I Am a Hero With A Hundred Abilities
Chapter 98 - 98: Ch 97. Conclusion

All the pieces were falling into place inside Ethan's mind—each fragment of truth snapping into the puzzle like a lock clicking shut.

At first, he believed the Genesis Ritual was merely a beacon, something that had pulled his soul into this world, a mysterious tether between dimensions.

But now?

"No… it's more than that," he thought, eyes narrowing. "Much more."

The phrase "access to the core of the universe" echoed in his thoughts like a divine bell tolling in revelation.

So does that mean… the Sanctum itself is the core?

His chest tightened.

"The voice… it never told me how I received the Sanctum," he realized. "I assumed it gave it to me. It seems I was wrong…"

If that was the case, then the Sanctum wasn't a gift—it was a consequence. A remnant of something ancient and incomprehensible.

The true purpose of the Genesis Ritual wasn't just to summon—it was to grant access to the very fabric of reality.

Still processing, Ethan turned back to Lyon.

"Who created the Genesis Ritual?" he asked, almost dreading the answer.

Lyon, barely conscious, blood crusted over his lips, forced himself to speak.

"It was… the first hero… the first to be detected with the Aether Factor… the first to survive the super serum…"

Ethan's pupils dilated. That answer shook him.

"A human?" he thought. "A human made something this powerful?"

That shouldn't have been possible.

What kind of strength, what kind of understanding of reality itself, would someone need to create a ritual that could manipulate dimensional gateways, grant cosmic access, and bend fate itself?

He didn't get a chance to ask the next question.

Because the sky ripped open.

A Tear-shaped rift burst across the heavens—a strange distortion in the very concept of time. And through it, crashing down like a meteorite, came a man cloaked in broken power:

Saint Drakos.

He slammed into the arena floor, stone shattering beneath him as blood streamed down his robes. His aura was fractured, twisted by damage and raw fury.

"Curse these injuries," he hissed, rising slowly. "If not for them… that bitch wouldn't have gotten the upper hand."

Ethan tensed, instantly shielding himself with instinctual caution. But Drakos' burning gaze wasn't focused on him… yet.

No—it turned.

Locked onto Lyon.

Fury ignited behind Drakos' eyes like twin infernos.

Lyon flinched.

"Wait—!"

But it was too late.

"Useless traitor."

Drakos raised his finger.

A massive sphere of dark energy condensed at the tip—a dense, cursed star of annihilation.

Ethan's senses screamed. He activated Lightning Step instantly, vanishing just as the orb fired.

The energy exploded engulfing Lyon whole.

That not even a corpse remained.

The man who held the final secrets… was vaporized.

Ethan landed at a safe distance, fury gripping his gut. But before he could process it, light flooded the sky again.

Saint Theresa emerged from the rift, divine aura blazing.

Drakos scowled, backing away as her beam charged.

"Tch. I'll be back for you," he spat at Ethan.

Before he vanished.

As the beam struck empty air.

Theresa clicked her tongue in frustration.

"What a rat… he escaped again."

Then her gaze swept the battlefield.

The Sentinels were still clashing with the Ascension guards, relentless and merciless.

Theresa raised her hand.

A radiant sphere of light formed in her palm—small, no larger than a tennis ball, but humming with sacred power. Beams of divine judgment burst from it in every direction, like threads of death.

Each one found its mark.

Each Sentinel fell as they were impaled, silenced, and disintegrated.

The battlefield fell silent.

The Attack on the Crownspire Ascension was finally over.

But for Ethan?

It was just the beginning.

Because now he knew the Genesis Ritual, the Sanctum, and even his arrival here…

Were all threads in a web spun by something ancient, something beyond human.

And he had only just begun to unravel it.

****

In the heart of Tartarus, chaos reigned like a god unshackled.

The Warden, a Titan of order forged in decades of war, continued to battle the relentless Sentinels with a hundred clones at his side—each one a flickering echo of his wrath and discipline.

Steel clashed against augmented flesh, prison walls cracked under shockwaves, and the air was thick with the screams of metal and fury.

But amidst the storm, Sarpa moved like a shadow given will—silent, deliberate, and death-bound.

While the Warden held the line, Sarpa wove through the winding catacombs of Tartarus with one purpose in mind: to find Guardian Angel—the fallen hero, now rotting in a cell, stripped of his wings and title.

It didn't take long.

Sarpa stopped before a reinforced cell door. Without a word, he lifted a hand and conjured a concentrated dark beam, a pulse of malevolence that pierced straight through the steel door. The door didn't swing open—it exploded, molten fragments hissing against the floor.

Inside, Guardian Angel flinched backward, light flickering in his drained eyes.

But then—he saw him.

Sarpa.

His master.

His salvation.

Relief washed over Guardian Angel's face like sunlight after centuries of storm.

"My lord… thank you for remembering me, despite my failures…"

Sarpa stood silent, the shadows of his cloak hiding every trace of emotion.

That silence was heavy—too heavy.

Guardian Angel's relief faltered.

Suddenly panicked, he fell to his knees and slammed his forehead against the floor.

"My lord—just give me one more chance! I swear I won't fail you again! I'll die before I do!"

Sarpa remained still, unmoved.

Then finally, he spoke—his voice like a blade gliding through still water.

"Don't worry."

A flicker of hope bloomed in Guardian Angel's chest.

"I know you won't fail me again."

A smile burst across Angel's bruised face.

"Thank you, my lord—"

But the words died in his throat.

As five dark spears materialized from the void and impaled him through the chest in an instant—one through his heart, one through each lung, and two through his sides.

His mouth opened, but no breath came.

Blood poured as Guardian Angel fell forward, convulsing in his own crimson pool. His eyes were wide, staring at Sarpa not with anger—but with shock.

"Why…?" he rasped.

Sarpa turned his back, voice colder than the void itself.

"Because you can't fail me again… if you're dead."

No emotion. No pity. No regret.

Only judgment.

Guardian Angel's body went limp, his light extinguished—forgotten in the silence of betrayal.

Sarpa walked away without looking back, the echo of his footsteps vanishing into the cell block.

Then, with a faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips, he whispered:

"Now… it's time for my little white fox."

In a flicker of shadows, Sarpa vanished.

His next target: Mirveil.