Liam woke to the feeling of soft linen and the faint scent of lavender. The world returned to him not in a rush, but as a slow, creeping tide of awareness. The first thing he perceived, before the light in the room or the comfort of the bed, was the familiar, emotionless chime of his System. A torrent of information flooded his mind, the after-action report from a battle his consciousness had barely survived.
> BOSS ELIMINATED
> * Enemy: Demon General, Malakor (5th)
> * Experience Gained: 30,000
> LEVEL UP! (x30)
> Liam – Level 251/∞
> * Title: The General
> * Strength: 1170
> * Agility: 1170
> * Endurance: 1170
> * Magic: 1170
> * Dark Force: 490
> * Green Attributes: 130 (Harmony - Tier 1)
> * Light Attributes: 105 (Inherited - Tier 1)
> * Health: 75000/75000
>
. He was in a lavish bed, within a quiet, sun-drenched room in the Royal Palace of Oakhaven. The agonizing pain was gone, replaced by a profound, hollow exhaustion that seemed to have settled deep within his soul. For a moment, there was only a disorienting peace. Then, the memories returned.
Not all of them. He remembered the fight. The brutal, desperate struggle against Malakor. He remembered the feeling of dying, the cold abyss calling to him. He remembered Lyra's scream, a single point of light in the darkness. And he remembered… rage. An all-consuming, world-ending rage. Everything after that was a blur, a chaotic montage of shadow, light, and the chilling symphony of screams.
He sat up, his body feeling strangely foreign, both stronger than ever and yet fundamentally wrong. King Alaric was sitting in a chair by the window, his expression a mixture of profound gratitude and deep-seated awe.
"You're awake," the King said, his voice thick with emotion. He rushed to Liam's bedside. "My boy… Liam… I don't have the words. You saved us. You saved everything. The city, my daughter… my people. They are calling you the 'Savior of Oakhaven.' There are songs already being written. You are a true hero."
The word 'hero' felt like a stone in Liam's gut. He looked past the King and saw Lyra standing near the doorway. She wasn't smiling. Her face was pale, and her eyes, usually so full of light and warmth, were shadowed with a fear that she couldn't quite conceal. She wouldn't meet his gaze for more than a second at a time. The disconnect between the King's joyous praise and Lyra's quiet terror sent a chill down his spine. Something was terribly wrong.
"What happened?" Liam's voice was a dry rasp. "After I killed the General… what happened?"
The King's smile faltered slightly. "You… you finished the job, my boy. You eliminated the rest of the demon army. It was a terrifying display of power. A whirlwind of destruction. You saved us all."
But Lyra's expression told a different story. The King saw a hero's righteous fury; she had seen something else entirely. After the King, overwhelmed with gratitude, finally left them to "rest," Lyra slowly approached the bed. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating.
"Lyra?" Liam asked, his voice barely a whisper. "What is it?"
She finally looked at him, and he saw tears welling in her eyes. But beneath the sadness, there was that unmistakable flicker of fear. She flinched when he shifted his weight on the bed.
"The demon army is gone, Liam," she said softly, her voice trembling. "You destroyed them. All of them." She paused, taking a shaky breath. "But the Royal Guard… the city's hunters… they took casualties after Malakor was already dead. Thirty-seven of them. They weren't killed by demons. They were caught in the… aftermath. In the blasts of energy."
The blood drained from Liam's face. The foggy memories began to sharpen, coalescing into horrifying clarity. He remembered the rage, the loss of control. He remembered moving through the chaos, his only instinct to kill, to destroy every enemy signature his System could detect. He remembered unleashing waves of power, indiscriminate and absolute. He didn't see allies or enemies. He only saw targets. He had killed them. The very people he was trying to protect.
"Oh, gods," he breathed, the horror of it washing over him. He looked at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. "What did I do?"
"Liam…" Lyra took a step closer, her fear now warring with a deep, aching sympathy. She reached out a hand, then hesitated, pulling it back. That small, aborted gesture hurt more than any of Malakor's blows. "That thing… that force that came down from the tower… was that you?"
