Zenith Online: Rebirth of the Strongest Player-Novel



Having been confined in bed for weeks, Kieran spent every waking day trapped inside the Realm of Self, having a silent staring contest with the dormant corruption of the Flame. 

Its perverse Significance was as eerie as ever, but Kieran had spent this time developing his cunning, devising plans he thought to be gruesome.

To whom… that remained unknown. At some point in this ongoing and perpetual staring contest, Kieran's thoughts careened down the path of broken reason and manic delusion.

What might have sounded insane to others sounded blissful to him. 

'I can do it… A sea of blood. That's what I can drown the Flame in and extinguish its wickedness for good! And it can the stains it has left. I can use the blood of those madmen, too. Ah, I love blood.'

That last thought… was a sentiment that had been growing on him immensely. 

A kind of demented bloodlust that went beyond anything he had ever felt before. Bits of the Flame's desire seeped into Kieran's soul, and with it came the tainting of his thoughts, then his mannerisms.

Slowly, the mute boy was becoming a demonic imp. Kieran had not seen the early stages of the Order's shared mental sickness, but the symptoms were likely signs of its onset. 

The Flame's affliction was upon him.

Hateful and repulsed, Kieran decided to end his daily staring contest here for the day. Instead, he worked on his side project, which should have been his primary focus. Yet, his interest and devotion to the cause dwindled each time he visited this place.

He didn't understand why entering the Realm of Self had such a compelling effect on him, but it did, and it was currently unavoidable. Until he learned how to shore up the defenses of his soul, things would seep in and pour out when opening it.

That's why the new room, similar in appearance to his old one but more spacious with a weapons rack to train his form, was suffused with a bloodied, vengeful, and corrupt air.

When entering Kieran's current room, the handmaidens who tended to him and dressed his wounds generally held their breath. Being stifled by the dense and sordid aura of Death, Blood, and Destruction was distressing and unnerving.

After gaining a bit of status from having survived his first Culling of the Voiceless, Kieran was treated with vestiges of deference. The treatment only extended as far as the handmaidens, but it was enough.

It was the handmaiden that tended to his needs, not the others.

Not long after his wounds were redressed, Kieran engaged in his daily routine of parading around his room, moving his muscles, and stretching. He kept his blood flowing as it carried the exuberance of the Flame throughout, marginally improving how fast he healed.

After careful estimation, Kieran decided he could move forward with his next step.

'I can wield a blade, and the others can't. But what happens when the next Culling comes? I need to improve.'

Cardinal Weiss saw something in Kieran, and as such, he personally came down to the Stone Hold. The Stone Hold was the Order of War and Flame's prison but also a shelter for people deemed worthless or heartlessly abandoned. What others discarded as trash, they found as vessels for their delight.

The Flame had to be appeased, it had to be fed, and it had to be worshiped. What better worshipers than the broken and discarded? Their wants were little and mundane compared to that of the entitled.

Nevertheless, Kieran had found out that the Culling was a monthly event, but the sole survivor who had kindled the Flame's Embers would be given a six-month respite to heal and come back more fierce than ever.

The Flame did not like to lose what it had been gifted. It was a selfish and greedy thing. It could be given the world to burn, and it would still remain insatiable.

'…I hate you, Flame.'

Several new Voiceless were brought in daily to support the Culling's monthly due date. It made Kieran wonder how far the influence of the Order of War and Flame spanned. The sheer number of Voiceless couldn't have been supplied from local towns, villages, and hamlets. 

There had to be some kind of insidious and inhumane deal struck with vile traffickers! It was the only imaginable and logical explanation Kieran could muster. 

Kieran discarded those thoughts of the Voiceless' misfortune and approached the weapon rack. The selection of weaponry wasn't immense, but it was decent, ranging from daggers to admittedly large machetes.

His preferred weapon of choice, the heavy ones, were absent. Not that he could manage it with his current physique. Anything larger than a longsword was unwieldy and posed more challenges than Kieran wished to deal with.

Though the blades were mundane steel weapons, the craftsmanship of each blade was spectacular. The smith responsible for such fine work was remarkably skilled.

Kieran believed so. However, he wasn't much of a metallurgist, blacksmith, or any other profession dealing with metalwork.

After relaxing his shoulders and drawing a steady breath, Kieran moved his weapon through space. He slashed, cut, thrust, and began incorporating fancier blade movements like a riposte.

It all felt janky and forced, though. Sometimes, he would only just narrowly avoid falling after following through with a slash. He was not used to the battle conditions a child's body induced. Nothing he couldn't adapt to, though.

Repetition. That's what Kieran sought, and that's what he executed. He went over his movements tens then hundreds of times. It took a lot of work and long, arduous hours of the same repeated action to ingrain a motion into the body.

One day was not enough, and neither was two. But Kieran had time. And unlike piecing together the mystic parts of his soul, he enjoyed swinging a blade, even if there was no opponent on the other side.

'I am my own opponent. I challenge the me of yesterday and defeat him.'The source of this content is Novᴇ(l)Fɪre.net

A second later, Kieran's longsword slashed through the air. The path was graceful and sharp without any tremors to its stillness. But the blade was caught by a finger. 

It belonged to the gaunt and unnerving Cardinal Weiss as he entered the room without a sound.

"You move your blade well, boy. But… it can be improved. War is ferocious, destructive, and chaotic. You… are tame."

Kieran relaxed his posture and lowered his blade at an angle sharp enough to keep it from touching the ground. Thoughts of slitting Cardinal Weiss' throat passed through his mind, but it didn't gain the purchase it needed to remain in his mind.

The thoughts flitted away like dissipating smoke. 

Kieran understood Cardinal Weiss' body had been blessed by the Flame and surpassed steel. Attempting to kill the bald coyote was a fool's errand.

Kieran gave a solemn nod. 

Then, Cardinal Weiss dropped his top robes, revealing a torso without an inch of unmarred flesh. There was an innumerable amount of grooves etched into Weiss' skin like a scarred battlefield.

"Do you see this boy? The Flame kept me alive when I should have died. The Flame inaugurated me through War, and I am grateful. Now, boy, let us prepare for your future War."

Kieran frowned.

His expression was a mix of reluctant awe, expectant glee, and corrupted appreciation.

'This isn't me. It's that damned Flame appreciating its handiwork. Still… I get to train with what I believe to be a Master.'

A Master of War and Flame…

Kieran gave it another thought, and then dismay took hold.

'I agreed to train with a wild lunatic. Gods, give me strength!'