Chapter 249
Ash (3)
Dead Paths were the quiet graves of ambition—places where even the most talented ascenders found themselves halted, trapped in the stillness between progress and ruin.
Ascenders become stuck in their progression, unable to deepen their understanding or evolve beyond a certain point for several reasons.
One of the most notable examples was a Path that had once drawn immense attention and investment. It spread rapidly, its core ideas simple enough for anyone to grasp. Yet that very simplicity concealed its greatest flaw.
The pioneer behind it—the original creator—was never formally identified. No records, teachings or written philosophies of their process were ever discovered. Whatever insights had shaped its foundation were lost to time.
Because the Path was easy to comprehend at first glance, many ascenders developed their own interpretations and personalized applications. But this same freedom fractured its unity. Without a standard guide or framework, every user was left to carve their own version of truth—some finding success through intuition, most finding only confusion.
And so, in the absence of the pioneer's voice, the Path became directionless. No one truly understood what it was meant to become. Each user stumbled forward blindly, reshaping what was once a singular idea into countless incomplete forms.
As a result, the Path lacks a clear and defined concept. It consumes far more mana than necessary to accomplish what a specialized Path could achieve with ease. Its versatility became its curse.
And since the pioneer never passed down their personal understanding, every practitioner who dares to walk this road becomes trapped in an endless loop—forced to construct their own meaning, invent their own methods, and build a structure from nothing. Each ascender begins again from zero, seeking a light that may no longer exist.
Another reason Dead Paths exist is that some Paths are impossible to truly "understand" in the way ascenders are expected to. These are commonly referred to as dead starts—Paths where progress halts not because of lack of effort, but because the knowledge required simply cannot be fully grasped. Examples include the Death Path, and, more importantly for this context, the Time Path.
Every Path, no matter how abstract or esoteric, must be grounded in personal understanding. An ascender must internalize its principles and align them with their own perception of truth. But some truths are beyond human comprehension. Time, in particular, is one of those truths. It is a reality that the human mind cannot fully measure nor can it fully hold.
It is precisely for this reason that no Path exists that allows a person to truly see the future. Such a feat is fundamentally impossible. The paradox of infinite possibilities makes it ungraspable. To attempt to understand something that has not yet occurred, something that can change at any instant, is to break the very logic on which Paths are built.
The future is not a puzzle to be solved, nor a thread to be followed. It is a horizon that recedes the moment you approach it. Any attempt to reach beyond the present risks unraveling the Path itself, leaving the ascender trapped in a loop of contradictions, unable to progress, unable to anchor their understanding to any reality.
Then came the Deadland creatures, beings that discarded and ignored every law ever established.
They did not follow logic—any logic. The entire foundation upon which ascenders built their existence—the rules of Paths, the hierarchy of Concepts, the very framework of Understanding—collapsed the moment one stood before them. Against these things, the systems of the world lost all meaning.
Their abilities were strange, impossibly so. Some defied reason to the point of absurdity—manifestations so alien that even describing them felt wrong.To witness one was to watch the universe itself break its own rules.
Deadland creatures possessed no Path. No core. No concept to interpret or analyze. There was no pattern to trace, no system to study. Their existence was chaos made flesh, a rejection of the natural order that governed ascenders.
And because of that, they could not be predicted. Every manifestation of power came from a place outside comprehension. They were anomalies in a world built on structure—a reminder that there were still things beyond the reach of understanding, things untouched by logic or divinity.
That was why they were feared.
And here, in this very moment, was an example of it.
The burning red of the flames flared suddenly, shifting into a translucent shade, as if the fire itself had become liquid and spectral. It snaked along the bones of the deadline creature, crawling into the enormous chains that bound it, setting them ablaze with a heat that made the air shimmer and hiss. The sound was a low, constant roar, a mixture of metal screaming and fire devouring.
Shadows danced wildly across the walls of the cavern, bending the enormous chains into grotesque shapes with each flicker.
Mr. Graveyard nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. "It truly is incredible," he muttered, almost reverently, "to watch a TYRANT-tier deadline creature at work…"
Even though deadline creatures broke all known logic, they were not without limits. To replicate abilities even close to the caliber of a Time Path, the creature had to exist at an appropriately high tier. And this one, the monstrosity before him, was of that level.
"The Nameless Spine Tyrant…" he whispered under his breath, the name barely audible over the roar of fire and chain, yet heavy with recognition and awe.
His goal for this trip was to catch a glimpse of the future through the deadline creature.
Suddenly bathed in its flames, NAMELESS SPINE spoke. Its voice was fractured and warped by the fire, crackling with madness and barely coherent, carrying the weight of something utterly alien.
"Death."
Mr. Graveyard nodded. One-word utterances or incoherent phrases were normal for this creature; it rarely formed sentences and rarely spoke clearly.
But then something unexpected happened.
