly beneath her closed lids. She harrumphed, turning her head aside like a sulking child. “And you can’t make me!”
Meanwhile, the beatdown continued, the echo of brick strikes and gleeful laughter drowning out the match that had once held everyone’s attention
“You still think pride is a quality worth holding, dear Crown Prince?” the other Jerusalem Specialist asked once he managed to stop laughing.
“I have to admit… you’re on to something,” the Crown Prince thought. “Watching three Recruit Class brats beat him down because of his arrogance… it really opens a new—” He froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening. “Wait—three? When did that little girl jump in? And is that… a panda?”
The stands erupted with disbelief as the sight became clear: Mia had joined the scuffle, her tiny fists swinging with surprising weight. Every strike landed like a hammer, her giggles echoing as she threw herself into the beatdown with reckless joy.
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“I like you, little girl!” China’s Crown Prince declared happily as he stomped alongside Kei Y.
“I like you too, monkey boy,” Mia chirped without hesitation.
“I’M NOT A MONKEY!!!” the Crown Prince barked back, faltering for just a split second. That hesitation was enough.
The Specialist, battered and humiliated, found the brief opening he needed. With a furious roar, he finally shook off Kei Y’s distortion rune, his aura flaring violently. A burst of force sent Kei Y, Mia, the Crown Prince, and even Olly flying backward, tumbling through the air.
“YOU INGRATES!” he bellowed, spittle flying as he pointed directly at Kei Y. “You dare trample me?! And you—” his finger shook, his rage narrowing in on the boy who had sparked it all—“I WILL DEAL WITH YOU THIS—”
His rant cut short.
Thunk!
A brick spun through the air and lodged straight into his open mouth. Teeth cracked, blood sprayed, and his own scream turned into a choked gag as he swallowed shards of enamel along with the chunk of stone.
The Specialist doubled over, choking violently.
Kei Y’s frosted gaze never wavered. “I told you,” he said calmly. “You talk too much.”
And then he moved to leap again.
Mia, Olly, and China's Crown Prince—faces alight with mischief—were instantly ready to follow his lead, bouncing in place like kids eager for recess to continue.
That was when Pharaoh intervened. His colossal presence swept over the chaos as he extended a single hand. In an instant, his participants— Kei Y and Mia—were plucked up like misbehaving children, dangling in his grasp as they kicked and squirmed to get free.
At the same time, China’s King finally seized his own by the scruff, dragging him back to his seat with a look of pure exhaustion.
Pharaoh bowed his head toward Jerusalem’s King. “King David,” he said, his tone heavy with embarrassment, “I truly don’t know what possessed these two to behave this way. I’ll see to it personally that they’re punished appropriately.”
But Kei Y, still dangling, didn’t even hesitate. “No you won’t,” he said flatly.
Pharaoh flinched, his face twisting with discomfort. Deep down, he knew the boy wasn’t wrong. From the corner of his eye, he caught Auserre doubled over, wheezing with laughter, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He wouldn’t get away with punishing her students—not while she was enjoying herself this much.
King David sat in silence, too stunned to respond. His aide Solomon, on the other hand, was sprawled on the floor, pounding the ground with his fist, tears streaming down his face.
“HAHAHAHAHA!” Solomon howled, clutching his stomach. “I never liked that sword idiot anyway! Emperor Jade! King Pharaoh! Please—let them keep going! I’ll personally pay you in treasures if you allow it!”
As the Kings dragged their respective charges away, the chaos refused to end.
Olly, left behind, hurled mud balls at the Specialist, pelting him relentlessly. The Specialist, bloody-mouthed and trembling with rage, finally yanked the brick from his throat, broken teeth clattering to the floor.
Kei Y being hoisted away, dangling in the air smirked, catching Olly as the little panda bounded back to him. “What’s wrong? Say something again. …Oh wait—you can’t. You’re missing a few teeth.”
The taunt sent the Specialist into a blind rage, his body jerking as though ready to launch out of his seat.
But King David’s will slammed down like a mountain, pinning him in place. His voice was steel. “You never learn, do you? Make another peep, and I’ll deal with you myself.”
The Specialist froze, his fury boiling silent under David’s crushing presence.
“Come on, let him go again!” Solomon groaned between fits of laughter, joined by the other Specialist who’d been watching gleefully from the side.
Returning to his seat with Mia trailing beside him, Kei Y slumped down as though nothing had happened. His eyes returned to the match below, detached, cold, as if the brick incident had never occurred.
Kei M leaned closer, studying him carefully. Something was off—subtle, but undeniable. “Are you okay? You’re starting to feel… different,” he said slowly, his tone edged with unease.
