Chapter Fourteen — Death Essence
Azeroth pushed the thought of the Undead King aside and returned to testing.
He started with durability—pinching his skin until it hurt, measuring how much force it took to draw pain. Then endurance, pushing his body through repeated exertion without rest, tracking how long it took for fatigue to set in.
Then recovery.
The difference was immediate. Breath steadied faster. Heat faded quicker. Strain that would have lingered before vanished in moments.
Next came his synapses—his reaction time.
It was shorter.
Not by much—but enough.
Then his senses.
Taste sharpened until even stale water carried layers he'd never noticed. Hearing stretched outward—voices bled through walls, distant movements threading through stone. Touch grew more precise, textures registering in sharp detail. Smell and sight followed, each clearer than before.
"…So this is the feeling…" he murmured.
The feeling of getting stronger.
Of evolving.
Of every part of him ascending—becoming more.
He loved it.
Satisfied—for now—Azeroth shifted his focus to the next attribute.
Soul.
But how was he supposed to test that?
Physique was one thing.
Soul was another.
Unlike his body, he couldn't feel it. Not yet at least. He wasn't yet at the level where such perception came naturally.
Still… there was one thing he could try.
Essence.
While increasing the physique stat primarily affected the body and everything tied to it, the soul manifested differently—through increased comprehension.
The flexibility, mastery, understanding of one's trait…
And the volume of one's essence.
Among them, essence was the only measurable factor available to him.
So he focused.
Eyes closing, Azeroth drew in a slow breath and released it just as carefully.
His awareness sank inward, searching.
For his core.
He found it easily.
With his core awakened, he didn't even need to concentrate to locate it. Closing his eyes was mostly theatrics—habit more than necessity.
The core—though not physical—was said to reside beneath the navel in humans.
And there it was.
His core—hovering in perfect stillness.
It wasn't physical, yet it felt more than real. A luminous reservoir of flowing white essence, calm and contained, circulating in slow, steady currents.
At first glance, it looked fuller.
No—more than that.
There was at least twice as much essence as the last time he had checked.
Yet Azeroth's brow furrowed.
Despite the increase, the essence did not press outward. It didn't crowd the boundaries of the core or strain against its limits. The ratio remained the same—barely filling a fraction of the space available, just as it had before.
That shouldn't have been possible.
He watched the flow for several long moments, mind racing. Essence increased, yet the core showed no sign of saturation. No obvious increase. Nothing.
Only space.
He pondered for a few minutes, till a conclusion surfaced slowly, inevitably.
"…My trait," he murmured.
Absolute.
Its effect was to be limitless, he just never considered that this included not just attributes or stats, but also in *capacity*.
The realization sent a quiet chill through him.
If his essence grew, the core expanded with it. Always room. Always more. No ceiling to push against—only distance yet to be crossed.
Opening his eyes, Azeroth raised a hand.
At his call, a clump of essence gathered above his palm, manifesting as a soft white glow. It pulsed gently, obedient, stable.
Effortless.
He could already see the implications.
Battles of attrition meant nothing. Waiting for him to exhaust himself would be a mistake—one paid for dearly. What others hoarded and safeguarded as trump cards, he could spam freely… repeatedly.
The legendary infinite mana.
Or in his case—essence.
A low laugh escaped him.
"Oh, they'd hate that," he muttered.
He closed his hand, snuffing the essence out instantly.
The grin that spread across his face at that moment was not one that spoke of anything good.
Other thoughts stirred. Dangerous ones.
He crushed them just as quickly.
"Yeah… no," he exhaled. "Not now."
The excitement still buzzed through him, restless and demanding release.
"Shit. I need to move."
Rising to his feet, Azeroth crossed the chamber toward the dormant spear-wielding dummy.
The last time apart from its physical capabilities, he had lowered his spearmanship by quite a lot, seeing as he was only test his own physique.
This time however, he didn't bother lowering its parameters.
If he was going to test himself—
He'd do it properly.
With that Azeroth dove back into training for the rest of the day.
