Chapter Eight — The Weight of the Impossible
Azeroth stared at the panel, completely frozen.
Trait: ABSOLUTE
Description:
In a ###### of shifting paradoxes and endless possibilities, you alone are absolute.
Effect:
You are limitless.
Sub-Trait: DEVOUR
Description:
You have awakened the embodiment of consumption.
Effect:
You are what you consume.
⸻
"What the hell? Why so little information?"
For a moment, Azeroth couldn't even understand what he was looking at.
But then he did.
"…what the fuck?"
The words nearly slipped out from his mouth before he could stop them—barely a breath, barely a whisper, yet explosive in his mind.
His jaw hung slack. His eyes stretched wide, trembling on the edge of disbelief.
His thoughts didn't just spiral—they detonated.
"Limitless? Does that mean… infinite stat points? Skills? Techniques?"
And the sub-trait.
Devour.
He had read enough novels, enough mangas, to know exactly what the devour trope meant.
It was at this moment that everything clicked.
A single, breathless gasp escaped him.
Holy shit!
Am I… broken?
This,—this was completely beyond anything he had ever imagined.
All these years he thought that his mutated physique was his golden finger.
But now?
It wasn't even worth mentioning!
Before either of his parents could notice the storm raging inside him, he forced his face back into something resembling neutral.
His muscles twitched from the effort, but he managed.
He squinted at the panel, pretending to read it calmly—feigning curiosity instead of existential panic.
"Umm… it says here," he began, voice trembling in a way he desperately hoped they'd mistake for excitement, "you have awakened the embodiment of consumption. Oh! And it has an effect."
He even added a thoughtful hum, as if this weren't one of the most broken trait ever conceived.
Darius folded his arms, brows knitting.
"I see… What do you think, honey?"
Seraphina brushed her fingers through Azeroth's hair, still holding him close.
"I'm not sure," she admitted softly. "But he could always try it out. Right?"
Her voice carried that familiar, calming warmth—soft, steady, protective.
With his sisters away and Azeroth always buried in training, moments like this were a rarity for her. Now that she finally had him close, she wasn't letting go.
"Alright," Darius sighed. "We'll leave that to Bran for now. He should know what to do."
"By the way, count falls' daughter's 10th birthday is in two days, I was thinking that Azeroth should come with us. What do you say?"
"Are you already thinking of giving my son away?"
"Huh, no it's just… I was thinking we could use that to introduce him to the noble circle!" Darius quickly explained feeling a sudden glare from his wife.
"Oh, okay." Then Seraphina tilted her head, her voice returning back to being gentle.
"And you, sweetheart? Are you okay with that?"
Azeroth swallowed.
The shock still hadn't faded—no. He had simply pushed it aside for now. He would definitely revisit.
"…I'll do my best," he murmured, voice gentler than before.
Part of it due respect.
The other part?
He really was enjoying himself as she held onto him like so.
A mummy's boy through and through.
He purred contentedly and relaxed even more into her arms Leaving Darius awkward and feeling like a third wheel.
Unable to take it anymore, Darius clapped his hands loudly.
"Enough of that! It's time to celebrate! Where are the maids!"
⸻
By the time the "celebration" was over, Azeroth could barely walk.
With the last shreds of his strength, he staggered through the corridor—each step swaying, the hall feeling far too long and far too bright.
What was meant to be a simple toast had somehow become a full-blown party.
His father and Bran—two full-grown battle maniacs—had dragged the festivities out far past midnight before finally releasing him.
As for why he was drunk?
Well… this world wasn't Earth.
Its rules didn't apply here.
Much less to someone who's evolved.
In fact, his teacher practically forced him to, he still remembers him saying something like — "it's your own celebration and you don't want to drink? What nonsense!"
Stumbling into his room, he fumbled with the door, shut it behind him, took the world's fastest shower, and collapsed onto the bed in his birthday suit.
Completely done.
Completely exhausted.
And completely unaware that tomorrow… everything would begin to change.
⸻
Rest settled thick over the Clinton estate. Celebration had faded; the halls quickly went quiet.
Well almost.
In the rear wing, shadows moved. A figure slipped silently along stone corridors, steps light and deliberate. Clad in plain servant's linen, nothing about them suggested inexperience.
They passed by some other servants on the way, each greeting them warmly. They were very popular it seems.
They stopped at a small door and slipped inside the cramped servant quarters: four narrow beds, one cracked window, the lingering scent of soap and old fabric. Nothing unusual—perfect for what came next.
The figure crossed to the farthest bed, crouched, and lifted a loose floor plank. Beneath was a wooden box wrapped in cloth. Inside lay a dull-gray crystal: a communication crystal, designed to carry messages across impossible distances.
The figure pressed the crystal between their palms, injecting a thread of essence. It flared, pulsing with an inner light.
A distorted, distant voice echoed:
"STATUS."
The figure inhaled deeply, every movement deliberate.
"I… I have something to report."
And with that and many more, a chain of events had quietly begun—one that was about to make Azeroth's peaceful life—well less peaceful.