Capítulo 57: Burn
A wall of flames slammed into me, the heat biting into my keratin armor. It hissed and sizzled, cracks forming across the surface as the heat clawed at me.
My skin prickled, the pain biting, but I remained still, meditating on the floor, eyes closed. I'd turned off my auditory traits. My sense of smell, dulled to human levels, barely registered the burnt scent.
Another wave of flames hit, fiercer this time. It wasn't just heat; it felt like a command, like the world itself wanted my armor to burn. It did, then it shattered.
Then, the fire scorched the silver strands that replaced my hair, singeing them before dispersing.
Still, I sat there. Eyes shut. Blind. Deaf. Vulnerable.
Another blast came, followed by the hellhounds' howls. Their cries echoed, calling more of their pack. My bone helmet groaned under the pressure, the outer layers melting and dripping onto my shoulders.
I didn't move.
Why?
Because I wasn't at my limit yet. The fire burned, but I could endure more. There was more to discover. More to reach.
My skin- tough, layered, Reinforced Leather-took the brunt. Three traits merged to create it, and now the flames slid off it like water.
It was tempting to be satisfied, to look at how far I'd come and think, This is enough, I did my very best. But that would be a lie. There was always more, always a higher peak. And if one didn't exist, I'd build it myself.
My eyelids dried out, the skin cracking as the flames licked at them. My eyes burned, the pain searing through me, impossible to ignore. My skin peeled, muscle exposed to the flames, and my body screamed at me to stop.
I stayed still.
Because without my power-without Fenrir's Hunger, without the traits I'd ripped and grafted onto myself-what was I?
My brain felt like it was cooking. My consciousness slipped for a moment, but I clawed it back, gasping for air. Only there was none-only fire, only heat.
And I laughed, though no sound came out.
My throat had been reduced to ash.
But I laughed at the pain, at the world trying to break me, at my own soul whispering for me to quit.
But I couldn't. I wouldn't.
Why?
Because I was mad. Because I'd do whatever it took, go to any length, suffer any torment, train until I dropped, and keep going even then. That was the bare minimum when the goal was as high as mine.
Death was close, close enough to touch. I bit its hand.
And I kept laughing.
I let mana flood my body, the energy pushing through blackened veins, and new flesh grew over the bones. A hand, skeletal and charred, grabbed a nearby magic stone. I crushed it, swallowing the shards. The fire didn't stop, but my body stitched itself back together-compound eyes growing in empty sockets, ears taking shape from a scorched skull.
"There are two kinds of talent," an old man once told me. "The first is hard work. The ability to grind, to endure, to push past limits." I had that one. "But it's just one part of the recipe."
"The second is genius-being able to grasp things instinctively." He paused, watching me. "People think it's something you're born with. But it isn't. It's forged by pushing that first talent to the extreme."
"Concentrate till your face goes red and your eyes leak blood," he said. "Focus till your brain feels like it's going to explode. Pack every second with thought and experimentation. Adapt."
I stood up, covered in my regrown keratin armor, now glowing molten red. The flames had died down. I opened my eyes, seeing the hellhounds-dozens of them, all with broken legs, panting, surrounding me in a circle of charred stone.
I raised my hand, and flame blossomed in my palm. It wasn't like theirs-red and hungry. Mine was pure white, like snow. It wasn't a stolen trick, not a borrowed trait.
It was mine, the result of everything I'd put myself through. My creation. My madness. My magic.
Because I was more than my circumstances. I wasn't just a sum of traits and stolen power. I was the fire, the one that burned brighter when everything tried to snuff it out.
Pain. Torture. Failure. Death. Hell itself.
None of it mattered.
Even if the Dungeon cracked open and tried to swallow me whole, even if the skies poured fire down upon me.
Even if I had to fight until my bones splintered.
Even if my soul was torn apart piece by piece.
Even if the whole world stood in my way and I had to take it on alone.
Even if I had to crawl across a bridge of corpses-none of it mattered. My goal was set, and I'd chase it, even if it meant clawing forward with nothing but my teeth.
I waved my hand, and the hellhounds erupted into white flame.
And I broke through to Level 2.
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