Chapter 138: Absorbing Emotions?
The months flowed in a monotonous and atrocious cycle, where time had neither shape nor color. Mordred no longer measured his life in days, but in corpses. In faces frozen in their final expression, in empty gazes staring into eternity, in warm skins that inexorably cooled under his fingers. He had stopped counting how many humans he had been forced to kill after exceeding a hundred, compelled by the dragons to perfect the morbid art they imposed upon him: methodical assassination.
He stood each day in the dark arena, his feet sinking slightly into the compact sand stained brown by the dried blood of previous days. The dagger in his hand gleamed faintly under the flickering light, while ten terrified humans were pushed before him by draconic guards with impassive faces. Unarmed beings, with hands trembling like autumn leaves, shifting eyes desperately seeking an exit that didn’t exist. Their faces were pale under the eerie light of blue-flamed torches that encircled the pit, casting moving shadows on the black stone walls. They sometimes whispered prayers in languages he didn’t understand, often begging in those he did. Mordred no longer listened.
The blade, austere, black as obsidian, perfectly balanced with its dragon scale handle, had become an extension of his hand. It no longer trembled. Neither did he. He was quick, precise, efficient. Each strike reached a vital point throat, heart, temple each gesture was minimalist, without excess, without hesitation, conserving energy with surgical precision. He executed each human as one performs a mechanical gesture, coldly necessary, consciously avoiding any prolonged eye contact.
Each time a body collapsed before him, slumping with a dull rustle onto the sand, his personal system activated, silent, invisible to the eyes of the dragons observing from the stone bleachers, but omnipresent for Mordred.
[Successful statistic absorption] Strength: +1 Agility: +2 Endurance: +1
It was now part of the process, immutable as the sunrise. Mordred no longer strained his mind to steal these forces from victims. He asked for nothing. It was automatic, beyond his control, as if his body had become a machine programmed for this task. The system methodically absorbed the remnants of life from those he struck down, drawing in their attributes like an avid sponge. And slowly, day after day, his body grew in power, speed, and resilience, as if nourished by these forced sacrifices. His muscles became denser, his reflexes sharper, his skin more resistant to training blows.
But one day, after finishing the last man of a particularly bloody series a former soldier with brown eyes who had stared at him with visceral hatred until the very end something unusual happened. Mordred was standing, motionless in his habitual posture, his breathing calm, his face impassive, when a different notification suddenly appeared before his eyes:
[You have absorbed the victim’s resentment]
Mordred felt a cold shiver run down his spine like an icy snake. This message was new, resolutely different. Never before had he received such information. He stared into the emptiness before him for a moment, perplexed, with slightly furrowed brows.