I Possess the SSS Skill: Future Sight

The Voiders. The true rulers of darkness. Corrupted Transcendents to whom thousands of humans are sacrificed to appease them and avoid their غضب.

And this decrepit old man... was a nightmare even among the Transcendents and the Voiders themselves.

An entity that does not communicate, does not make deals, lives in a shattered mental world—but if he draws his sword... cities are erased from existence without ever realizing they died.

Ilarion did not wait.

He realized that dialogue with a being that had lost its mind was suicide.

Ilarion, an S+ rank, was cornered by death, and his survival instinct awakened in its most violent form.

He was not fighting to win.

He was fighting to survive.

"Supreme Judgment: Rain of Dead Suns!"

Ilarion roared at the top of his voice, clasping his hands together until light bled from between his fingers.

The ceiling of the Cathedral of Flesh tore apart, and hundreds of golden spheres of light—each the size of a meteor and boiling with plasma heat—formed in the air.

This was not a normal attack; it was designed to annihilate armies, carrying destructive properties that dissolved matter and erased opposing ether.

The spheres shot forward like a cascade of falling stars, heading straight toward the hunched old man!

But the old man... did not run. Did not jump. Did not open his eyes.

He remained hunched, his back arched, his hands trembling.

And with a motion slower than perception, yet faster than time itself could comprehend... he drew his katana from its sheath by exactly one inch.

Just one inch of the dull black blade emerged into view.

Shiiiiing...

A faint, pure, deeply sorrowful chime—like a drop of water falling into a still pond.

The supreme attack—the hundreds of plasma spheres that had nearly touched the old man’s robe and were about to vaporize him... split.

They did not explode. They did not scatter. They did not collide with a barrier.

They were "cut" in half.

The spheres divided into two perfectly equal halves, as if they were apples sliced by a sharp blade.

The burning halves passed to the right and left of the old man, crashing into the fleshy cathedral walls behind him and evaporating in absolute silence—without even producing a sonic or thermal explosion.

The air itself was cut.

Light was cut.

The physical laws governing ether were cut!

The old man returned that single inch of the blade into its sheath with a quiet "click," his body trembling as if on the verge of collapse from exhaustion.

Not a single strand of his hair was disturbed. His tattered coat did not move.

Ilarion’s eyes widened in a shock that paralyzed both his mind and his faith.

"He... he cut the magic itself?! Cut ether in its raw form without physically touching it?!"

In the world of Elysium, many believe that two individuals of the same classification—or even close classifications—are equal in power.

They think a battle between an S+ and an SS rank would be balanced, an exchange of blows lasting for days.

But that is merely an illusion created by the weak to simplify the world.

At the absolute peak, ranks mean nothing in the face of "individual monstrosity."

Just as is the case with Lucas Vance—who, despite being S-rank, is considered among the strongest entities, perhaps the strongest after Kaiser Dravion. Rank does not always define essence.

And this senile old man—the blind Voider—was not merely SS rank.

His power did not lie in destroying mountains, but in "nullification."

He possessed a surreal power that could rival Kaiser Dravion himself—a power that made S+ attacks look like desperate children’s toys.

"Genesis Pillars!"

Ilarion lost his sanity.

Terror transformed him from a calm saint into a cornered beast attacking out of panic.

He struck the fleshy ground with both hands, channeling all the ether in his body until he began coughing golden blood.

Ten colossal pillars of solid light—each exceeding five meters in diameter—erupted from the ground beneath and around the old man, designed to crush him and seal him within a coffin of compressed light that could neither be broken nor escaped.

But the old man, his eyes still closed, his muttering unceasing, took a single step forward.

And with that step... he drew the sword fully.

He did not swing it with force. He did not shout a skill’s name.

He merely rotated his thin, wrinkled wrist halfway in the air—casually, like swatting a fly.

There was no magical flash. No visible sword arc.

But the ten pillars of absolute light... stopped.

Then fine lines appeared across them—before they collapsed like shattered glass and turned into glowing dust that faded into the void.

The ordinary katana did not just cut physical matter.

The old man cut connections.

He cut the "intent" and "will" that bind ether together to form a spell.

The moment he moved his blade, magic detached from its caster’s will and returned to nothingness.

"Impossible... this is impossible! I am the saint! I am the absolute light!"

Ilarion roared, beginning to fly backward in madness, unleashing an unending torrent of light spears, plasma arcs, shockwaves, and blades of radiance that melted iron.

The entire place trembled.

The Cathedral of Flesh burned, tore apart, and screamed under Ilarion’s chaotic assault. Flesh was being seared, and golden and crimson blood splattered everywhere.

But the old man kept walking.

Step... step... his back hunched, dragging his wooden sandals.

With each step, he moved his sword in slow, mechanical motions—lazy, like the pendulum of a clock.

Every motion, every casual swing, cut apart a supreme attack and reduced it to a cold breeze.

He did not run. He did not pant. Not a single drop of sweat appeared on his wrinkled forehead.

He advanced with the inevitability of death—a mere machine of nullification—while Ilarion collapsed mentally and physically.

the disparity of its power—tore apart the final floor...

Something unforeseen happened.

From the massive gap in the ceiling, stretching across the six shattered floors up to the exposed street above... something cold fell onto the cheek of the fallen, impaled Valisera.

A drop of water.

Then a second drop.

Despite the pain and paralysis, Valisera looked up.

"Rain...?" she whispered with difficulty.

The heavy winter rain of Elysium City was reaching the very bottom of the hospital—to Floor B6!