Zenith Online: Rebirth of the Strongest Player



Hours passed in silence as Kieran rested on the couch—unmoving and staring at the ceiling—but his gaze focused on something beyond. 

Many thoughts roamed free in his mind, creating a chaotic mess.

Some of his thoughts were related to objectives he had to clear in the near future, other thoughts focused on the questions he wanted—or even needed—the answer to in the far future. The rest… were roped in reminiscent emotions, a film of nostalgia slowly enveloping them. 

'It wasn't a lie. For a moment… I had truly dug too deep into myself.'

Slowly, a memory coalesced in Kieran's mind, a vague but clearing scene. 

There was a ramshackle building that felt familiar to Kieran despite having pushed these memories to the deepest recesses of his conscious mind.

The centerpiece of his memory was the dilapidated building's worn doors, terrorized by the cruelty of time and insufficient upkeep. What could have been a beautiful alabaster building with resilient wood doors of moderate breadth… was the victim of misfortune and neglect.

The stones that made up the foundations were cracked and weary, and some of its exterior was the texture of sand, fine grains blowing away with the slightest breeze.

A hazardous environment, needless to say.

The paint on the wall was thick, a shoddy attempt to cover up the damages. If enough force was used, the patchwork paint could be pulled from the wall, revealing how bad the erosion was.

Yet, despite this environment, many children played outside in a patch of brownish-green lawn. A greater portion of it was barren soil, littered with weeds, but some parts were overgrown and unsightly in other areas.

'The playground.'

Some of the kids were cheerful, ignorant of their exigent circumstances for being born here. 

The orphanage was all that they knew. 

There was nothing better to compare it with, so there was no envy or sadness in their tiny, innocent hearts.

But for the other kids—mainly the older ones that ended up here because tragedy struck—they were embittered and their response was vitriolic behavior. 

With everything robbed from them, they began to hate the world.

Kieran was one of those children. His memories—specifically this one—was interwoven with other hateful kids. 

Without an outlet, they turned on themselves. They certainly wouldn't terrorize the young, uninvolved children, no older than 4 or 5 years old, when they were much older. 

They were angry, saddened, and morose, but they didn't become that unreasonable.

Well… not yet.

'Was it Christmas? Maybe… It was teeth-chattering cold, and the sky was dark, blocked out by the cascading white. Still, I remember it like it happened yesterday—the sanctity of that white snow being violated.'

Kieran closed his eyes for a long time and opened them not long after.

He remembered that night starting something as trivial as an argument over who would get the last unfulfilling piece of stale pastry. As kids that sorely lacked happiness, that little dessert meant more to them than they cared to admit.

Instead of becoming vulnerable, grieving children… they became volatile beasts with incendiary emotions and even shorter fuses. 

They erupted in anger, each of them spewing hateful words. But it didn't linger at verbal assault for long.

The arguments soon evolved into a physical scuffle. Though the house mother tried to intervene, she couldn't stop the mayhem alone. And with the orphanages' destitute finances, she couldn't afford the proper staff without robbing the children of other essential needs.

So, it fell on the caregivers to stop the brawl that ensued.

While the war waged inside the small cafeteria area, Kieran remembered eating in a listless haze, consuming his food like a hollow husk of a boy. Then, when he was finished, he set his sights on the last pastry that the others neglected.

Without asking, Kieran grabbed and bit into the pastry. A chewy texture with a filling that had grown gelatinous and strange, but the taste was palatable. 

After hearing the crunch of the stale pastry, the warring children froze, snapping their gazes onto the culprit in unison. There they saw it. Another young boy devouring the "delicacy" that acted as their spoils of war.

At this point in the recount, banging and other noises grew prevalent, drowning out the screams of the children in Kieran's ear. He looked to the door, watching as it rattled, unstably existing under the pressure of each frosty gust hitting it.

Kieran muttered: 

"Door…"

But not just in his memory, but on the couch as well. Though he was just experiencing the past, Kieran felt like something was attempting to break through that door. 

