Zenith Online: Rebirth of the Strongest Player

The voice and its presence drifted away from Kieran and the other six Inheritors, leaving them to stare at each other and the strange crossroads they stood before.

They were to travel their paths alone but together. That's what the voice had said. But something was holding them back. Until they had come to a unified agreement and walked together, they could not experience the Testament of Dying Blood.

But a big problem was barring them from moving forward as they had hoped.

Daedric's hateful gaze burned with open malice and contempt as he glared at Kieran. He refused to move and simply stood there, arms crossed and his expression repugnant.

Altair's cold, indifferent gaze lanced through Daedric like a tempered block of dark ice. There might not have been a weapon, but that's what it felt like. That chilling feeling of impassiveness grew worse as he clutched the seemingly perfect grip of his blade.

Wisps of the Lightless Shroud—its absolute blackness that could not be challenged—seeped from within.

Altair did not use his words to speak. His actions did that for him in spades.

Daedric didn't back down, though.

"What? Do you want to have a go at me? I'm down for a rematch. Right here, right now."

His snarls were like the vicious howl of a wounded beast. It was his pride that was damaged and received a haunting wound. He needed redemption, retribution for the embarrassment he felt.

Feeling challenged, Altair began drawing one of his bayonets, silent darkness spilling from within the sheathe. His movements were soundless, influenced by the eerie silence of a Specter of the Dusk.

Daedric anticipated an incoming attack and activated his Innate Ability.

Something heavy and silver bearing a contained heat coursed through his thick veins. For a moment, he was bathed in immolating heat then it solidified, becoming a silver aegis that protected him.

He had no use for shields because he was the shield. His body had been changed, tempered, and primed to become an impregnable shield, assuming all of its desired properties.

Altair's bayonet met this solidified silver light a few centimeters away from Daedric's skin. A strident screech erupted in this vacant space, and everyone covered their ears.

Darkness had tried to encroach upon Daedric, but it was unsuccessful. The shadow of Light's Failed Touch had failed to penetrate as well. That failure awakened something hostile and critical slumbering inside the shadowy assassin.

A flash of light streaked in this mysteriously lit place, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Subtle arcs of lightning performed a riveting dance in the space between Altair and Daedric.

Altair had retreated for two reasons.

One, to gather his energy for a stronger, increasingly sinister attack. He wanted to see if Daedric's defense could hold up against the lethality he could bring to bear. No power alone was perfect. There had to be some weakness to be exploited. It was just that no one had learned of its presence.

Two, the Gloom had told him of movement in the surroundings and cautioned Altair to remain wary.

Without being sure that the Inheritors hadn't formed alliances amongst themselves—he and Kieran had already known each for quite some time—Altair chose to not take the risk, retreating.

Kieran took this all in with calm regard, watching as the Inheritor instantly devolved into infighting. How could the Testament of Dying Blood be cleared in this condition? Hopefully, it didn't require teamwork. Otherwise, this test would fail before it could pose its true challenge or rear its cunning head.

He shrugged, regardless.

'I get it. Daedric is petty and doesn't know how to take a loss.'

Add in the fact they were back in a world where no foe had succeeded in piercing his defenses… and sure enough, Daedric's tattered ego had been stitched back together. But it still wasn't what it once was.

That haunting loss, infuriating blemish, and stubborn stain… stood meters away from him. His frenzied eyes testified to how much he wished to crush Kieran.

Now, another person stood before him, in his way.

Ingvald's Inheritor—Ragnar.

Ragnar was not a completely unknown person in the gaming world. On the contrary, he was well-reputed and a symbol of decency and exemplary sportsmanship. Physical sports were still a rampaging interest and thriving industry before the Virtual Age took hold of the youths roughly two decades ago.

The exchange of blows and the thrill of risking injury brought a vicarious rush of adrenaline. Though Ragnar was older than either Kieran, Daedric, or Altair, his physique was vigorous, bearing expertly contained might.

When needed, he could explode with a ferocity befitting of his toned physique. His clean-shaven jaw also helped camouflage his age that his crow's feet betrayed. However, not a single touch of gray had appeared within his tangerine hair. Arcs of blue-gold crackled in his amicable eyes as he looked between Altair and Daedric.

His bare, scarred arms were held in a t-pose to stop either side from advancing.

"How do you suppose we'll fare if you go at each other's throat from the very beginning? There's a lot at stake here. You're willing to risk that over some petty reason? Where is your maturity, people?"

Ragnar looked to the others for their intervention, but they met his gaze with disregard and indifference. Their body language asked: "Can you please leave me out of this little mess?"

It made him frown disappointedly, his soured emotions forming lines on his face.

Then, Daedric pounded his fist, scowled, and then spat.

"What makes you think I'll listen to you, you damned lightbulb? What, you can flash here and there and shoot off light? Any Mage can do that!"

Hostility brewed in Ragnar's calm gaze as the chaotic scars on his arms and bandaged feet shone with a menacing blue-gold light. The roar of thunder began echoing from his body in a display of disciplined might. But the signs of it surging at any moment were there.

"That was a rude comment. I am no light bulb. You are also sorely mistaken if you think the only thing I do is light up, young man."

The fool was making enemy after enemy with the same people he was supposed to coordinate efforts with.

Kieran had seen enough of it all and marched forward, approaching his bridge that gave off a sense of damnation. It was crimson, tattered, and seemed touched by destruction. It likely portended what ominous things were coming for him.

"Ragnar is right. This is all very foolish."

He shrugged without turning around, but some time while he was speaking, Crimson Ashrune had appeared in his hand, feeling regal and mighty as always.

He continued.

"Somewhere inside you all is the desire to be the best. With our penalties, there is no becoming the best if we fail. So, I don't intend on failing. I will cut any of you down right where you stand and assume the burden and consequence in the end."

The bloodied light of the Maddened shone with Kieran's cold, cruel eyes. He meant every word he uttered. He was prepared to go to war with the Myths if it meant his success.

Though they were threatened, soon, it was only Daedric that remained in the center before the seven bridges.

He grunted hatefully, the acrid taste of defeat embittering him. Without much other choice, he relented. Like the others, he walked his path… and cursed too. Cursed them all.

"…Fuck you."