A harsh rattling echoed through the chamber. The creature writhed violently, its enormous, spider-like ribs crawling and twisting in the air as if they had a will of their own. Bone scraped against bone with sickening cracks, each link straining the chains that bound it. Fleshless joints popped and ground together in a grotesque noise, sending sparks of molten residue flying from the chains and scorched floor.
"Death," it repeated.
Mr. Graveyard's brow furrowed. The word came again—and again—over and over, repeating roughly twenty times, each syllable punctuated by the sickening groan of bone and the clanging of iron.
The creature's movements grew increasingly frenzied. Its ribcage expanded and contracted like a monstrous, living cage, the individual bones scraping harshly, bending and flexing in impossible angles. Jagged fragments of bone splintered and fell to the floor, clattering against the metal chains. Its skull tilted violently, the dragon-like jaw snapping open and closed, and the distorted, serrated teeth clicked together like a set of grinding gears.
The tail coiled and whipped violently, scraping across the floor and walls, leaving deep gouges in stone and sending splinters of bone scattering like shrapnel. Every movement emitted a horrifying symphony: chains groaning under strain, bones cracking, and the rasping, guttural repetition of its voice—"Death… Death… Death…"—over and over. The sound was maddening, a physical assault on the senses, as if the room itself was being unmade in real time.
The creature's entire form shuddered in agony as the flames licked along its bones and chains, burning with a heat that warped the air and hissed like boiling iron. Its motions were unpredictable, alien, and horrifyingly beautiful in their violent chaos.
Its voice deepened roughly like the sound of something tearing itself apart from the inside. The flames within its translucent frame began to surge violently, revealing flashes of raw, pulsing flesh between the cracks of its charred, rib-like limbs. Each convulsion sent streaks of molten ichor dripping to the ground, sizzling as it hit the floor and filling the air with a sickly, burnt stench.
"Death!DeathDeathDeathDeathDeathDeathDeathDeathDeath—" the creature's chant grew faster, layered, as if several throats screamed in unison from within its warped form. The air rippled from the sound, and its ribs—long, bone-like spines—started to splinter and twist, clawing at the air like grasping hands. A low grinding noise echoed as pieces of its outer shell cracked apart, revealing glimpses of red muscle that writhed like worms beneath scorched glass.
Then, with a sudden snap, its tone changed. "Death, burn… death, burn, burn burnburnburnburnburnburnburn—"
The flames erupted violently, spraying embers that carved black marks into the ground. Mr. Graveyard staggered back, shielding his face from the heat that rolled off the creature in waves thick enough to distort reality itself.
His expression hardened, but his eyes betrayed disbelief. Never before had the Nameless Spine acted in such a way.
The creature began to thrash, its torso contorting until its spine audibly cracked and reformed, the bones bending backward in impossible directions. The air was filled with the crackling of burning flesh.
"Burn... burn... ASH!!!"
The final word tore through the chamber like a thunderclap. The roar that followed made the walls tremble. Mr. Graveyard fell to one knee, clutching his ears as he felt warm blood trickle down his face. It dripped from his nose, his mouth, his eyes—all seven openings running red. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs as he stared at the writhing inferno before him.
And amidst the chaos.
"Ash... ash... ash... ash..."
At each word, Mr. Graveyard felt his body unravel further—as though the very act of hearing those cursed syllables was tearing reality apart inside him. His veins burned. His bones trembled. Blood streamed freely from his eyes, nose, and mouth, each syllable coaxing more crimson from his skin. It was as if the words themselves were laws he was never meant to comprehend, each one demanding a price for being heard.
He staggered backward, pain coursing through his body in relentless waves. The creature's voice reverberated like a hammer inside his skull. "Death! Burn! Ash! Death! Burn! Ash! Death! Burn! Ash!"
Each repetition struck him harder than the last—sound turning to force, force to destruction. He could feel his muscles twist against his will, his breath catching in ragged bursts as he turned and crawled desperately toward the door.
His fingers scraped against the cold floor. He didn't care. He had to get out."Death! Burn! Ash!"Every echo shook the room, rattling his bones.
With a final, broken grunt, he slammed himself through the doorway, dragging the heavy metal door shut behind him. The noise ceased instantly—like silence had swallowed the world whole.
For a long, terrible moment, the only sound was his breathing— it was ragged and soaked in disbelief. The door behind him trembled with a faint, residual hum, as if still haunted by the creature's voice. Then, slowly, the vibration faded, and the smaller door seemed to sink into the larger one, vanishing as though it had never existed at all.
He slumped forward, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. It had been decades since anything had made him feel danger like this—decades since the scent of his own blood had reminded him he was mortal.
Between ragged breaths, his mind replayed the words. "Death… burn… ash…"
His bloodied lips twitched into a grim line.
"Could it be…" he whispered, dread mixing with voice.
He wiped the blood from his chin, his eyes cold as he muttered the words that would soon echo through the ages—
"TRADEGY WAS COMING. "