“Yeah,” Inpu added, glancing between them. “I’ve noticed it too. Like you’re more irritated lately. More violent. Honestly, it’s hard to imagine you acting this way if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.”
The two watched him carefully, and for a moment Kei Y didn’t respond. His fingers twitched, tugging at the fabric of his clothes, adjusting and readjusting, as though he couldn’t sit still.
Kei M’s sharp eyes caught the habit. “Is it your clothes again?”
“No, it’s fine,” Kei Y muttered, though his hands kept fidgeting. “They just feel too tight. Too clingy.”
Inpu frowned. “Those are new, though. Didn’t you just make them? What about the stuff you were wearing before?”
“Yeah, I made these.” Kei Y tugged harder at the fabric, his tone turning sour. “But I got the dimensions wrong. The old stuff wasn’t so bad when I thought of it as protection. Now? ‘Regular’ clothes just feel… wrong. Like they’re smothering me.”
“Couldn’t you just tailor them better to your size?” Kei M pressed.
Kei Y stilled, his frosted gaze lowering. “I don’t know the dimensions. The person who looked after me before Sanu… she always handled that for me. Always made my clothes. However she did it, they always felt… different.” His voice dropped, quiet and strained. “When I wore those clothes, it was like the voices in my head went silent. Like we had room to breathe. Peace. To remain seperate But now…” His grip tightened on the fabric, knuckles whitening. “Now it’s like we’re all crammed together. No space. No air. Just noise. Too much noise.”
He forced a breath, loosening his grip, muttering almost to himself, “…but it’s fine. I’ll deal with it.”
Mia tilted her head. Her voice came out innocent, almost playful, but her words cut deep. “Is that why you killed that lady? And beat up that guy?”
For a moment, the group went still.
Kei Y blinked once, slowly. His lips curved, not into a smile, but into something unreadable. “Hmm… I don’t know.”
The way he said it sent a ripple of unease through the group.
Kei M, for his part, felt the most disturbed. Through his Sound Force, he could have sworn he heard multiple voices bleeding through Kei Y’s tone—layered, distorted, as if several selves were speaking at once, superimposed atop one another. He couldn’t understand what it meant. Perhaps it was his nerves, the oddness swirling around Kei Y making him too tense, tricking his senses. But deep down, he doubted it was just his imagination.
On the arena floor, Mahoraga battled Silvie. Despite her small frame, her blows landed heavy, sharp, and merciless. His body had already begun to adapt—shifting into new forms as he endured her barrage. His frame grew more agile, his muscles denser, his senses sharper. Every nerve adjusted to the endless tide of her attacks. He was no longer just a soldier-general; with each exchange, he became a better martial artist than he had been when the match began.
But that was exactly what Silvie wanted.
For every adjustment he made, every technique he refined, she advanced faster. Her rhythm bent to his counters, her timing devoured his improvements, her intent dissolved his adaptations. The harder he worked to rise to her level, the higher she climbed, her growth so rapid it was almost cruel.
Breaking away with a heavy breath, Mahoraga planted his feet. Golden light flared as a circle of Samsara unfurled beneath him, etched with runes that spun with solemn inevitability. His weapon pulsed to life in his grip, vibrating with renewed force. His eyes narrowed on Silvie, but disbelief lingered in his voice.
“I thought I was improving… yet I only seem to be making you stronger.” His tone was steady, but the unease bled through. “You’re undeniably a genius in martial arts, but even so—” the Samsara circle whirred faster, radiating blinding light—“there’s no way you’re this much of a monster in force manipulation.”
The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
Silvie threw her head back and laughed. It wasn’t the laugh of a child amused by a joke, but one far too haughty, far too entertained—like she had just been told the funniest thing in the world, and the punchline was him.
Before he could curse his loose tongue, an ethereal green aura erupted around her. Lush vines surged from the ground at her feet, curling and weaving with unnatural vitality. Her whip reformed in her grasp, gleaming with verdant life as the arena itself seemed to breathe with her presence.
“He really shouldn’t have said that,” Siddhartha muttered, already in a seated position some distance away. His eyes lingered on his Divine General, almost pitying.
“Mmm,” Nekhtem hummed, agreeing as he had settled down beside him. His calm expression carried no malice—only certainty of the outcome.
At some point during the battle, both had realized the same truth: their fight was pointless. Nekhtem, no matter how hard he pressed, was bound to lose. Better to conserve his strength and accept reality than waste effort.
Still, Siddhartha’s sharp eyes couldn’t help but notice something within him. The core in Nekhtem’s dantian. The quality was poor, almost fragile, but there was no mistaking it—it bore traces of enlightenment. Progress not far along, but progress nonetheless.
