Genetic Ascension

Chapter 1337: Right Foot

Sylas stood there, Old Brama’s smoking laser gun by the side of his head still, pointed forward and steady as though to protect him from whatever might come next.

Calmness was in their very bones. From the moment Old Brama decided that he was riding this ship to the very end, he had accepted whatever might come with that.

The Golden Grove had been in a rut for too long, and at their current pacing, they would simply never be able to accomplish what their Ancestors expected of them. Like so many powers that came before, they would simply fade into obscurity until there was nothing more of what they once represented.

Sylas was a chance to change that.

Maybe he would die before he could see it through to the end, but he would just have to accept that. There was simply no better person to bet on right now than him.

The first thing they saw when the clicking of shoes finally came to a stop was the wall of black.

The Thryskai was tall, taller than any Sylas had seen before. He must have been at least eight or nine feet tall, looming and pale. Maybe it was because Sylas had met the echoes of vampiric folk tales not long ago, but this man very much reminded him of that.

The pale skin, the crimson eyes, and the black, bat-like wings that folded to his back more like an elegant cape than what strips of flesh they truly were.

And then there was that wrinkle in the middle of his forehead.

The man didn’t look at Sylas at all. Instead, he looked toward the corpse of Sharpe, and then toward Old Brama before tilting his head to the side.

“I’ve heard of you. Brama of the Golden Grove, no? You appear on the list of hermits that don’t usually associate with the wider world. It’s quite interesting that you would be here.”

Old Brama continued to hold his smoking gun up, the heat not seemingly bothering his hands in the slightest. His shoulder was so steady despite the heft of the gun that one might have thought that it was actually as light as a feather.

“No reaction?” the man chuckled. “It seems you’ve either been kicked out of the Golden Grove, feel that any targeting of it is a worthy sacrifice to follow this young master of yours, or you’re just hoping I’ll take one of the first two as the truth and forget to target your little merchant guild.”

The man’s voice was thick with an accent, the first of its kind that Sylas had ever heard. Normally, when one spoke to him, it seemed filtered and then formed into a dialect and accent he could easily grasp. But this time, he found the words clipped, slurred, almost as though they were being purposely filtered to be hard to grasp and understand.

This didn’t make much sense. Sylas hadn’t struggled with understanding language for a very long time, not just because of the system, but specifically because of his powerful Will and Ancient Ithkuil.

If he was having trouble grasping the “accent” of this man, it could only mean that…

The language he was speaking was just as, if not more, complex than Ancient Ithkuil.

This was the first time Sylas had run into such a thing.

Ancient Ithkuil was a trump card in Sylas’ back pocket, something that had allowed him to accelerate his Rune Mastery quite quickly early on. He still wasn’t sure who had created it, but it might have actually been the creation of that first Race.

Now… he was coming into contact with people who could speak words no less complex.

Fascinating, indeed.

One might think that Sylas would feel pressed or enraged that he was being ignored. But he had yet to actually spare a thought toward the matter at all.

It was only after he finished deducing a few things, adjusting his thoughts, and grasping what was bothering him that he focused on the matter at hand.

The man before them was powerful, shockingly so. He wasn’t quite sure as to the full depths of Old Brama right now, but if these two were to fight, there was certainly no guarantee that Brama would come out on top.

This man was probably the true leader of Thryskai that had come here. But oddly enough… he had wings.

From Sylas’ understanding, only Demi-God Thryskai should have wings, but this man was certainly not that. His presence wasn’t powerful enough.

Sylas had seen a Demi-God Thryskai before—he had even held the feather of one. In fact, it was still in his possession. This man was certainly not that.

Then that should mean…

The wings are likely not Race-related. Maybe an acute trait of this man’s bloodline in specific, or maybe something his immediate family unearthed.

Sylas gathered all the bits of information he could from the man’s appearance and existence, his thoughts moving as fast as lightning until he finally opened his mouth.

He seemed about to speak in Old Brama’s place, but the man spoke first.

“This isn’t a place for children.”

A pressure swept over Sylas.

“Incorrect. This isn’t a place for outsiders,” Sylas replied calmly.

The man’s eyes narrowed.

Unfortunately for him, as powerful as his presence was, he was still a D-tier. Trying to suppress Sylas based on his aura and presence alone wouldn’t go very well.

“But you don’t seem to be that. Are you?” Sylas looked toward the man’s wings. “Bat Armor, is it? You come from another Sanctum. And since you do, you should know the rules quite well, shouldn’t you?

“I’ve only just arrived here, but I’ve certainly read the rule book. You neither announced your presence, nor your purpose, and you’re currently stealing the resources of our own, which is enough for two minor infractions and one sanctionable offense.

“That’s not the right foot to get off of when you’ve come asking for someone’s help, now is it?”