The question was the key to everything. Was it him? He wanted to deny it, to say it was the power, not him. But he couldn't. It had come from within him. It was a part of him.
"I… I don't know," he confessed, his voice breaking. He buried his face in his hands, the weight of his new title, 'Savior', pressing down on him like a mountain. "I lost control. It was just… rage. It wouldn't stop. I couldn't stop it."
He was not a hero. He was a weapon that had misfired, a natural disaster in human form. Lyra seemed to understand. The fear in her eyes softened, replaced by a profound sorrow. She finally sat on the edge of the bed, her hand gently resting on his shoulder. It was the touch of a friend comforting a monster.
Later that day, Liam stood at the window of his room, looking down at the city he had both saved and scarred. In the main square, a huge crowd was gathered, and he could hear the faint sound of them chanting his name. They were celebrating. But from his high vantage point, he could also see a smaller, more somber procession making its way to the city's graveyard. A funeral for the thirty-seven. Celebration and grief, intertwined.
Garrus found him there. The big shielder was dressed in clean clothes, but his eyes were still hollowed out by loss. He didn't look at Liam with anger anymore, only a kind of weary respect.
"We buried him," Garrus said quietly, referring to Kaelen. "We gave him a warrior's send-off. He would have liked that." He looked at Liam, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you. For avenging him. For finishing the fight."
Garrus saw a hero who had brought justice to his fallen leader. He hadn't been there for the rampage. He didn't know the full truth. The dramatic irony was a dagger in Liam's soul. He could only nod, unable to speak.
After Garrus left, Liam was alone with his thoughts, his guilt, and the book. He felt a desperate need for answers, for anything that could explain the monstrous power that resided within him. He sat down and opened the Book of the Dungeon, its ancient leather cool against his skin.
Before, the symbols had been meaningless. But now, in the chaotic aftermath of his power surge, something had changed. As he stared at the pages, his mind still reeling with a mixture of dark, green, and light energies, the cryptic runes began to shift. They resonated with the power still swirling in his soul. For the first time, a passage became clear, the words forming in his mind as if whispered from an ancient past.
"The Three become One, and the One is the Nexus. Life is the foundation, Light is the structure, and Dark is the change. They are not meant to be held in balance, for they are not equals. They are a cycle. To wield one is to be a servant. To wield two is to be a paradox. To wield all three is to be a key to unmaking… or remaking. Beware the price of imbalance. When rage fuels the Dark, and desperation summons the Light, the foundation of Life is forgotten. The Nexus becomes not a key, but a hammer, shattering all that it was meant to unlock."
The words offered not comfort, but a terrifying diagnosis. A hammer, shattering all it was meant to unlock. That's what he had become. The book held the truth, but it was a truth he was only just beginning to comprehend. He knew, with chilling certainty, that his journey was no longer just about getting stronger. It was about survival—the survival of his own soul.
In the Demon Lord's throne room, a guard knelt. "My Lord. We have received word from the mortal realm. General Malakor has failed. He has been killed."
The vortex of darkness that was the Demon Lord did not rage this time. It grew still, a contemplative silence that was somehow more menacing than any outburst.
"So," the Demon Lord's voice echoed in the chamber. "The mortal is stronger than I thought. He has now killed two of my Generals and one of theirs. A conventional assault is… inefficient. Sending another blunt instrument to be broken would be a waste of resources."
The shadowy form on the throne seemed to coalesce, to gain a fraction more substance as if coming to a decision.
"This 'Nexus' is becoming more interesting than I anticipated. It seems the game requires a more… personal touch."
The Demon Lord stood, an act that sent tremors of pure fear through the very stone of his castle. The guard pressed himself flat against the floor, not daring to breathe.
"I will go and talk to him," the Demon Lord declared, his voice ringing with an ancient and absolute authority. "I want to see this 'hammer' for myself."