Eldritch Assassin: Reincarnated With An SSS-Rank Devouring System
Chapter 99: "They Got Booted?"

Chapter 99: "They Got Booted?"

A woman in crimson robes shot toward him, her fists glowing with primal energy, her presence heavier than the rest—a cultivator, high-level, her speed outpacing the others.

She swung her strike a blaze of raw power. Kael tilted his body just enough for the blow to graze past his temple, the air hissing with its force.

He didn’t react, didn’t flinch. Stepping into her blind spot, he let Abyssal Fang whisper through the air in a small, deliberate arc.

Her arm dropped, severed at the elbow, and she spun to counter—but Kael was already behind her. A single strike to her core, and she vanished into the mist, her energy dissipating like a fading ember.

Kael’s eyes widened, a realization dawning. "They’re not real..." These were no mere enemies—they were memories, illusions woven from the battles of his past.

Some bore the faces of constructs from earlier trials, others the scars of mercenaries and guards from Vel’tar Fortress, their features blurred by the fog but achingly familiar.

They were fragments of his journey, each one a reflection of the blood and pain that had forged him.

Abyssal Fang hummed in his grip, its song resonating with the rhythm of the field. Kael stopped fighting them as enemies. He began to guide them, each movement a verse in a silent symphony.

His blade didn’t clash—it danced, weaving through the chaos with a poet’s precision. His aura thinned, not from weakness but from focus, each breath aligning with the flow of combat.

The cuts he received—shallow grazes across his arms, his ribs—were no longer distractions but reminders, grounding him in the moment.

The fog shifted with him, swirling around each motion like paint rippling across the water, gentle waves echoing in his wake. Time seemed to slow, the world bending to the rhythm of his blade.

A man in heavy armor charged from the right, his axe raised high. Kael didn’t hesitate—his sword curved in a downward crescent, its edge slicing into the shaft just above the man’s grip. The axe split and the figure vanished, its form unraveling into the mist.

Another leaped from above, a staff spinning with deadly precision. Kael raised Abyssal Fang with one hand, letting the staff crash against it.

His knees bent, absorbing the impact, and he turned his body, sending the enemy spinning past with the sword’s momentum. A flick of his wrist disarmed them mid-fall, and they dissolved before hitting the ground.

The field was thinning, the enemies coming slower—not because their numbers dwindled, but because Kael was changing. He no longer met their attacks with resistance.

He welcomed them, each strike a question, each movement an answer. His blade guided their intent away from the flesh, away from blood, sketching the flow of battle with a grace that felt almost sacred.

Only one enemy remained.

It was him—Kael, as he was now, wounds and all, clad in the same tattered robes, gripping the same Abyssal Fang. The copy mirrored his stance, its eyes locked on his, a perfect reflection of his resolve.

Kael didn’t tense. He didn’t charge. Instead, he lowered his blade and bowed, a gesture of respect, not submission. The reflection stared, its gaze unwavering, then nodded in return.

They stepped forward as one, their swords rising—not as weapons, but as mirrors, their movements harmonizing in a silent duet.

Their blades touched, a single strike that carried no sound, no burst of power—just stillness, a moment of perfect balance. The reflection faded, its form dissolving into motes of silver light that drifted upward, mingling with the fog.

Kael stood alone, his sword lowered, his breath steady, his spirit alight with a clarity he’d never known. The System’s voice echoed, soft yet resonant, as if the field itself spoke his truth.

[Sword Path – Budding Phase Deepened.

Path Style: Crescent Requiem – Stability Form Acknowledged.

You have begun to walk the Symphony of Flow.

+10 Dexterity. +5 Mental Cognition. +7 Aura Sensitivity.]

[You have conquered the Trial of Harmonized Conflict.]

The mist lifted, the field fading like a dream at dawn. A stone platform rose beneath Kael’s feet, its surface etched with glowing symbols that spiraled outward in soft gold, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

At its center, a small pedestal emerged, cradling a fragment of a broken sword—white steel, its edge humming with an energy that felt both ancient and alive.

