Level Up Legacy

Chapter 1359  Ashes

Ragnar's smile widened slightly, as if Arthur's question was expected. "Not kindness alone. But if you rely only on wrath, then you will repeat my mistakes and be consumed as I was. The gods will use your rage against you, just as they did to me.

The only way to defeat them is to understand what they never could—humanity's capacity for both wrath and mercy. Only then will you have the strength to wield wrath without becoming a slave to it."

Arthur clenched his fists, the familiar surge of anger bubbling within. "Why should I care about kindness? I've seen what it brings—weakness. Those who hesitate to strike are always the first to fall," he said while remembering the previous timeline.

Ragnar's expression grew somber, and he walked closer to Arthur, until he stood just a step away. "Do you know what I felt when I first faced Devaheim? When their celestial armies came down like a storm of light upon our world?" Ragnar's voice lowered, filled with a memory so vivid that Arthur could almost see the flash of divine power reflected in his ancestor's eyes. "It wasn't fear, or even rage. It was pity."

"Pity?" Arthur's brow furrowed. "For the gods?" Nôv(el)B\\jnn

"For the world they made," Ragnar corrected, his gaze turning to the tree's branches, where dew continued to fall, creating new ripples. "The gods rule through strength, but they have never known the pain of losing something. They exist without change, without growth. They have never been broken or rebuilt. So, they destroy whatever they cannot understand."

Silence fell between them, interrupted only by the rhythmic drops in the pond. Arthur's thoughts tangled with memories of his own battles, of times when he was on the brink, moments where his wrath became his strength—but also his chain. He recalled the faces of those he cared for—Diana, Oriole, Julia. They were his tether to the world, but his wrath often felt like it pushed him away from them, isolating him behind a wall of anger.

"You want me to show kindness to those who want to kill me? To the gods themselves?" Arthur's voice was skeptical, but a part of him—buried deep beneath the layers of rage—wondered if there was truth in Ragnar's words.

"No, I want you to understand kindness, so that you can wield wrath without losing yourself to it," Ragnar corrected, a shadow passing over his face. "There is a moment in every battle when wrath reaches its peak—when it can either become a force that consumes everything or a tool that bends to your will. If you do not have the restraint to hold back, you will become no different than the gods you seek to destroy."

Arthur stood, brushing off his cloak, irritation simmering in his voice. "This philosophy sounds poetic, but it won't help me in battle. I need power—nothing more."

Ragnar's eyes flashed with a sudden, sharp intensity. The air around them seemed to shift, and the gentle ripples of the pond stilled, as if the entire world had paused. "Then let me show you," he said, his voice taking on a command that left no room for argument.

Before Arthur could react, the pavilion dissolved around him, replaced by a field of ashen ruins. The air smelled of smoke and charred earth, and the ground beneath his feet was littered with remnants of a great battle—broken weapons, shattered armor, and the remains of creatures Arthur could not identify. Above, the sky burned with an unnatural crimson light, as if the heavens themselves had been set ablaze.

"This was the last battle I fought before I fell," Ragnar's voice echoed through the desolation, but his form had vanished. "The day I lost myself to wrath. I will let you feel what I felt—let you see the strength that terrorized the Kingdom of Gods, and the price that came with it."

Arthur's heart pounded in his chest, and before he could speak, the ground beneath him quaked. Shadows rose from the earth—warriors and beasts of divine light, spectral echoes of Devaheim's armies. They charged toward him, a wave of power that pulsed with divine wrath.

Instinctively, Arthur raised his hand, summoning the Gate of Wrath. Dark energy surged through him, coiling around his arm and forming into the familiar shape of a blackened blade. He slashed through the air, releasing a torrent of shadowy flames that incinerated the first wave of spirits.

Yet, the more he fought, the stronger the spirits seemed to grow, their attacks relentless and unyielding. Arthur's wrath burned hotter, pouring out of him in waves, until the flames consumed the very earth beneath his feet. The land cracked and split, molten rivers flowing through the battlefield. But even as the spirits dissolved, new ones emerged, their faces twisted in agony and rage—reflections of his own anger.

"This is the true power of wrath, Arthur," Ragnar's voice rang out, distant yet near, like a whisper carried on the wind. "An endless fire that can devour all. But what will you do when it burns you from within?"

Arthur's breath came in sharp gasps, his vision blurring as the world became a swirl of fire and shadows. His body ached with the strain of wielding such destructive force, and he felt the edges of his consciousness fraying, like a rope pulled too tight.

Then, amid the chaos, a single voice pierced through his thoughts. It was soft, but resolute—Diana's voice, speaking words he had forgotten. "You don't have to carry everything alone, Arthur."

For a heartbeat, he hesitated, and the wrath that surged through him recoiled, leaving behind a hollow ache. In that moment, the spirits around him paused, their forms wavering like smoke caught in a breeze. The flames dimmed, and the molten rivers cooled.

Arthur fell to his knees, the blade of wrath slipping from his grasp, dissolving into ash. He was surrounded by the ruins of his own power, and his heart pounded with a new realization—a fear that he had always refused to face. What if, in his quest for power, he loses everyone he held dear?

The battlefield shimmered, the illusion disappearing. Arthur found himself once more in the pavilion, his breaths ragged, his limbs heavy. Ragnar stood before him, the weariness in his eyes replaced with a deep, ancient sadness.

"You see now, Arthur?" Ragnar asked quietly, his voice filled with the weight of eons. "Wrath alone will never be enough. If you wish to break the cycle, to end the tyranny of Devaheim, you must find the balance between fury and compassion. Only then can you wield the power that I could not."

Arthur met his ancestor's gaze, the words sinking deep into his mind. He had always believed that wrath was his strength, his weapon against the world. But now, in the ruins of Ragnar's memories, he glimpsed a different path—a path that terrified him as much as it intrigued him.

"I don't know if I can," Arthur admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know if I can be what you want me to be."

Ragnar's expression softened, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "You do not have to be like me, Arthur. You just have to be more than the wrath that drives you."

And for the first time since their meeting, Arthur felt a flicker of something other than anger within him—a fragile, uncertain hope, like a single bloom in a field of ash.