Chapter 1099: To Kill A Dead God
The mountain breathed with quiet majesty, its slopes carved into terraces that bore a sprawling citadel of jade-roofed halls. Layer upon layer of pavilions climbed the hillside like steps to heaven, their eaves sweeping outward in elegant defiance of gravity.
Stone stairways cut a solemn path upward through gardens of pine and cypress, where whispers of wind mingled with the murmur of hidden streams. From afar, the complex resembled a living labyrinth—half fortress, half sanctuary—its crown a towering palace that gazed down upon the valleys below with the serene authority of an eternal dynasty.
Within the palace’s heart, a throng of people gathered—not too many, but not too few either. They seemed, in fact, a perfect number of distinguished and venerable guests populating the vast, heavenly jade hall of the palace.
Where the throne should have stood, following the dais, three individuals occupied seats that reflected their distinct personalities. One, however—in the middle—stood upright, his white robe cascading around him like pristine mountain streams.
Before the dais stood nine men, and behind them knelt a silver-haired boy upon a soft pillow. He had grown considerably handsome over the years.
His face was fine and sharp, radiating calmness and wisdom. His gaze burned bright with insight, drawing in whole constellations to dance within its depths.
The first among the nine—a silver-haired man with full, sharp silver beards and crimson eyes set in a battle-scarred face—spoke with measured authority.
"After fourteen years of rigorous training, the Prince finally stands as our equal. He is ready for his responsibilities."
The man seated at the left corner of the dais was draped in silky garments of cream hue, adorned with gleaming jewelry. The fabric revealed his chest and abs, showcasing perfect dark skin that seemed forged by a warrior god’s hand, each muscle carved like living stone.
White hair cascaded in untamed rivers over his shoulders, a stark crown against the bronze of his body. He lounged upon a throne that appeared hewn from darkness itself.
The man surveyed them all with indifferent, drowsy eyes.
Then he waved dismissively.
"Yeah, sure, whatever..."
The figure in the middle—pale-haired with eyes that carried both disdain and allure—sighed and addressed the assembly.
"My brother is rather... indifferent to these traditions."
He smiled.
"Since all nine of you have gathered to confirm that the Prince has indeed matured and is ready to embrace his responsibilities, we shall present him with his first trial."
Golden ornaments adorned his entire form, chiming softly with each syllable of his words.
"Your first assignment..."
He turned to the woman beside him.
"Sister."
The lady differed markedly from her two companions. She embodied pure extravagance and luxury.
She sat upon her golden throne like a vision of divine splendor, draped in radiant silk that gleamed like captured sunlight.
Her silver hair flowed in immaculate waves beneath a luminous crown, framing eyes that held both innocence and quiet dominion.
"An Abyssal Titan has been spotted prowling the realm’s borders. It appears to be a breach from Acheronix. Creatures from Acheronix are a plague, even to the gods. What better way to earn divine favor than by slaying a deity that has surrendered to the Abyss’s corruption?"
Silence descended like a shroud.
However, the third man in line—with half-lidded eyes and dark, tousled hair—frowned deeply.
"Forgive me, Lady Ul. An Abyssal Titan is perilous beyond measure. You ask a mortal to slay a god, even a dead one."
Ul tilted her head, her innocent eyes gleaming momentarily.
"King of Swords, do you doubt your student?"
Bairan chuckled grimly.
"I harbor no doubt that with sufficient preparation, Prince Phainon could fell a dead god. It is merely a corpse, after all. But therein lies the true peril—no one slays a god, whether dead or alive, and remains unchanged. Assigning him such a task as his first trial is extraordinarily harsh and treacherous."
The voice of the man standing center stage resonated across the hall like thunder.
"We face desperate times, and desperate times demand desperate measures. Our pride and standing as the first realm crumbles swiftly because even our patron god deems us unworthy. It is only a matter of time before our realm begins to decay—or worse, before we are devoured by rival realms."
The sister, Ul, carried on.
"I believe all nine of you understand the weight of our reality. We are a dying world, and we need to do something to save ourselves. Only the prince has the power to save us. And he must save us. It is his responsibility to Tra-el."
She shifted her eyes to him.
"Prince Phainon, do you accept your first assignment?"
The Prince lowered into a bow.
"Lady Ul, Lord Eki, Lord Eskedar. I am honored to be graced by your love and guidance. The third king is weak-minded and soft—it is quite understandable. What must be done must be done; the heaviest burden falls on those daring enough to carry it. I accept my first assignment. And I shall return with the head of a god’s walking corpse."
Bairan’s countenance fell.
Ul smiled gently, like a lady fresh from a river of light, beaming with gentle radiance.
Eki also smiled, his grin more harsh and dangerous, yet radiant nonetheless.
Eskedar seemed indifferent, his eyes counting the pillars that sprawled across the great hall.
***
After the ceremony ended, the Prince was prepared for his voyage to the world’s edge. It was a perilous journey—one that no mortal dared survive.
But he was no ordinary mortal.
He had received the seeing eyes of the First Tomb King, the King of Clairvoyance. He had received dominion over wind from the Second Tomb King, the Sky King.
He had received the path of the sword from the Sword King, and from the Fourth Tomb King he had learned the ways of the waters.
All nine Tomb Kings had beaten into him the peak of mortality—he was the perfect mortal to ever exist. Far stronger than even his father, who lay dying.
He was not the first mortal to kill a dead god, certainly. Notable individuals had accomplished that feat. Though all of them became Tyrants, doomed to rot in the Underworld—the Hell that the Origins had forged for them.
But none had been tasked with the kind of responsibility he carried.
This was for the greater cause.
Phainon was certain.
So he set out to kill a dead god.