And it wasn't the storm outside.

Now that he thought about it, though, he never did get to finish the pastry. It crumpled when many kids tried to pry it out of his hands. When unsuccessful, he was dragged outside the front doors into the flurry assaulting the building.

The playground was blanketed in snow, so how could the kids know that when he was pushed down, it would be upon a jagged, protruding stone? 

A deep gash was left in Kieran's left jaw, the icy winds producing a biting sting every time it lashed against his face.

Kieran touched his cheek, saw the blood, and felt its warmth, and finally, his dead eyes showed some of that buried emotion. 

Rage. Pure rage. 

Rage like none of the other kids could manifest.

Across from the wild children, the house mother stood in the doorway, her mouth covered with a hand and trembling, scared and concerned about their wellbeing. 

Clamor surfaced from behind her, but she spread her arms, keeping the other wailing children at bay.

Curled up in the snow, Kieran looked into the house mother's eyes, seeing deep pain and sadness welling from within. Suddenly, the pain of being kicked repeatedly, stomped on and yelled at didn't feel too bad.

Instead, Kieran wondered about his parents. 

Their personalities, how deeply he knew them, and their end.

'Did Mom and Dad hurt this much in the end? Did they die because they stopped fighting? Had they given up? No… I remember their eyes. They would never give up… not with the way they protected me.'

Thinking about his parents ignited Kieran's will to survive. It was impossible to confirm, but he didn't need confirmation; his heart told him this was true.

"I can't give up now. They would be disappointed in me."

And then… in that pure white snow… pure violence occurred. Whatever existed within arm's length was employed as a weapon. On that day, Kieran decided that if anyone caused him pain, he would repay the favor.

Warm blood dripped into the snow, staining the frosty white canvas with a ravishing shade of crimson. 

Groans, cries, and sniffles echoed in the flurry.

On that night of the storm, roughly ten children had to be hospitalized.

The memory cleared and Kieran looked down at his body, a deep grimace worn.

"My condition back then wasn't too different from what is now. But why am I daydreaming about the orphanage now? I haven't thought about it in so many years."

Technically, it was years. But, Kieran hadn't left the orphanage for that long in this timeline.

A few years at most. 

Kieran coughed and sat up, groaning softly. His muscles spasmed and rippled beneath his skin, reacting to the sudden pressure.

Dr. Riley returned with some warm tea to help soothe the body, but Kieran placed it down on the stand beside him. 

"I need to go to the bank."

Her expression darkened in response, irritation burning in her gaze.

"You can't be serious right now. One, do you see the time? What bank is opened at this obscene hour? Two, do you see your condition right now? Why would you show your face in public after making a mockery of well-connected people."

Kieran gave a wry smile. She raised a good point, but…

"It's for the longevity of the guild. The quicker I settle these accounts, the faster I can handle any pressing issues."

"I don't care! Do you not understand me? You're not in any condition to worry about that. Heal up first. Or, if you really need to… just send the Allan guy and Xane together. They can act as your proxy."

'Proxy?'

Kieran considered it. 

The world already knew Altair was part of his core entourage. He was also someone that Kieran trusted. Shared interests united them, but enduring trial and tribulation forged their relationship.

Convinced, Kieran nodded.

"I'll concede. If the bank will them to act as my proxy, then let's do it."

They weren't in a private space, simply sitting in the suite's living room, but a knock sounded on

It was Alice, sauntering nearby in her comfortable night clothes. 

"Am I interrupting?"

"Nope. You're fine. I'm trying to convince this hard-head that stepping outside right now is quite foolish."

Alice smiled subtly, something hidden behind his expression. She focused on them for a moment, then leaned on the wall. 

"Yeah, he's like that, isn't he? But I came to let you know I've received personal messages. There's a huge confluence of players looking for you, Kieran. For Godhand and Sanguis. What will you do?"

The recruitment notice was more eruptive than Kieran expected.