Zenith Online: Rebirth of the Strongest Player



Having to live as a powerless child seemed too absurd to be true, but the reality of it was all too stark and overt for Kieran to denounce it. He'd be delusional if he couldn't accept the situation for what it is.

Condemned.

'What is the meaning of this damned chain?'

What started as a theoretical question aimed at the Condemned Chain and what it represented soon evolved into a grave realization. 

He was chained up!

Fetters wrapped in tough hide bound Kieran's legs together, providing enough wiggle room for a dragged shuffling of his feet rather than proper steps. So, in addition to his body being disturbingly weakened… his movement and freedom were restricted and stolen!

A second chain attached to the link between the ankle fetters, and Kieran tugged on it, finding that it was embedded into the wall by a titanic hook. No amount of pulling could free him from his bindings.

Not in this condition. Not when he was so feeble.

'You've got to be kidding. I hope the others are having just as much of a rough time as I am.'

If others shared in his misery, that was fine, but if he was the only one who had to suffer…

A maddened glint passed through his eyes. 

Then, he tried to repress it. But the thoughts fought against him, waging war on his reason and happiness. With nowhere to go and no way to free himself, Kieran sat down and waited.

Amidst his wait, he focused on things like calming his thoughts and obtaining a semblance of peace of mind. 

'Where are you…'

Kieran searched his soul and mind, sifting through the mess that the Oath's Significance had created. With everything in disarray, he struggled to locate and access his Mystic Gate inside his soul. That colossal ocean of mysterious pressure and bizarre influence alarmed Kieran. He had once thought of using those special set of eyes he awakened as a Runemaster to peer into the truth of the portal.

But an archaic, enigmatic, and almighty presence dissuaded him from performing that action. It was beyond dangerous and remarkably foolish.

As Agatha had told him, Significance played a paramount role in the Trial of Inheritors. However, only Awakened Beings—the Masters of Self—could begin assimilating, appropriating, and making use of that concept.

If Kieran attempted to appropriate the Oath's Significance by learning its truth… he'd likely destroy his mind and obliterate all facets of his Self before it could even form.

Kieran shuddered, an uncanny and chilling shiver running down his spine.

'I almost did something stupid there. It would have been nice to know about the dangers of these two eyes. Not everything should be looked at… not immediately, at least.' 

With every thought he had, Kieran realized he still had an ocean's worth of knowledge to learn. Then, there was also the matter of his current condition.

Again, he looked at his tiny hands with a rueful expression.

'Boy, this sucks.'

From Kieran's perspective, the Testament of Dying Blood could very well be the telling of a child's legend. His information was currently limited by many factors but everything he had discovered thus far created a bleak and spartan scenario. 

First, the Trial's introduction had left him feeling bereft of power. Even this small body that he inhabited was difficult to control or maneuver.

Ignoring the weakness of it, it felt like it was trying to rebel. 

'What strange situation have I ended up in? Am I supposed to escape? Where am I?'

Kieran asked himself question after question while the disparate pieces of his memory returned to him. He remembered losing himself along the way, losing his connection to everything. The perversity of the situation still haunted him now.

'I hate that feeling…'

The feeling of being unable to control your actions or decide your destiny or fate. He loathed that powerlessness. But his hatred for it had not peaked because a tiny part of him kept him from becoming completely amoral.

He could not, in his right mind, just do things to do it while ignoring the harm it may cause others. There were too many mystical threads in his life that foreshadowed or implied the existence of undetectable forces.

'Karma has to be real. I don't want a load of bad karma weighing against my soul and burdening my heart. The Oath is going to do enough of that…'

During the chanting of the Chained Oath, Kieran could feel with disturbing clarity the effects it had on him. It grabbed his body like a heavenly vice and then burrowed deeper, doing things to his mind and soul that he was helpless against.

Whatever was hidden, buried, or erroneously discarded was brought to the surface. Perhaps that was the reason for him being here. He may have been given a role in this unfamiliar place based on affinity. 

It sounded reasonable. At the very least, he was not dreaming, that much he knew.

He had tried slapping his face and headbutting the mirror to wake himself up. Both ideas resulted in excruciating pain. Odd, given that he was pretty inured to pain. His soul should have become partially numb to it by now.

'That's not possible, is it?'

Kieran looked for something sharp as a concern plagued his mind, becoming a disease he had to carve out. He needed to be sure. He picked a jagged rock from a pile of broken stone and dust lying in the stone room's corner and cut his palm.

He grimaced. The pain was sudden and hot, searing and stinging his mind like injected venom. Then, he started to bleed. Drops of crimsons splattered on the dusty stone floor, and Kieran focused.

'Stop.'

The blood did not stop; it kept dripping. It fell one ruby sphere at a time, forming a small puddle before his groin. He could not command his blood! It, too, had rebelled. 

Looking at his soft childish hand, Kieran despised that he bore no Mark of the Maddened. It was gone.

'How in the…'

He exhaled and inhaled, executing an even breathing pattern. It didn't provide much solace for him, though. The fury continued to build. It accumulated until it formed an unbridled storm in near of eruptive release.

Kieran screamed.

"A-…"

A heart-wrenching rasp exited Kieran's throat, and agony shot down the way his voice should have escaped. It wasn't overly tender, but touching his neck made Kieran wince. Another look in the mirror revealed an almost-healed scar across his throat. 

His vocal chord had been slashed.

A child with no voice. He had become a child unable to speak, not by choice but by force. That was an unfortunate fate. Was he a victim of torture, then? 

Should he be frightened? He didn't believe so. There were no bruises or injuries aside from his mutilated throat. Though it was jagged, there was some precision to the cut. Whoever had done it… they were acquiring experience doing so.

One thing became clear to Kieran, though.

'I have to leave this forsaken place. I must escape!'

However, seconds after he had this thought, footsteps approached, and the rotted door was opened. 

In strode a gaunt man wearing hooded holy robes. His face was covered, but Kieran could tell he was bald from the hood's smoothness. Zealous faith stirred in the man's blue eyes, making him seem fanatic and giddy. His lips curled and revealed a smile that advertised poor hygiene.

"Have you been broken yet, boy? I heard you had a lot of fight in you. Where is that rumored fight now? Gone be the stubbornness; in come the faith. Now…let me examine that throat of yours."

Kieran had no way of replying other than head movement. Still, he scrutinized this man's actions with a watchful eye.

'So it was you who did this to me? Also, Voiceless? Then, there are more like me?'

The gaunt man clapped merrily, eying Kieran with fanatic glee. 

"You have healed nicely. Good. You'll fare better if you go into the Culling of the Voiceless healthy."