Chapter 283: A Fracture in the Seal

Horrible.

That was the only word Max could think of to describe his current situation. Everything was horrible. The pain. His circumstances. His uncertain future. And most importantly, his past.

His two hearts had nowhere to hide from the overwhelming rage anymore. One desperately attempted to absorb the foreign energy flooding his body, while the other struggled to purify it before it could spread any further. Strangely enough, their combined efforts were having an effect, preventing Max’s body from immediately bursting apart under the immense pressure.

Yet the relief was hardly noticeable.

The silver mist continued pouring into his nostrils, invading his lungs and spreading through his bloodstream, assaulting him from every direction. His veins bulged beneath his skin, and every breath brought another wave of agony as the ancient god’s rage fought against the two hearts struggling to contain it.

Outside, the village was finally beginning to settle, although the distant rumbling of the awakening Silver Crab could still be heard beneath the earth.

The villagers had gathered around the enormous dummy, their attention fixed upon the man bound high above them. Some watched with guilty expressions, unable to bring themselves to look him in the eyes, while others appeared strangely indifferent to his suffering. A few even wore faint, sinister smiles, particularly among Antiope’s followers, who seemed rather pleased with the stranger’s unfortunate fate.

Almost everyone present believed that Max would die before the night was over.

Only the old shaman appeared to have something else in mind.

Without offering an explanation, she slowly lowered herself onto the trembling ground, drawing surprised murmurs from the surrounding villagers. Then, gathering her strength, she raised her wooden cane and struck the earth with such tremendous force that a deep hole formed beneath its tip.

Crimson energy erupted from the impact, flaring upward like a torch soaked in tar before bursting into a swirling mass of scarlet flames. Powerful gusts swept outward from the old woman, scattering dust and loose debris as countless crimson threads emerged from her cane and began dancing wildly through the air.

“Grand Shaman! What are you doing?!”

The young girl who had always accompanied her rushed forward, her face paling at the sight of the familiar technique.

She had witnessed it only once before, more than fifteen years ago, when she was still a small child. Even then, the old shaman had nearly lost her life after using it, and the memory of her lying motionless for days afterward had never quite left the girl’s mind.

Now, after so many years, the Grand Shaman was considerably older, her body frailer and her remaining strength far more limited than it had been back then.

The girl could scarcely imagine how she intended to survive using such a dangerous technique again.

“Grand Shaman, please!” she cried, taking another step forward. “You nearly died the last time! Your body won’t be able to endure it anymore!”

Yet the old woman paid her no attention, her wrinkled fingers tightening around the cane as the crimson threads continued multiplying overhead.

For the first time that evening, the young girl found herself genuinely afraid that the woman who had raised and guided her for so many years might not live to see another sunrise.

“Arana, you needn’t worry about me. I may be old, but I will not die so easily.” She extended her hand, her fingers gently wrapping around the girl’s palm.

“He is a stranger, and he is likely the reason for all of this, so why? Why is he worth dying for? What is so special about that man?” Her eyes fell on Max, whose face had contorted into an ugly expression from the unbearable pain he was enduring, yet somehow, even in such a miserable state, he remained strangely handsome in her eyes.

“No, he is not, but this tribe is,” the old woman replied calmly as she pulled the girl closer, resting a hand on her head and patting it gently. “But even so, he is our guest, and I cannot simply stand by and watch him deal with everything on his own. It would reflect rather poorly on us, wouldn’t it? Besides, there is something about him that I find rather intriguing. I truly wonder…”

She gently pushed Arana away, her gaze returning to Max.

“What is that strange power dwelling inside him, one that seems to both restrain and guide him at the same time…” Her voice had fallen to a whisper, so faint that only the two of them could hear.

“A man kissed by a god far more powerful and ancient than any I have ever encountered. I wonder… I truly wonder if he could be…”

She stopped herself as her eyes grew distant and unfocused, as though she had fallen into a deep trance. The club in her hand slowly began to shatter, each wooden splinter dissolving into a crimson strand, until countless strands intertwined and rose into a towering pillar of crimson light. Beside it stood another pillar, one of pure white that had enveloped Max, both resembling ancient totems erected in a long-forgotten age.

A strange warmth flooded Max’s body, making its way deeper inside him until it reached his two hearts, where it joined the struggle against the overwhelming rage threatening to consume him.

At that moment, something within his blood began to shift. The sudden clash of opposing forces inside his body seemed to have disturbed something mysterious, something that had no place being there in the first place. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Max sensed a connection to his magic being restored. It was faint, barely more than a thread, but it was there, and that alone should have been enough to make him rejoice.

Yet he had no opportunity to celebrate, for the pain and pressure bearing down on his eyes had grown almost unbearable, forcing beads of icy sweat to trickle down his face. Worse still, the rage surging through his body continued to intensify, turning his eyes entirely crimson as the last remnants of his self-control began to crumble.

“Kill… destroy… devour!”

Max roared with such overwhelming force that the warriors around him were thrown to the ground, blood spilling from their ears as they writhed in agony, desperately trying to shield themselves from the crushing pressure of his voice.

Even Myrida and Antiope were forced to abandon their confrontation. Their chests heaved violently as they turned toward the two towering pillars, and the moment their eyes settled upon the scene unfolding there, their expressions fell, their magic faltering alongside them.