Eldritch Assassin: Reincarnated With An SSS-Rank Devouring System
Chapter 110: The Warden’s Oath

Chapter 110: The Warden’s Oath

But if an unworthy soul claimed it, the whisper would feed, grow, and spread until the seal shattered and the Devouring Heir walked free once more.

Kael looked at his hand, then at the lotus, then at the bone door, his heart slowing as understanding settled within him. The lotus was not the final challenge—he was. His choice, his will, and his path would determine whether he ended the legacy or became its vessel.

With a steady breath, Kael walked toward the altar, his steps resolute. This time, the lotus didn’t resist, its petals parting like a silent invitation.

At its heart lay a small black shard, jagged and pulsing faintly with red light, its surface cold yet alive, radiating an ancient hunger that seemed to call to him.

Kael reached out, his fingers hovering above the shard, the whisper behind the bone door rising to a fevered pitch. Then, with a quiet resolve, he closed his hand around it.

The shard melted into his palm like liquid, seeping into his flesh, a burning mark spreading across his forearm—veins glowing red for a moment, then fading into a faint, four-pointed star that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

The whisper screamed a soundless wail that shook the chamber. The bone door boomed, its surface cracking, fragments falling like ash. Kael turned, Abyssal Fang raised, its edge gleaming with a quiet promise.

The runes flared brighter than ever, their crimson light bathing the chamber in a surreal glow, but the lotus remained still, its petals bowing as if in reverence.

The bone door split open, revealing a void darker than night, a single stone step descending into an abyss that seemed to swallow light itself.

Kael’s silver eyes narrowed, his grip on Abyssal Fang tightening. He didn’t know what lay beyond, only that the seal was no longer held by the lotus or the door—it was within him now, a burden and a power he had chosen to bear.

He glanced back at the lotus, its faint glow no longer a warning but a farewell, a quiet acknowledgment of the path he had taken. With a final, defiant breath, Kael stepped through the door, the void closing behind him, the whisper following like a shadow, and the silence trailing in its wake.

The descent was soundless, a plunge into an abyss where silence reigned absolute. Not a whisper of Kael’s boots against the smooth stone steps, not a breath, not a hum—only a stillness so profound it felt like the prelude to ruin, a quiet that carried the weight of worlds unmade.

His hand brushed the wall beside him, its surface unnaturally smooth, not crafted but erased, as if time and touch had been scoured away by an unseen force. The stair spiraled downward into a black that didn’t merely obscure—it devoured, swallowing even the faint pulse of his aura perception.

The moment he crossed the threshold of the bone door, the lotus chamber, its crimson runes, and the tomb-like sanctity of Floor 18 vanished, erased from existence as if they had never been.

Kael’s breath remained steady, his silver eyes piercing the darkness, unyielding despite the void’s oppressive weight. He didn’t call out, didn’t question the silence.

He simply walked, each step a deliberate act of defiance, a quiet vow to face whatever lay below. Step by step, he descended, the rhythm of his footsteps a solitary heartbeat in the endless black.

Hours passed—or perhaps only moments, for time seemed to bend in this place, stretching and contracting like a living thing. Then, a sound broke the silence, sharp and jarring in its singularity.

Tap-Tap

A footstep, not his own.

Kael froze, his body tensing, his senses flaring like a predator sensing prey. His silver eyes narrowed, scanning the darkness, but nothing stirred.

He reached for Abyssal Fang, his fingers brushing the hilt—only to find it gone. His heart lurched, his hand groping at his side, but the dagger, his constant companion, had vanished.

His gaze dropped, and a chill ran through him. His clothes were gone, his body bare, devoid of scars, wounds, or the crimson star that had marked his forearm. He was human, mortal, stripped of all that defined him, standing naked in the void.

The darkness shifted, a subtle ripple that felt like the world exhaling. The stair ended abruptly, opening into a vast field under a twilight sky—not the black of night, but a dull grey, a limbo caught between dusk and dawn, where light and shadow waged a silent war.

