The Transcendent Godslayer-Chapter 22: No notification

There was a heavy silence in the dim chamber, where shadowed figures sat, their gazes locked onto the screen with expressions of fascination and intrigue.

"You have an exceptional daughter, Patriarch Thorne," Silas remarked, a pleasant smile curling his lips as he turned to the Emberblade patriarch.

"Thank you, Sir Silas. She is indeed my gem," Thorne responded, mirroring the smile with one of his own.

"A gem indeed... A fine gem."

A brief pause hung between them before Thorne let out a sigh, a hint of lamentation woven into his tone. "It's quite painful that, at her age, she already has her heart captured."

"Oh?" Silas raised a brow, genuine surprise lining his features. "Pray tell, then, who is the lucky champ?"

Thorne's expression remained calm, but the subtle shake of his head and the carefully crafted playful sorrow in his voice were unmistakable. "It just so happens to be your son, Atticus."

"Ah? Is that so?" Silas chuckled, a light glinting in his eyes. "What a boy." His gaze drifted back to the screen, his expression unreadable, save for that brief flash of interest.

Thorne merely smiled and said nothing more. There was no need to push further. The seed had been sown, and he knew better than to seem overzealous. Pressing further would only expose desperation, and desperation had no place in these halls.

Visit freewebnoveℓ.com for the best novel reading exp𝒆rience.

After all, the very fact that he, a patriarch in his own right, was being hosted not by the Crimson family's patriarch but by the Chief Elder in charge of special operations and welfare was a reminder of the Emberblades' current standing. It was a bitter pill, but one he had long since swallowed.

The world had always been thus: the strong stood tall, and the weak stared up from below.

Once, the Emberblades had been among the strong—the strongest, in fact, within Xenith, the human domain for thousands of years. Yet, the Crimsons had risen, and with that rise, the Emberblades had fallen into a role of sworn allies and subordinates.

Thorne understood well the art of positioning. Connections were a vital tool to solidify their place beside the Crimsons, and matrimony? Well, it was among the most effective strategies.

Even if it meant remaining beneath the Crimsons' feet, to be beneath them was still to stand above all other families and clans.

And for now, that was enough.

---

In a lush, battle-scarred landscape, the young man in question moved gracefully out of the way of a massive fist. His breathing was harsh, his chest heaving, but aside from his overworked heart and lungs tightening and burning with exertion, he bore no visible injuries.

Scattered across the ground were makeshift bolts—large arrows fashioned from splintered trees. Shattered trunks lay strewn about, their broken branches transformed into crude yet effective weapons. While archery was his forte, Atticus was far from defenseless in close combat.

And when it came to kiting his enemies and turning his surroundings to his advantage, he was a god. Afterall, his entire philosophy of battle was built on controlling and playing with his enemies and environments without putting himself in relative harm.

His opponent was a two-headed abomination, though one of its grotesque heads was already destroyed, mangled beyond recognition. It had two enormous arms, as large as boulders, and legs built for short bursts of speed.

As Atticus sidestepped its latest attack, he snatched a bolt from the ground and launched it with a powerful swing of his arm.

The bolt cut through the air with remarkable speed—impressive for a nine-year-old at level 10. It flew as fast, if not faster, than the throw of a seasoned javelin thrower on their best day. However, his makeshift weapons had their drawbacks. Unlike a javelin, the bolts lacked aerodynamics and were significantly heavier.

"[Vector Control]" he muttered.

The bolt streaked through the air. The abomination swung a boulder-sized arm to swat it away, but at the last moment, the bolt curved sharply, evading the strike. An extra burst of speed propelled it straight into the abomination's remaining eye, embedding itself deeply.

A roar of agony echoed through the clearing. The creature reacted in anger, surging forward in a speed it had not shown until now.

Atticus' eyes narrowed as the abomination's arm hurtled toward his head. He didn't have time to dodge.

The air around the abomination thickened, resistance coiling against its swing. The same unseen force that had guided the bolt now worked against the creature, slowing its attack by milliseconds—then a full second, then two.

Blood trickled from Atticus' nose, the strain of maintaining his skill taking its toll. The abomination's fist powered through the resistance, its skin blistering and charring from the friction.

With every muscle in his legs coiled, Atticus leaped backward. The abomination's fist collided with an invisible barrier, mere inches from his face. Though it didn't manage to break through, the sheer force of the blow snapped his head back, nearly wrenching his neck.

His backward leap had been well-timed, allowing him to flow with the strike and reduce its impact.

He crashed into the ground, bruises blooming under his skin, but he ignored the pain. Rolling away from the impact site in case of a follow-up attack, he snatched up another tree branch, broke it to a sharp edge, and sprang to his feet.

The abomination was upon him, its two massive fists swinging in a desperate attempt to end the battle.

Atticus' gaze sharpened. He weaved through the blows, ducking under the creature's form, and followed it with a sidestep, to avoid its thunderous legs turning him into a sack of flesh and bones.

The abomination overcommitted. Without a target to strike, its momentum carried it forward, and it crashed into the ground.

Atticus didn't waste the opportunity. He leapt onto its back, slamming its head into the dirt with a powerful stomp of his heel, rattling its brains.

Straddling the creature's back, he wrenched its head up and drove the sharp branch into its second eye. The creature's flesh resisted, but he pushed with all his might.

The abomination's agonized thrashing intensified. It staggered to its feet, shaking erratically in an attempt to dislodge him. Unfortunately for it, its massive arms were built for raw power, not for precision or reach. It couldn't reach it's back to throw him off or even hit him, no matter how hard it tried.

Atticus clung to its back, his organs quaking with every violent shake. He grit his teeth, forcing the branch deeper until the creature's movements slowed, then ceased altogether. With a final, thunderous crash, it fell to the earth.

He rolled off its corpse, his chest heaving with exhaustion.

A few precious seconds passed as he caught his breath. Then, a frown darkened his features. He forced himself to his feet, grabbed another branch, and cautiously approached the fallen abomination.

He stabbed it a few times, yet its lifeless form did not stir. It was truly dead.

His frown deepened. "Why is there no message from the Existential Compendium?"

He didn't get much time to think.

Without warning, his simulated body began to disintegrate, evaporating into wisps of nothingness, just like those who had either passed or failed the test.