MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 418 418: The Threshold Of Oblivion

The stairwell spiraled downward, its descent unfurling with an eerie slowness, as though time itself had forsaken its usual pace.

Each step grew progressively heavier, as if unseen forces gripped their very ankles, pulling them toward an unavoidable reckoning.

A sharp chill began to coil around Anthony and his teammates, not the crisp cold of winterʼs breath, but a deeper, more unsettling chill, the kind that seeped into bone and marrow, a cold born of the unnatural, beyond the grasp of mortal understanding.

And when they finally emerged, it was not into a room, nor a battlefield, nor any tangible realm.

They had entered a void.

A boundless, infinite expanse of inky blackness stretched out in all directions, interrupted only by colossal, fractured platforms of stone, floating like the remnants of dying worlds.

Bridges of shimmering, ethereal light tenuously connected these broken fragments, their flicker betraying their fragility, as though the very fabric of existence was being re-evaluated.

Above, below, and in every direction, towering figures loomed in the far reaches.

Not gods.

Not demons.

Not even entities that could be defined by any name.

They were not beings, but concepts brought into form, immense silhouettes whose very presence unraveled the fabric of reason.

Some drifted upon wings woven from the stars themselves, while others slithered through unseen oceans of time.

They did not acknowledge Anthony and his companions.

Or perhaps, they simply did not deem them worthy of notice.

The five stood at the precipice of their platform, rendered inconsequential by the overwhelming scale of the unfathomable expanse around them.

And then—

A whisper.

It emanated from all directions at once, threading through their minds like a spider spinning its web of silk.

”Prove yourselves”

”Or be forgotten”

”Weigh your worth against the abyss”

Without warning, a pathway of flickering light unfurled before them, bridging their platform to another, distant and enigmatic.

Anthonyʼs grip tightened around his sword, his instincts howling in protest.

”This”

He uttered, his voice little more than a rasp.

”Is the final trial”

At his words, they nodded.

They moved.

The path was fraught with peril.

Each step sent tremors rippling through the fragile bridge of light, threatening to tear it apart.

Shadows lingered at the periphery of their vision, indistinct forms that howled in silence, their presence an unsettling reminder of the unknown.

Every movement had to be deliberate, too swift, and the path would splinter; too slow, and the abyss would drag them into its depths.

It became apparent, swiftly, that it was not only their physical balance under scrutiny.

It was their minds.

Their emotions.

Their very existence.

One by one, they began to feel it, the suffocating weight of despair, drawn from the darkest corners of their souls, rising to the surface like a forgotten nightmare.

Seraphim faltered first.

A whisper bloomed in her mind, a memory long buried:

Her brotherʼs lifeless gaze, locked onto hers from the battlefield she had failed to save him from.

She gasped, her steps faltering.

In an instant, Anthony was at her side, his grip ironclad around her wrist.

”Eyes forward”

He commanded, his voice composed.

”The dead do not walk here”

Seraphim blinked, and the illusion shattered, fracturing like glass under the weight of reality.

Together, they pressed onward.

Then came Dale.

Visions of failure surged within him, his magic, a force of uncontrollable darkness, consuming his comrades in its deadly embrace.

The images clawed at his mind, relentless and unforgiving.

Tears welled in his eyes, but he gritted his teeth, murmuring incantations under his breath as though in silent prayer, fortifying his resolve.

His steps did not waver.

As for Kingsley, no trial came for him.

His Will was unbreakable, too resolute to ever bow to the whims of others.

Reynoldʼs trial was pure fury: Visions of those he cherished, mercilessly torn from him, his own power impotent in the face of their slaughter.

With a roar that echoed through the void, he bellowed his defiance, his resolve alone standing against the abyss.

And Anthony...

Anthony faced himself.

A flawless reflection.

A version of him that faltered at every critical juncture, one who failed his friends, who bowed before true strength, who was erased from the annals of history.

The mirror offered no words.

It simply existed.

Anthony did not strike it.

He simply walked through it.

Such illusions held no sway over him.

The path behind them crumbled into nothingness, but the way forward unfolded.

At last, they reached the distant platform.

Circular in shape, it was hewn from obsidian, its surface streaked with veins of molten gold that pulsed like a living thing. In the center stood a throne.

Empty.

Waiting.

As they stepped onto the platform, the whispers returned, now deafening, reverberating in their minds.

”One among you must claim the throne”

”Only one may ascend”

”The others... must be offered”

The five stood frozen, the weight of the words sinking in.

It was a simple ultimatum.

One would ascend.

The others... would perish.

Anthonyʼs gaze shifted.

He could feel it, the throneʼs insatiable hunger, its overwhelming pull, promising power beyond the grasp of mortal minds.

But at what cost?

He glanced at his comrades.

Dale, the spear dancer, his movements like a storm.

Seraphim, the ethereal Elf, poised yet fierce.

Kingsley, the unbending, his will like iron.

Reynold, the fencer, precise and fast.

Without a word, he knew. Each of them shared the same thought.

None of them would claim the throne.

”I refuse”

Anthony said softly, stepping forward.

The throne pulsed, its dark presence seeming to mock him.

”I will not sacrifice them”

He turned his gaze back to the abyss, standing resolute.

”If ascension demands this price, then we walk away”

The void trembled in response.

The colossal figures in the distance shifted, as though roused from aeons of slumber.

The trial was never meant to be won through betrayal.

It was meant to be won through refusal.

And then, the whispers fell silent.

The platform began to rise, lifting them upward through the infinite dark.

The throne disintegrated into dust behind them, its remnants scattering into nothingness.

They ascended for what seemed an eternity, the passage through time itself suspended in the void.

When they finally emerged, it was into light, pure, unblemished light that seared away the stains of their trials.

Their energy surged back, replenished in an instant.

The weight of exhaustion vanished.

Even their souls felt... lighter.

And before them stood a being, not a god, nor a demon, but something greater.

A Judge.

Cloaked in white so blindingly pure it shimmered with a tinge of blue, faceless and ageless.

It spoke not in words, but in understanding.

They had passed.

Not through strength, nor through cunning.

But because they had chosen loyalty over power, honor over survival.

But before they could even allow a flicker of triumph, their expressions twisted in horror.

Even Kingsley, whose face was the very embodiment of boredom, couldnʼt mask his shock.

Before they could react, they vanished from the void.

When they reappeared, they were standing once more on the fourth floor.

With a sickening thud, Seraphimʼs body struck the ground.

Lifeless.

”NO!!!!!!”

Dale and Reynold surged toward her, their eyes wide with disbelief and fury.

”HOW DARE THEY. HOW FUCKING DARE THEY!”

Reynoldʼs aura erupted in a violent wave, a storm of rage consuming him, his very presence crackling with unrestrained fury.