“Has it only been recently that you began seeking enlightenment?” Siddhartha asked casually, catching a gravel-coated fist in one hand. The ground splintered from the force, yet he absorbed it as though he had swatted away dust.
“Mn,” Nekhtem grunted in affirmation.
Siddhartha’s gaze shifted briefly toward Silvie, happily unleashing her force against Mahoraga. “Is it related to that girl? She didn’t seem to care too much about you.”
“I used to be a slave laborer,” Nekhtem replied simply. “Sanu was one of the slaves I oversaw.”
His voice didn’t waver. No excuses, no bitterness. Only acceptance.
Siddhartha raised a brow, mildly impressed.
“I’m guessing seeing her now must be a shock,” he pressed, as gravel and stone constructs rose at Nekhtem’s command, streaking toward him. Siddhartha brushed them aside with effortless gestures, never once breaking the rhythm of the conversation.
“She’s truly powerful,” Nekhtem admitted. “Thinking back now, it was foolish of me to ever believe I held power over her. If anything…” He exhaled slowly, his voice quiet but clear. “She and Khenu pitied me. Pitied me enough to let me act on my whims.”
His words weren’t bitter. They were calm, steady, and strangely freeing.
“Khenu? The one who fought Greece on his own?” Siddhartha asked, his brow lifting. His gaze flicked across the crowd, where he had already noticed Khenu and China’s Crown Prince causing their own commotion. “Actually… I can see that happening.”
“I got in over my head and challenged him to a fight,” Nekhtem continued, his tone half-resigned, half-wistful. “He nearly burned me alive without much effort. If not for my Crown Prince stepping in, I’d be dead. That would’ve been fine. But after the fight, he didn’t even spare me a glance. My life held no worth or meaning in his eyes. It was as if I had been erased, forgotten instantly.”
Nekhtem let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “That was when I truly felt small. My eyes were opened to the reality I had been living. I was no one—just a man addicted to the illusion of power I thought I held. Thinking back now…” His lips curled into a self-deprecating smile. “…I was pathetic.”
Siddhartha said nothing, his calm eyes fixed on him, but the silence itself was an invitation for Nekhtem to continue.
“My former boss,” Nekhtem went on, his gaze shifting briefly toward Amunar’s leader among the Specialists, “he tried to admonish me for losing so embarrassingly. But I paid him no mind. If he had chosen to kill me then, I would have accepted it.”
His voice lowered, soft but resolute. “After that, I simply reflected. On my life. On my past actions. On everything I had done. I made an effort to accept it all. To accept myself. I won’t lie—I still struggle with it. Every day. But…” He looked toward the ongoing clash, his expression calm despite the chaos around them. “…before I die, at the very least, I want to make peace with my life. To pass away without regrets.”
Nekhtem didn’t even realize when it happened. One moment he was attacking, the next he found himself seated cross-legged beside Siddhartha, as though the Crown Prince had simply willed it so. Time seemed to blur as the two spoke, their words flowing with surprising ease.
Acceptance. Peace. Enlightenment.
Nekhtem found himself absorbing every lesson without effort. He didn’t struggle to understand, didn’t need to force comprehension—the words simply sank in, resonating deeply. His dantian core began to spin, faint lines of light tracing across its surface, marks of enlightenment etching themselves into its form.
Meanwhile, the battle raged on.
Silvie and Mahoraga clashed fiercely, no longer limited to martial arts. Their forces collided in dazzling bursts—vines wrapped in viridian vitality against golden samsara, the cycle of rebirth manifesting in each swing of Mahoraga’s weapon. The ground tore beneath them, shockwaves scattering debris through the arena.
A jagged stone hurtled toward Siddhartha. Without breaking his calm cadence, he reached out, plucked the rock from the air, and flicked it back in the same motion.
Crack!
The stone struck Mahoraga square on the head. His neck snapped to the side, his stance faltering as his footing crumbled.
“Hey! You’re supposed to be on my side!” Mahoraga barked, scrambling as vines tore through the space where his head had been a heartbeat ago. Another set coiled upward from beneath him, but his lost balance spared him, the strikes narrowly missing.
“You’re welcome,” Siddhartha replied serenely, returning to his conversation with Nekhtem as though nothing had happened. His voice was calm, almost bored, continuing the lecture on enlightenment without pause.
Mahoraga froze for half a heartbeat, his grip tightening on his weapon. He couldn’t help it—regret clawed at his chest. Entering this match had been a mistake.
He had done it to protect his Crown Prince. To shield him from the little girl.
And yet here he was—locked in a battle that felt like an execution—while his Crown Prince sat comfortably on the ground, engaged in philosophical discussion with the enemy, not even bothering to watch him fight.
Mahoraga questioned if it was truly Silvie he needed to be wary of… or his own master’s utter indifference.