Genetic Ascension

Chapter 1999: 100%

Deacon had never felt this in control in his life. And yet the irony was that he wasn’t in control of the slightest things. Every movement flowed into the next, as though he wasn’t deciding what came next based on timing, training, or even instinct, but instead some higher power that had dictated that this was what produced the most sense in the moment.

It was a martial art of grace, of beauty, of purity. It embodied the Dove, and as he moved, one elegant arc of his sword following into the next, it was like he was plucking the strings of a symphony, one harmony layering atop the next until his body split so many different ways and down so many different iterations he ceased being capable of losing.

Yes. This was how a Dove should attack, it was the only way a Dove could attack, the only way that made sense.

It was ingrained into the depths of his bones. As though constellations in the skies had been written to foretell of this day alone, streaking lines of light filled the clouds above and Deacon released a low shout.

Chi.

His blade pierced through Keyesen’s defenses and the latter fell down harshly to a single knee. The ground cracked, the temple trembling.

And all the while, Sylas stood there with his hands clasped behind his back.

It was truly nothing more than a joke to him.

Had Keyesen touched upon the plane of Demi-Gods? Yes, he had.

Had his Armor and Spirit reflected that? Yes, they had.

Had his strength sky-rocketed beyond the normal realms of what was possible for a D-tier? At least partially. Keyesen certainly had claim to be the strongest D-tier currently in the Mortal Realm.

But that was only because Sylas was an E-tier.

If Keyesen had Demi-God Aura to pull on, why wouldn’t Sylas? And beneath Sylas’ Will, the Runes that formed Deacon’s body had no choice but to dance to his tune.

Beneath the wave of his Will, the orchestra that was Deacon’s Rune Armor was pulled along his tempo.

Deacon would likely never be capable of displaying this might with his Armor again. Or maybe it would become a light for him to strive for.

What was clear enough to Sylas, though…

Was that Keyesen was not worthy of him lifting a finger personally. Nosphaleen had certainly been right about one thing.

“NO!”

Sylas walked forward as though he hadn’t heard Pedraeg at all. Soon, he stood shoulder to shoulder with a Deacon who seemed to be huffing all the air in the atmosphere at once. The latter wheezed for breath continuously, and yet no matter how much he did, it just didn’t seem like enough air.

When he felt Sylas’ presence, his body stiffened.

Deacon wasn’t a fool. He knew that his battle just now had been all Sylas. Never did he think the little F-tier from the gathering would be in such a position one day… and certainly not so fast.

Had it even been a year since then?

No… certainly not.

Sylas reached down and the Scorned Wraps flashed.

Keyesen didn’t even get the chance to speak before he cried out in pain. A scream that curdled the blood and grated against the bone echoed. It almost felt as though someone was taking a sharpened form to one’s skull, flicking it out and across just enough that it scraped through your senses in harsh jagged noises.

It was hard to imagine the sort of pain he was in.

And soon, it became obvious why.

Sylas held a Legendary Gene in his hand. An F-tier one that was oh-so familiar to him.

Using Extricate on the living should have been completely impossible. And yet, the rules bent to Sylas’ whims as though he had been the one who had written them. Maybe only he knew exactly how he had made the impossible possible, though.

Sylas peered at the Gene.

He remembered how angry he had been when he first lost it. It had never really been about Keyesen or his father. It was his own weakness.

If someone had a Gene that he really needed, he would take it just like they had. He didn’t care about their hypocrisy, their reasoning, or anything of the sort.

This Gene had always represented weakness to him, just like that day in the volcano.

When the Gene appeared, the hearts of the Emperors couldn’t help but skip.

They recalled Nosphaleen’s words, feeling that it had to have been an exaggeration.

100% Mastery Rune? It was utter nonsense. Such a thing had never appeared in their Sanctum. Spark Mastery? Of course. Maybe some obscure genius from long past had managed to approach close to 100% with a Warlord Armor.

But an Emperor one?

There was a saying that envy only took root when one was experiencing something close to their abilities. If a target was well beyond you, instead of envy, there would only be awe.

The problem with this was that everything Sylas had done until now was so far beyond their understanding that they couldn’t even properly grapple with it.

These were people who didn’t even have a consistent stream of Spark Masters, let alone Perfect Spark Masters, and certainly not Pure Spark Masters.

If they had no concept of these, how could they have a concept of a Void Master? How then could they understand the perfection of that realm at Fathomless Rune Creation?

The things Sylas was doing might as well have been like handing a cell phone to a caveman. But not just any cell phone, a smart phone that could shift the satellites in the sky with a touch just for an extra bit of shade.

But the Rune in Sylas’ hand… they could understand that. They knew what that was… and there was no doubt in their minds that it was this Rune that had started all of this, the Rune that Sylas had created, a Gene forged from a Rune Armor so perfect the system bestowed… That.

And it was right then at the pinnacle of their thoughts, and the most rambunctious cacophony of their beating hearts… That Sylas crushed the Gene.

He tossed it to the side, letting it sprinkle to the ground in motes of light as though he was throwing out trash.