Tall grass swayed under a scentless breeze, its motion hypnotic, almost alive. Kael stepped forward, his bare feet sinking into the earth, and with that step came a weight—not on his shoulders, but within his soul, an ancient presence watching, testing, judging.

In the distance, a figure stood, solitary and still, its back to him, cloaked in an aura of quiet inevitability. Kael approached, his footsteps soundless in the grass, the field stretching endlessly around him. As he drew closer, the figure turned, and Kael’s breath caught, his heart stuttering in his chest.

It was himself.

But not as he was now. This Kael was older and worn, his face etched with lines of hardship, his silver eyes dimmed by time and loss. His aura was cracked, frayed at the edges, a ghost of the fire that burned within the Kael who stood before him.

The echo-Kael tilted his head, his expression devoid of emotion, his silence a weight that pressed against the air.

Then he lifted his hand, and from his palm rose the Black Lotus, smaller than the one in the chamber, its petals withered, curling inward like a dying flame. Its crimson veins pulsed faintly, a shadow of its former power, yet it carried a presence that chilled Kael’s blood.

"This is the end," the echo-Kael said, his voice quiet but resolute, each word a stone dropped into the stillness. "Yours. Mine. His."

Kael frowned, his mind racing. "Whose?"

The figure didn’t answer, merely pointed behind him, his gesture slow and deliberate. Kael turned, and the sky tore open—not with light, but with absence, a jagged wound in reality that spilled forth a storm of tendrils, shadows shaped like thoughts, writhing and twisting in a chaotic dance.

From the rift emerged a form, not a body or a face, but a presence, a thought too vast for the world to contain.

The Whisper.

It had shape now, an undulating storm of red mist and eyes—dozens, hundreds, blinking and unblinking, appearing and vanishing in a kaleidoscope of madness. Each eye fixed on Kael, their gaze a weight that pressed against his soul, stripping him bare.

"You carry the shard," it said, its voice not sound but a cascade of screams and sobs layered directly into his mind, a violation that clawed at his thoughts. "You chose. Now choose again."

Kael stepped forward, his bare feet steady against the ash-strewn grass. "I’ve made my choice," he declared, his voice firm, a blade cutting through the Whisper’s cacophony.

The storm surged, the grass beneath him turning to ash, the breeze stilling into an oppressive silence. "You do not understand," the Whisper hissed, its eyes narrowing, their light burning brighter.

The echo-Kael stepped forward, his voice low and weary. "It’s trying to bind you, Kael. To lock you into a path you can’t escape—a path that leads to me."

Kael clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, the pain grounding him. "I won’t become you," he growled, his silver eyes blazing with defiance.

The Whisper laughed, a soundless void that turned inward, swallowing hope and certainty. "You already are," it intoned, its words a poison that seeped into his thoughts.

The echo-Kael drew a blade—Abyssal Fang, its edge cracked and chipped, a shadow of its former glory. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it at Kael’s feet, the dagger landing in the ash with a dull thud. "Fight," he said, his voice heavy with inevitability. "But know this—victory isn’t survival."

Kael caught the blade, its hilt burning in his grip—not with heat, but with truth, a torrent of images surging through him. Every kill, every choice, every hesitation flashed before his eyes—Mira’s smile, her scream, her blood staining his hands; the sentinel’s roar, the assassins’ blades, the pagoda floors melting into shadow.

The weight of his path crashed over him, a deluge of guilt, rage, and resolve, threatening to drown him.

Then, silence.

The Whisper struck, not with claws or teeth, but with emotion—grief, rage, doubt, magnified and weaponized, a storm that battered his soul. Kael staggered, his knees buckling, the field spinning around him. The echo-Kael shattered into mist, dissolving into the void, leaving Kael alone against the tempest.

He raised Abyssal Fang, its faint pulse responding to his will, a flicker of defiance in the darkness.

The first tendril came fast, a lash of red mist that sought to bind him. Kael ducked, slashing with the dagger, the tendril shrieking as it turned to mist.

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