Zenith Online: Rebirth of the Strongest Player

The weight of the grand doors seemed to match that of the Oath as it opened with a deafening rumble. It was the onset of a cataclysm contained.

Behind the gate was a deceptively small room that maintained the Hero's Sanctuary's opulence. It only seemed comparatively small due to the number of people in the room and a strange broken altar situated in its center.

'That thing is…'

Kieran couldn't describe what he felt from the broken, spellbinding altar. It resembled a cross between a regal throne to sit upon and a sacrosanct shrine to pray at. Though he couldn't place the sensation, Kieran recognized familiar hints of the Wykin's mystical craft.

There was runework present — an abundance of it.

However, the mystical engravings and esoteric arrangement of vaguely familiar runes came off a bit strange to Kieran. All around him — the columns, stone flooring, and the exquisite, shattered altar in the center of this room — it all bore the signature of the Wykins.

However, they were perverse and felt more ancient than he was inclined to understand.

Those enchanted eyes of his helped him, though. They helped Kieran glean more information and gain tidbits of insight into its lengthy history.

The runes were strange because they were neither the runes Wykin wrote, drew, or wielded nor were they the Supreme Lettering Eni had created. It was an attempt at fusing the two, which was odd considering the Wykins' runes were derived straight from the Supreme Letterings.

Attempting a new path of runework required a consummate level of both sides. That level of understanding rivaled or perhaps was second only to Eni himself.

Kieran marveled at the sight.

Then, his eyes started to burn and water like when staring at a great light source for too long. He closed them and looked away, not realizing the runes contained a muted brilliance that insidiously seared the mind.

The absorbed brilliance filled him with knowledge that needed digesting. That much was easily discernible, considering his Mystic Gate sagged, feeling fuller and heavier. He didn't have the time for it, though.

Scar walked before Kieran and crossed his arms within this deceptively small room filled with mystical scrivenings and ancient curios. It gave off a likeness similar to a hidden treasury or the crypt of a rapacious emperor.

Heads turned. Every head in the room, precisely.

A grand total of twelve.

Six belonged to an echelon of power Kieran currently found unfathomable. But the other six… they were like him, just not identical to him. Naturally, the first to catch his eye was Altair, who stood beside the indifferent and gaunt Zephyr.

He had only met the Master of Shadows once in this life and a handful in another, but he remained unchanged in his disposition. There was a dark indifference to the man that robbed any room of its brilliance. Most lights seemed dimmer in his presence, and darkness seemed blacker. And life… it retreated from him.

A caliginous assassin, well-hidden, attuned to darkness, and expertly trained to kill with minimal effort.

Zephyr was fearsome, but Kieran noticed Altair more. His current presence wasn't what it used to be. Something about him felt strangely cold, almost lifeless. And it was a disconnect from what he remembered about Altair's accumulation of power. There was a hint of foreign chill present in the slender young man.

'What have you stumbled upon in our short time away from each other?'

Though curious, Kieran's thoughts were interrupted by the progression of the meeting.

A voice filled with effortless emotion — liveliness, glee, and optimism spoke up. The tone was reasonably soft and placating, like a mother coddling a baby to sleep.

Kieran watched as a woman with short silver hair approached the mysterious altar in the middle of the room.

"We have finally gathered together after finding another cycle of potential Inheritors. They have succeeded in accepting a token of our might… but will this be a coming of a New Generation of Myths?"

As this woman spoke, her gaze fell upon Scar in particular. Maybe potential Generations had existed, but none had ever been cemented.

"What do you want from me, Astraea?"

Astraea, the silver-haired beauty, smiled. She was garbed in oriental robes consisting primarily of light ribbons — tones of pink, white, blue, and green wrapped around her body. The most striking thing about this woman was not her charm or beauty. It was her eyes.

There was an otherworldly marvel to them that transcended the mundane. It was like a world was imprisoned in her eyes. Mana bowed to her, becoming servile and docile.

'Is she an Enchanter? No, no. That can't be right. I don't think there is an overlap in any of the Myth's abilities.'

Then, Kieran stared in the distance, his expression blank.

'What do I mean, no way? Agatha is not a Myth. So technically, this lady could probably be an Enchanter.'

In the center of the room stood Astraea, the World Oracle, sometimes called the Natural Myth.

Oracles usually held an affinity for farseeing or futuresight and were quite useless in battle, but a Myth could accomplish unimaginable things. She played an integral part in their many fights in the past.

"What we have always wanted, Red Myth. For you to help us herald in a New Generation of Myths. The time is upon us, and we can wait no longer. The burden of the Oath continues to grow heavier and needs relieving."

Scar clenched his jaw, imprisoning his words on his tongue.

All things considered, his mantle was the only thing curtailing the emergence of a New Generation. It happened during every cycle. It wasn't his fault, though.

Mastering the burden of Argexes' Blood, even when subdued by Agrianos, was a colossal ask.

"You know what the Trial challenges, how it manipulates and torments… what it shows and promises. Compared to the other six… save for maybe that gloomy fuck over there; you have it easy. We take the lion's share of the Significance."

Astraea's polite smile remained. It was hard to tell if the smile was a facade or if words genuinely could not rouse a change of emotion within her.

"That's because the lion's share was created for you. Of us seven, you know exactly the ruin you could bring upon the world alone. You remain attached to Blood, Death, and Destruction in alarming ways. We share enough of your burden as is."

Scar exhaled, his expression growing dark and sullen.

Astraea was correct.

The notoriety his mantle had acquired was why he hated coming to this place. It challenged his devotion to the cause, momentarily exposing him to the torment of Argexes he had previously muted.

A stentorian voice boomed in the room, followed by heavy footsteps. A giant donning silver armor, seemingly created by the gods, approached the center of the room.

"That's enough, you two."

The Colossal Myth, Gestalt the Goliath.

It was rumored that his armor was not armor but his skin, forged by some heavenly flames. Considering the history and origin of the Myths, there was probably some truth to that.

Following Gestalt, another individual stepped forward.

Arcs of lightning flitted up this man's arms, passing through his eyes and across his physique in endless loops. His physique embodied the ferocity of lightning and the muted boom of thunder.

The Roaring Myth, Ingvald the Asura.

Every Myth approached the altar one by one, soon standing in a subtle arc before the spellbinding throne. The Myths placed their right hand over their hearts, exhaled, and pulled upon something gargantuan.

The room shook, the air cried, and the throne… it became a magnificent mystery.

Its majesty accumulated quickly with each Myth beginning to speak their Oath. Their words and voice became one like the Oath they shared, and the throne of broken resplendence recognized them.