The Insane Regressor: Throne of Pride

Ravian and Malrik went to Malrik’s tent, just as Malrik had said.

The moment they stepped inside—

Malrik spun around and seized Ravian firmly by both shoulders.

”Seriously, Ravian?! Lysandra? Of all people, you picked Lysandra to provoke and argue with?!” He half-shouted in a hushed voice, clearly trying not to let anyone outside hear, shaking Ravian by the shoulders all the while.

Ravian frowned at the exaggerated reaction.

”Didn’t you hear what she said?” he asked, his tone and expression heavy with indifference.

”She openly declared she would take your position, right to your face. Why should I keep quiet when someone talks to me like that? That’s absurd.”

Malrik stared at him in silence for a few seconds.

Then he let go of Ravian’s shoulders and stepped back, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration.

”You don’t know,” Malrik said suddenly. ”You don’t know anything at all.”

”What exactly don’t I know?” Ravian asked.

”She seemed like a noble, from her bearing and the way she carried herself.” Then his eyes narrowed slightly.

”No... not just an ordinary noble.” He placed a hand on his chin, sinking into thought.

”Something higher than that.”

Malrik turned to him, mildly surprised.

”Let me guess.” Ravian looked back at him.

”She’s from a family even higher than the Dmitri Marquisate—high enough that she doesn’t care about the consequences?”

Malrik smiled, satisfied.

”Sir Karius was right. You really will be useful to us on the battlefield.” He nodded at Ravian, then walked over and sat on the bed in the corner of the tent.

Around it stood a small table and a desk strewn with scrolls. Some looked like maps of a particular region, and Ravian guessed they were battlefield maps and old tactical plans belonging to the Death Squad.

”And yes,” Malrik said, leaning back a little.

”Lysandra is no ordinary noble. She belongs to one of the highest noble families in the Empire.” His expression turned deliberately casual—almost as if he were mimicking Ravian’s earlier indifference to needle him.

”She’s the granddaughter of Alexander Veyla, Grand Duke of the Veyla Grand Duchy. Their family is directly related to the imperial line, and they govern two of the three largest cities in our Viera Empire.”

Malrik paused, letting the silence stretch as he watched Ravian’s eyes widen with every word.

”I’m sure you’ve already grasped what that means. She stands among the highest nobles in the Empire—and that’s without me even mentioning the rest of her family.”

A helpless smile crossed Malrik’s face.

”Yes, Brother Ravian. You picked the wrong person to cross this time. Regret it yet? Should we go so you can apologize to her? Honestly, I would, if I were you.”

But Ravian didn’t look frightened.

He looked confused.

”A girl with that kind of status, bloodline, and absurd wealth came all the way out here to fight on a dangerous battlefield?” His disbelief was genuine.

”And on top of that, she barely reacted to what happened earlier?”

Malrik frowned. He couldn’t fathom how Ravian’s mind worked.

”Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?”

Then his expression sobered.

”And let me tell you something. She won’t simply let the insult go. The only reason she didn’t do anything earlier is that her pride won’t let her hurt someone far weaker than herself.” He paused.

”And she isn’t some spoiled girl who runs to her family the moment someone offends her.”

Malrik’s voice grew firmer.

”She’s a fighter, Ravian.” He looked him straight in the eyes.

”A Ninth-Rank Walker—and she’s only twenty. The youngest person here, after you. Yet on the battlefield, she outperforms even me in some ways, despite the fact that I have greater strength and more experience.”

Ravian’s confusion deepened.

”How? If you’re stronger and more experienced, how does she outperform you?”

Malrik shook his head.

”I’m not talking about raw strength. In that respect, yes, I’m stronger, and I’ve got more experience.” He raised a finger.

”What I mean is how she fights against opponents at her own level. That’s what I’m measuring—not her total impact on the battlefield, because if that’s the question, then of course I’m above her.”

Ravian nodded in understanding.

’Logical. That means once she reaches his rank, she’ll probably become more influential than he is.’

”So what Lysandra said wasn’t entirely wrong,” Malrik continued.

”She knows her own talent very well, and she backs it up with willpower and endurance on the battlefield.” Then he added.

”After all, she has a Mythic-Rank Soul. That alone opens every path before her.”

But Ravian’s ears caught something else entirely.