Kael stepped toward it, his movements steady despite the ache of his wounds. The moment his fingers brushed the fragment, the world shifted inward, a torrent of memories, emotions, and instincts flooding into him.

Visions of swordmasters from ages past flickered through his mind—cultivators who had walked the same path, their blades carving harmony from chaos.

Their footsteps overlapped his, their voices whispering a single, unifying truth: "You are not the blade. You are the one who guides it."

Kael opened his eyes, the visions fading but their weight lingering. The trial was over, but the path had only just begun. He sheathed Abyssal Fang, the motion reverent, not a flourish but a promise.

His body was bruised, his limbs sore, but something within him had sharpened beyond the edge of any weapon—a clarity, a purpose that transcended steel.

A final doorway appeared ahead, its light not golden but white, pristine and silent, a beacon calling him forward. Kael stepped toward it, the echo of the sword’s song resonating in his bones.

He was no longer a warrior of death, driven by survival or vengeance. He was a cultivator of balance, his dagger whispering silence, his sword singing harmony.

The path listened, and Kael walked forward, ready to meet whatever lay beyond.

*****

A pulse of golden light erupted from the Ascension Pagoda, its radiance slicing through the twilight like a blade through silk.

The ground trembled softly, a low hum resonating through the air, a sound that was felt more than heard, vibrating in the bones of every soul gathered on the windless plain.

Dust swirled upward in lazy spirals, defying the stillness, as a profound silence descended. Even the ever-churning clouds above seemed to pause, as if the sky itself held its breath, awestruck by the pagoda’s ancient power.

Then, with a sound like shattering stars, two streaks of white light shot from the sixteenth floor, hurtling downward with meteoric force. They struck the broken plains outside the pagoda with a thunderous crack, craters blooming beneath them, jagged fissures radiating outward.

The air snapped and warped around the impact zones, ripples of distorted energy pulsing like a heartbeat. A faint flicker of light lingered from the sixteenth floor, a silent testament to the trial’s unrelenting verdict.

Every eye turned toward the spectacle, the weight of the moment pressing down on the gathered cultivators like a physical force. The Arveth team froze, their usual bravado stilled.

Taryn, ever restless, stopped twirling her twin daggers, her fingers tightening around their hilts. Cedric’s lips parted, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief. Voren’s massive Warhammer dipped an inch, its weight forgotten in the face of the impossible.

Mei-Lin blinked once, her sharp gaze narrowing as she studied the aftermath, her fan trembling faintly in her grip. Lysara, stoic as ever, stood rigid, her brow twitching with a flicker of unease.

"Those two..." Cedric whispered, his voice thin, almost lost in the heavy air. "The white-robed figures..."

They were now like legends in their own right—unreadable, untouchable, moving like shadows with no aura to betray their presence. And now, they had been expelled.

From the 16th floor! Just two more floors to clear the Ascension Pagoda.

Not striding out in triumph, their robes stained with the glory of victory. Not limping from the wounds of a grueling trial. But rejected, cast out like leaves swept away by an unforgiving wind.

Lysara’s voice was barely audible, a murmur laced with disbelief. "Impossible."

The two white-robed figures rose from their craters, their movements deliberate, almost serene. Their pristine robes remained unmarred, not a speck of dust or tear to mark their fall.

One dusted off a sleeve with a gesture that spoke of quiet irritation, a subtle crack in their otherwise impenetrable composure. The other turned slowly, their head tilting back to gaze at the pagoda, their expression hidden but radiating a mix of confusion and disdain, as if the spire had dared to defy their very existence.

"They got booted?" The thought sent a ripple of unease through the others. They hadn’t expected this—not from them.

The white-robed figures were enigmas, their strength a quiet storm that had outpaced every other contender. Yet here they stood, cast out, untouched by blood or blade but marked by something deeper, something the pagoda had deemed unworthy.

Their gazes sharpened, studying their forms. No wounds marred their bodies, no rips tore their robes. They were pristine, yet the air around them felt heavier, as if the trial had struck at something beyond the physical—perhaps their pride, their resolve, or some hidden truth they hadn’t faced.

Whatever had transpired on the sixteenth floor hadn’t broken their bodies, but it had shaken their spirits.