novelraw Chapter 169: Soul king
Chapter 169: Soul king
"You're going to attempt to enter A rank?" The old devil asked, his voice low and steady, yet unable to completely mask the surprise that flickered across his aged features. One brow arched slowly as he looked over at Guilliman, studying him with a depth that went beyond mere curiosity.
For a brief moment, silence lingered between them, heavy and reflective.
The old devil could still remember the first day he had met the boy. Back then, Guilliman had been nothing more than a scrawny child with a faint, unstable blue aura that barely clung to his body like a dying flame. Weak, unrefined, and uncertain. A boy who would have been swallowed whole by the world if left alone.
And now…
Now that same boy stood before him, calm and resolute, speaking of stepping into A rank as though it were a natural progression.
It was absurd.
No, more than absurd, it was overwhelming.
The rate at which Guilliman had grown could not be described with ordinary words. It defied logic, defied expectation, and even defied the old devil's vast experience.
Phenomenal did not even begin to cover it.
'At this rate…' the old devil thought silently, his gaze sharpening slightly as he watched Guilliman, 'I might actually live long enough to see him step into S rank.'
The thought lingered longer than he expected, carrying with it a strange mix of pride and disbelief.
"Yes," Guilliman replied without hesitation. His voice was firm, grounded in certainty. "I'm heading to a place called Wind Devil Valley. I don't plan to return until I've broken through."
There was no bravado in his tone, no attempt to impress. Just a quiet declaration of intent.
Yet behind those words, there was something deeper.
Guilliman's thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Victoria… to the others. Faces, memories, and unresolved tensions surfaced briefly in his mind. The urge to find them, to reunite, to act, burned within him.
But reality was merciless.
He was still too weak.
In this stronghold, strength dictated everything. Without it, a person was nothing more than a shadow, easily ignored or crushed. And where his sister was being held… that place was far worse.
Unless he reached S rank, he would remain insignificant.
A nobody.
And Guilliman had long since decided he would never accept that.
"That's fine," the old devil said after a moment, waving a hand dismissively as though the decision had already been accepted. "If you're going, then bring me back some materials. Rare ones if you can. I'll see what I can craft for you. At the very least, I can make something useful."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he spoke, though his eyes remained thoughtful.
He had taught Guilliman much over the years, more than he had intended at first. Techniques, control, fragments of knowledge that most would kill for.
But it still wasn't enough.
Not nearly enough.
And unfortunately, time was not something they had in abundance.
"By the way," the old devil added, as if remembering something mid-thought, "I meant to give you this earlier."
He pointed casually toward a worn journal resting on a nearby table, its surface marked by years of use.
"Take it. Have a read."
With that simple permission, Guilliman stepped forward and picked it up. The moment his fingers brushed against the cover, he could feel the weight of it, not just physically, but in terms of what it represented.
Inside were the old devil's records.
Everything.
Years upon years of accumulated knowledge related to the arcane arts had been painstakingly written within those pages. Notes, theories, corrections, and even failed attempts.
And among them…
Flight inscriptions.
Guilliman's eyes narrowed slightly as he flipped through the pages, his expression gradually shifting into a deep frown.
This wasn't just a gift.
It was something far more significant.
"I'm not leaving forever, old man," Guilliman said after a while, his voice quieter now, carrying a hint of resistance. "This is… too much."
The old devil let out a short chuckle, shaking his head as he turned back toward the furnace not too far away. The faint glow of heat illuminated his figure as he resumed his work.
"Don't misunderstand," he said. "Reading them won't make you a master. Not even close. You'll still need me to correct you, guide you, point out your mistakes."
He paused briefly, adjusting something within the furnace.
"This just gives you options," he continued. "A chance to explore. To figure out what suits you best before you come back."
His tone was casual, but there was an underlying sincerity that could not be ignored.
Guilliman remained still for a moment before slowly lowering his head.
"Thank you."
He bowed deeply.
It was not a gesture he used often. In fact, it had been a long time since he had bowed to anyone at all.
Which made this moment all the more significant.
The old devil did not turn around, but the faint curve of his lips suggested he had noticed.
As Guilliman left, the old devil's thoughts drifted once more.
Kong Shi wasn't such a terrible place to settle down. For someone like him, it was enough. A place to forge weapons, sell them, and live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.
He had no grand future ahead of him.
No towering heights left to climb.
Unlike Guilliman.
That boy… was different.
—
Later that day, Guilliman made his way to the northern walls of the stronghold, where Eric was already waiting.
The atmosphere there was tense, but controlled. Guards moved along the walls, watching the horizon, while traders and workers carried out their duties with practiced efficiency.
Without wasting time, the two of them slipped through the outskirts and headed beyond the walls, where a young man stood waiting beside a small, worn cart.
"Rules exist primarily to protect the leadership," Eric muttered quietly as they approached.
The young man nodded without question, as though he had heard those words many times before. Without speaking, he began pushing the cart, leading them away from the wall.
They moved in silence.
The path they took was indirect, winding through uneven terrain before eventually leading them to a secluded creek several kilometers away from the stronghold.
There, a group had already gathered.
Eighteen young men and women stood scattered around the area, their identities concealed in various ways. Some wore scarves that covered the lower half of their faces, others had masks, while a few used layered cloth to obscure their features entirely.
Caution.
Discretion.
It was clear that this was not a casual gathering.
"That's 125BH-B, 126BH-B," the leader said as Guilliman and Eric approached, acknowledging their arrival with a simple nod.
His voice was calm, controlled, and carried an authority that immediately set him apart.
"As you all know," the leader continued, his gaze sweeping across the group, "we do not use our real names."
A few heads nodded in agreement.
"However, for the purpose of this mission, I've instructed each of you to come up with a nickname. Something simple. Something memorable. It will make coordination easier."
No one objected.
Everyone present understood the importance of anonymity.
These were not nobles.
Not sheltered heirs playing at danger.
Every single person here had seen battle. Had faced death in one form or another. Blood had been spilled, and lessons had been learned.
They were professionals.
"Refer to me as Riverbandit," the leader said.
The name was familiar to some. Not tied to a real identity, but repeated often enough in certain circles to carry weight.
A reputation without a face.
One by one, the others began introducing themselves.
"Hammerhead Dog."
"Flamethrower."
"Templemonk."
The names varied, some strange, some intimidating, others oddly casual. But each served its purpose.
By the time the last person had spoken, all twenty members of the group stood ready.
Without further delay, they moved.
Several beast-led carriages were brought forward, their forms sturdy and built for rough travel. One by one, the group mounted them, settling into position with practiced ease.
The path ahead led toward a concealed entrance, a tunnel hidden so well that it would have gone unnoticed by any ordinary observer.
As the carriages began to move, they disappeared into the darkness one after another.
Moments later, the creek fell silent once more.
Empty.
As though no one had ever been there at all.
The men of Athen had departed.