—————————
The garden was quiet.
Sunlight filtered through the tall hedges, scattering gold across stone paths and trimmed grass. Serena sat beside Darius beneath the shade of an old silverleaf tree, a teacup cooling untouched in her hands.
Darius was mid-sentence when—
Footsteps.
Fast. Uneven.
A maid stumbled into view at the far end of the path. She slowed when she saw them, but the panic didn't leave her face. Her breathing was shallow, hurried—like she'd run far longer than decorum allowed.
"Lord Darius—!"
She dropped into a bow so rushed it was almost a collapse.
Darius turned at once.
"What is it?"
The maid swallowed. "It's… it's Sir Bran."
Serena frowned. "What about him?"
"He's returned," the maid said, voice shaking. "He arrived at the palace minutes ago."
A pause.
Then—
"His condition is not good."
The garden seemed to still.
Darius's eyes sharpened. "And the others?"
The maid hesitated.
That hesitation said everything.
"…He came alone, my lord."
Serena rose slowly to her feet.
"How bad?" she asked.
"Severe," the maid replied. "He's conscious, but barely. The physicians are with him now."
Darius exhaled once.
"Where is he?"
"In his chambers," the maid said quickly. "He was moved there immediately. He's… being restrained."
Darius's brow lifted slightly.
Restrained?
But he didn't ask.
Instead, he took a step—
And vanished.
The sudden burst of displaced air swept fallen leaves into the air, tugging at Serena's gown and the maid's skirts.
Serena watched the space he'd left behind for a moment before turning to the maid.
"You're excused," she said softly.
The maid bowed again, turning to leave.
"And," Serena added, her voice firm now, "make sure this doesn't reach Azeroth yet."
The maid nodded. "Understood, Lady Serena."
Left alone, Serena looked toward the palace.
"…Poor boy would be devastated," she murmured.
Then she moved.
Where Darius was explosive, Serena was effortless—her motion smooth, graceful, almost unreal.
One moment she stood in the garden.
The next, she was before a quiet wing of the estate.
Bran's chambers.
The door was half-open.
Inside, the air was thick—herbs, incense, iron, and something faintly acrid beneath it all. Something that didn't belong.
Bran lay restrained upon the bed.
Glowing chains bound his wrists and ankles, etched with sigils that pulsed faintly as his body trembled against them. His armor was gone, replaced by clean white linen already soaked through with sweat.
He looked… wrong.
His skin had lost its color, drawn tight over bone. His once-broad frame seemed shrunken, diminished, as though something had been taken from him repeatedly—and was still being taken. His breathing was shallow and uneven, every inhale a struggle. Strands of hair clung to his forehead, others littered the sheets beneath him.
He shook constantly, small violent tremors wracking his body.
This was not the man Azeroth knew.
The physician, an older man with a walking stick and graying hair, straightened at the sound of footsteps.
Darius stepped into the room.
And stopped.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Serena came to his side, her gaze falling upon Bran—and hardening.
"…What happened to him?" Darius asked at last.
His voice was quiet.
The physician hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of his robe.
"This… we don't know, my lord," he said carefully. "His body is saturated in a strange death-attributed essence. And it is eating him out from within."
Darius's eyes narrowed. "Death-attributed essence?"
The physician swallowed and nodded.
"Yes my lord."
As if in response, Bran's body arched violently against the restraints. The sigils along the chains flared brighter, humming low as they tightened. A strangled sound tore from his throat—half a groan, half a scream.
Darius moved forward instinctively.
"Don't touch him," the physician said sharply. "Please."
Gritting his teeth, Darius barely held back. Turning to the physician, he asked.
"So what are we going to do?"
The physician paused for a moment before replying "that's what the incense is for."
"We can only hope that it's enough." He continued.
Darius's jaw tightened.
Somewhere else in the estate, stone rang against steel—steady and relentless.
Azeroth trained on, unaware.
His excitement tempered only by the fact that he would soon be receiving the promised cores.