”Did you say Mythic-Rank Soul?”

”Hm? Yes.” Malrik blinked.

”Why so surprised? Did you think you were the only one with a soul of that rank?” He gave Ravian a mocking look.

”You’re not some chosen hero, boy. Wake up to reality.”

”Hah?” Ravian frowned in genuine confusion.

”What the hell are you talking about? Who said I have a Mythic-Rank Soul?”

”Hm? You don’t?” Malrik looked at him strangely.

”You awakened before the age of twenty. That means your soul should be Mythic Rank. I assumed that was one of the reasons Sir Karius took you as his disciple.” He laughed lightly.

”He didn’t tell you?”

’What?’ Ravian’s thoughts stirred.

’But I never awakened my soul or anything like that. It was because of the Book of Sovereign Pride.’ His frown deepened inwardly.

’And the System never said anything about my soul rank or my talent. Why?’

Ravian didn’t understand much of what was going on. So he decided to make use of the source of information sitting right in front of him.

”What are the soul ranks, by the way, Malrik?”

Malrik looked at him as though he were staring at an idiot who somehow lacked basic common sense.

’Damn the previous owner of this body. Was he too busy being played by Emy to learn anything useful?’ Ravian cursed the former Ravian inwardly while he waited for an answer.

’Look at this bastard, staring at me like I barely have a brain.’

”There are six commonly recognized soul ranks in all,” Malrik said at last.

”They determine a person’s talent and their limits.” He paused, letting the foundation settle in Ravian’s mind, then went on.

”First is the Common Rank. It’s the most widespread, the rank of ordinary people. Nearly ninety percent of the population has a Common-Rank Soul. Most of them stay unawakened their whole lives, and even if their souls awaken by chance, they rarely climb past the Awakened Rank.”

Ravian listened closely.

”Then comes the Rare Rank—the second most common, roughly another five percent of the population. It lets a person climb higher, but only with difficulty. Many of the regular members of our squad have Rare-Rank Souls.” Malrik raised his hand and began counting off the rest.

”As for the final five percent, they’re split among the higher ranks: Noble, Royal, Saint, and Mythic.” His gaze settled on Ravian at the end.

”Mythic is the rarest of the commonly recognized ranks. In the entire Empire, each generation might not produce more than five people who have it.” A teasing, faintly envious smile touched his face.

”And you and Lysandra both carry souls of that level.”

’So a person’s soul rank determines their limits and talent in this world.’ Ravian rested a hand on his chin.

”But don’t let it go to your head, Brother Ravian,” Malrik said, his tone turning more serious.

”Soul rank shows potential. It doesn’t guarantee achievement.” He leaned forward slightly.

”Plenty of people with high-ranked souls grew lazy, dodged hardship, or never went through enough trials. Their talent stagnated. Others died because they were too reckless.” He looked at him with genuine counsel in his eyes.

”So be careful. Things can turn dangerous in an instant, without warning, if you let your guard down.”

Ravian nodded.

Malrik was right.

Soul rank showed potential, not destiny.

A person could be born with a Mythic-Rank Soul and still die like a fool. Talent could open doors, but it couldn’t force anyone to walk through them. Power, status, bloodline, opportunity—none of it mattered if its owner lacked the will to survive what came next.

Ravian understood that clearly.

After all, he had already died once.

But...

Earlier, when Lysandra looked down on him, what he’d felt wasn’t simple anger.

Humiliation? That wasn’t it either.

When Lysandra spoke—when her words set him beneath her, beneath Karius—something inside him had refused.

He knew the gap between them. Reality made that plain.

And yet... his soul rejected it.

Rejected the notion that weakness meant inferiority.

Rejected the notion that strength gave anyone the right to stand above him.

A faint pulse stirred within him. His fingers curled slowly.

Blackness... devouring, absolute.

Whiteness... still, enduring.

And between them—

Something greater.

Pride.

A pride that would rather be broken standing than survive on its knees.

’So that’s it.’ Ravian exhaled.

Now he understood.

It was her certainty. The way she spoke—as if his place beneath her had already been decided.

And that was something he would never accept.

Ravian lifted his head, his expression calm.

But beneath that calm—

Something had settled. Something that had been with him since the abyss.

’Pride, you said?’

’No.’

’Sovereign Pride.’