A Waste of Time

Chapter 120: Opaque Conviction

Daemon ignored what Ippo and Kai are experiencing at the moment, refocusing on the here and now. The shift was startling, he instantly noticed the difference once he pulled his awareness back from the System's Space. His senses sharpened to a level that bordered on unnatural, reaching inward to every thread of his body and outward to everything in range.

The first thing he caught was his jailor. The middle-aged man in ash robes stiffened the moment Daemon’s black eyes met his. Daemon heard the sudden quickening of his heartbeat, felt the way his breath hitched in his chest, saw the tightening of his shoulders, and smelled the sour stench of sweat before it even reached the man’s skin. He could almost taste the fear bleeding off him.

But deeper, Daemon felt something else—the precise pull of the six silver needles buried in his flesh. Each one drained his Blood and Blood Essence with methodical efficiency. He could trace the movement of his digestive system as well, breaking down the last meal that guy had given him. Yet the nutrients it released were hardly enough. His body remained gaunt, his vitality stolen too quickly to show the true strength he should have gained after stepping into Tier-1.

Not yet, he told himself, accepting the drain without resistance, letting his marrow burn itself at maximum capacity to refill what was lost. His veins trembled, emptied almost as quickly as they refilled, but he endured.

Daemon knew better than to lash out now. He needed to understand. What schemes were the Cultivators of the Ten-Thousand Beasts Mountain are weaving? Why was his existence being exploited so carefully? Until he knew, he would remain still—playing the role of the broken child, the boy who saw the world only in bleak greys and longed for it all to end.

And when the picture was complete—when he finally saw the full scope of their design—then he would know where to strike. Where to break their wheels and cripple their progress.

"I'm hungry." The boy voiced his request calmly without breaking his act, he only asked for food whenever his body was on the verge of breaking itself beyond saving measure to sustain the severe expenditure.

Daemon adjusted his posture on the cushion placed atop the dais, his movements precise and unhurried. After washing his hands, he turned his attention to the food arranged neatly in front of him.

He ate slowly, each bite deliberate, mechanical—like a machine repeating a task with no spark of interest. He never gave the meals a second glance, nor did he ever show dissatisfaction with what was presented to him. Taste, temperature, arrangement, origin—whether it came from beast or plant—none of it seemed to matter.

When the last morsel was gone, Daemon settled back into stillness. Sometimes he remained seated, his gaze fixed blankly ahead as though staring into a void only he could see. Other times he would quietly lower himself onto the mattress, close his eyes, and let the silence swallow him in sleep.

Now, as he lifted a simple clay container to his lips and sipped at the water within, his eyes betrayed nothing. The vessel was designed so that even if shattered, it could never be used to harm himself or anyone else.

But Daemon’s thoughts were far from the room, far from the precautions of his captors. His body lingered in the chamber, quiet and subdued. His mind wandered elsewhere.

Daemon and Ippo ran that path until the soles of their feet were raw, scraped clean against the endless tiles.

What they had endured earlier—those scattered ambushes—proved to be nothing more than the System’s twisted idea of a warm-up. Violence, it seemed, had merely been stretching its limbs.

The attacks no longer came in ones and twos. At first it was a handful of blue-tinted, silver-bodied fish bursting from the sea. Then it was many. Then too many.

The storm of bodies turned chaotic fast. Each flying fish collided with others midair, knocking their trajectories off course until it became impossible to predict where they would strike. One moment the threat was head-on, the next it veered to the flank, then behind, as though the very ocean had decided to hurl its children at them.

Forced to adapt, the boys abandoned distance. Running apart meant getting swarmed alone. So they pressed shoulder to shoulder, watching each other’s blind spots, every step a shared gamble.

But the fish weren’t just flying. Many fell short, landing heavily on the path itself. Their slick, writhing bodies turned the tiles treacherous, slick with scales and blood. Each step forward threatened to slip them onto their backs, or worse, off the edge into the churning sea.

Yet both boys were fighters—and clever ones at that.

No one was there to see the absurd spectacle of Daemon and Ippo, each gripping a pair of fish by the tail, wielding them like makeshift Weapons. They lashed left and right, slapping the incoming attackers out of the air until the fish in hand burst apart, bones and scales scattering. Then, without pause, they stooped to snatch fresh replacements and kept swinging.

The scene would’ve been laughable—two children battling a storm of fish with fish—if not for the grim determination etched into their faces. Their strikes were wild but purposeful, each blow measured to keep the path forward clear, to keep their direction true.

But as the assault grew thicker, their situation darkened. The numbers became ridiculous, beyond count. The path underfoot turned into a slick deathtrap, every tile groaning under the slap of wet bodies.

Every step forward was a struggle. Every breath, a battle.

And for a fleeting moment, both Daemon and Ippo felt the weight of despair. The thought whispered that they might never make it to the far end—that perhaps they would be swallowed in the middle of this endless ocean, left to sink and claw without ever seeing solid ground again.

But the truth was simple: there is always light born from the darkness of night, and always a shroud of darkness to cover the light of day.

Their feet came down hard—and the splash that followed made despair rise in their throats. Daemon and Ippo felt their hearts sink. They had missed the solid path. This was it. They would have to fight the school of fish in open water, or be torn apart into bloody morsels for the swarm.

But then, shock.

Instead of sinking, their feet pressed against something firm. Wet sand squeezed between their toes, soft yet solid. Land.

There was no time to rejoice. The water around their ankles writhed with silver-blue bodies, teeth gnashing, long fins slapping as the school rushed to devour their legs.

“Run!”

The word tore from both throats at once. They bent low, muscles straining, and launched upward together, high-jumping out of the foaming surf and back toward survival.

And there—looming in front of them—was a vast shape, its outline blurred but undeniable even through the thick curtain of mist. A pyramid.

Its shadow stretched across the sand and water, dark and heavy, a monument of stone veiled by fog. The first step alone rose like a wall, sheer and unyielding, nearly a hundred meters high. To stand at its base was to feel as though they faced the side of a cliff, a challenge carved into the world itself.

It waited for them in silence, daring the two boys to climb—if they had the will.

Before they could face this new challenge, both Daemon and Ippo were forced to stop.

The strain weighed heavy on their bodies. First had been the endless struggle with the metal lever, then the ten-minute swim, and after that the frantic run across the sinking path while fending off an unending school of silver-blue fish.

Now, standing before the mist-shrouded pyramid, they both understood the truth—this pace could not continue. Not without breaking them.

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