[You have gained a Title]
Kallen stared at the notification hovering in his mindspace, expression unreadable, shadowed by silence. Seconds passed. He didn’t blink.
But his mood was anything but good.
He willed the Title to open, and its description unraveled before him like a mocking scroll.
[Title: Slaving Smith]
[As a Peasant that lacks Providence, you have picked up a noble profession, sullying its name...]
The first line alone made his jaw tighten. Peasant? Whoever—or whatever—was behind the Existential Compendium, if he could strangle them through the system, he would.
But it was the second line that made his killing intent flare like a pressure leak.
[You have sundered a noble profession as a slave. A once proud princeling, destined for greatness, willingly wears on himself the shackles of a slave.]
[A slave to his ideals. A slave to his machinations. A slave to his goals. A willing slave to the Path Of Ascension.]
His breath caught in his throat, from the sheer, venomous audacity of it all. The message stripped him bare, calling out the very things he’d buried beneath layers of strategy and steel. He was speechless.
But the Compendium wasn’t done.
[You have the mark of a TABOO]
[Providence stripped to negative]
[TABOO curse: Unknown]
It was unknown how long he stood, staring blankly at the notification screen before him.
The words sounded hollow, and at the same time, carried an immense depth. It didn’t even sound like the voice of a child.
Maybe he’d made a mistake in his conviction... in "contracting" himself to the Existential Compendium.
Path of Ascension? How laughable.
What truly facilitated Ascension, if not the Existential Compendium itself? The rephrasing almost felt like mockery. And quite frankly, he felt like there was someone or something, smirking in disdain behind him.
Looking at it again, Kallen let out a deep chuckle.
"So this is what the Annals of the Existential Compendium really are?"
The Existential Compendium was known to follow two distinct paths: Records and Annals.
Records were what one typically saw as a status screen, a reflection of growth, achievement, and progression.
Annals however... quite literally, an annal meant... a chronicle, a documentary of events and identity. But in the case of the Existential Compendium, it transcended mere history.
The Annals were a living documentation—capturing everything from thoughts, emotions, and memories, to the Soul and even the Essence of an existence.
And Records were more like nexuses and checkpoints, the milestones within a person’s Annals that marked significance.
Annals wove the narrative, and the Records displayed its highlights.
"Very well," Kallen murmured.
He slid the forged dagger back into the fold of his clothes, no longer bothering to read its Records.
He didn’t know how long he had been here, nor how close it was to morning. Deep within the forge, light and shadow held no meaning.
Aside from the faint shift in the cooling air, or the subtle dampness in the surrounding stones, which could even be rain... if rain even existed in Andreía—there was nothing to mark the passage of night or day.
The orcs, of course, were well accustomed to this rhythm. Their biological clocks was more than enough. He had barely been here two weeks, and already, his body had begun adapting—falling into their strange harmony.
A different kind of survival. A new kind of adaptation.
What helped the most was Menelaus. His daily trips to the surface and return served as the only real measure of time.
Heaving a deep breath, he dropped into a low stance, slowly folding his legs. Then, with practiced ease, he raised one leg, crossing it carefully above the other.
His entire weight now rested on a single foot. He lifted the heel of his grounded foot until only his toes bore the weight—and let his mind and body align.
Light, still and silent.
This meditative stance was one of many exercises embedded within the technique for the Limit-Breaking Physique.
A discipline not just of muscle, but of mind-body harmony, designed to prime every nerve, muscle, and breath to operate in seamless unity.
Kallen held the pose in absolute stillness, like a statue carved by time itself. His breathing was so refined, so subtle, it appeared as though he had stopped altogether.
But in truth, each inhale drew in great gusts of air, and every exhale flowed out in a slow, controlled stream.
The illusion of stillness concealed the energy coursing through him.
To sustain this stance required immense breathing, for endurance, energy and vitality. Yet even his diaphragm gave away nothing. No visible rise, nor tremor, in his core.
A while later, his eyes snapped open, and he began to move.
His limbs lashed out in every direction with such forceful precision that any low-level First Ascension ascendent would’ve had their neck snapped from a single kick.
If not for the dense atmosphere and the sheer resistance of this world’s sound and wind barriers, or rather, his own weakness in comparison, each movement would’ve echoed like thunder and cracked like a whip.
But he pushed on. And pushed further. He didn’t relent for even the briefest moment. With every passing second, his harmony deepened, his sync becoming more profound—refined.
Sweat beaded on his brow, then flowed freely as the pores across his body opened one by one. In moments, he was drenched.
If he’d been in this state before the attack on the Crimsons, things would’ve played out differently. He might have run out of energy much quicker, as this level of harmony devoured energy reserves fast... but the battle itself would’ve gone far more smoothly.
After a few hours, Kallen finally stopped. His body trembled—caught between exhaustion and exhilaration.
He’d practiced this technique countless times before, but never had he pushed it this far. Frankly, he felt utterly drained, like every ounce of energy had been wrung from him. Yet, strangely, he had never felt more grounded—more attuned to himself and the world around him.
"Hmmm?" One brow lifted slightly in surprise.
"Is the density of dynamis in the air... increasing?" he muttered, collapsing onto the soot-covered floor, sprawling without the slightest care.
It was faint, almost imperceptible—but he could sense it. The dynamis in the air felt just a touch denser.
Then again, maybe it was just the resonance of his newfound harmony—this strange, still connection with himself and everything around him. Either way, right now felt like the perfect moment. The best possible state to attempt his awakening.