CHAPTER 122: SHAKING

The world was shaking!

Or maybe it was just his perception—but Damien felt it. The very air trembled. The floor quivered. The walls groaned like ancient giants about to awaken from a deep slumber.

Moments ago, everything had been fine.

But now, as he approached within ten meters of the statue wielding the gigantic hammer, an invisible force seemed to distort reality around him. A strange, oppressive pressure pressed down on his soul, twisting his senses. His heartbeat quickened—not from fear, but from primal instinct.

Something isn’t right.

He blinked—and the world changed.

Gone were the towering bookshelves of the grand library. In their place rose colossal stone walls, ancient and solemn, their surfaces covered in markings worn by time. Cracks spiderwebbed through the rock, and in some places, the stones—each as massive as a boulder—seemed to melt, flowing downward like sluggish rivers of stone.

Damien’s eyes widened as he took in the endless expanse before him. The hall was vast—so massive that even with his enhanced perception, he couldn’t make out the ceiling or the far end. It felt more like stepping into a forgotten realm than a room.

As the eerie silence pressed in from all sides, a faint light flickered in the far distance. It pulsed—subtle, rhythmic—like the heartbeat of the colossal tomb he had stepped into.

Just as he instinctively prepared to move forward, a familiar voice echoed through the silence.

"Stay alert. This palace is very dangerous."

Damien turned as the purple genie, Arctic, appeared in mid-air, floating a few feet above the ground with arms crossed and a solemn frown tugging at its mischievous face.

"And how in the world did you get here?"

Damien raised an eyebrow, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

Of course, he had no answer to give. Even he had no idea how he’d ended up in this strange dimension—or illusion—or whatever this place was.

Arctic narrowed his comically large eyes, peering into the distance as if trying to see through space itself. "This isn’t part of the Blue Hammer Treasury. This... this is something far older."

His words only confirmed Damien’s suspicion.

Whatever this palace was, it wasn’t meant for ordinary eyes. And yet, here he stood.

Gripping the scrolls tighter within his sleeves, Damien ignored the genie’s muttering and took a cautious step toward the distant light.

Each footstep echoed unnaturally, as if the very floor was listening.

He didn’t know where he was heading—or what awaited him in the heart of this forgotten domain—but Damien knew one thing for certain.

This was no coincidence.

As soon as he took his first step, a cold and majestic voice echoed throughout the vast hall.

Its tone carried no warmth—only the biting chill of authority that seemed to freeze the soul itself.

"Welcome to the Trial of Strength. By crossing the line of initiation, you have accepted to become the servant of the Divine Strength Saint.

You may have entered of your own will, but you will leave only after clearing the first level."

The proclamation rang out with terrifying finality, each syllable pressing down like the weight of a mountain.

Damien halted, his senses sharpening in an instant. His gaze flickered to the floating purple genie beside him.

Arctic’s comical eyes had narrowed to slits, his expression serious for once. The two locked eyes, silently confirming what both were thinking:

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Damien’s mind whirled.

Trial of Strength? Servant? First level?

Wasn’t he just supposed to find the Blue Hammer Family’s inheritance? Since when did he sign up to serve some ancient entity?

But instead of panic, calm flooded his mind like an icy stream.

He began piecing it together.

He had been exploring the Blue Hammer King’s library. Then, just by approaching that enormous statue—he was pulled into this place. A place far removed from the reality he knew.

His thoughts were interrupted by the low, breathy mutter of the genie beside him.

"Secret realm..." Arctic whispered, his voice full of awe.

Damien’s eyes gleamed with understanding.

Yes. That explained the shift in space and time, the surreal pressure, and the overwhelming sensation of divinity.

Only a secret realm belonging to a supreme being could produce such an atmosphere.

Arctic, however, seemed different. His eyes were glassy, his pupils dilated, as if he were staring across endless time. His lips moved again, but this time, no sound came out.

Damien glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back toward the distant glow.

A strange light still pulsed in the far distance, calling to him like a silent beacon.

He clenched his fists, feeling a faint tremble in his spine—not of fear, but anticipation.

A smirk played across his lips.

"Heh... Jackpot."

He didn’t know who the Divine Strength Saint was, but the name alone made his instincts scream that this was no ordinary legacy.

No, this wasn’t some kingdom-level secret.

This was the mark of an existence who had once stood atop the world.

He had doubts, of course.

No matter how strong he had become, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered: Could he really be stronger than that creepy guy from the Eternal Above?

That monster had felt like a god wearing human skin.

Before Damien could spiral deeper into doubt, the woman’s voice echoed once more—this time heavier, carrying an ominous gravity that seemed to press down on the air itself.

"Please prepare yourself. The initial evaluation will begin.

Please do your best, as you only have three chances.

If you fail to qualify, you will be immediately killed, and your soul will be used to further strengthen the Strength Path."

Her words were still calm, almost monotone, but there was something deliberately cruel in the way they were delivered—like an executioner whispering apologies before swinging the blade.

A chill ran down Damien’s spine.

It wasn’t the trial that scared him the most—it was the tone of her voice.

She wants me to fail, he thought. She wants me to die.

Then came the mechanical count.

"Prepare yourself.

The trial will begin in...

3... 2... 1..."

The ground trembled.

With a deep rumble, the earth cracked open. From the split rose a structure Damien recognized instantly—a cylindrical monument of dark, ancient stone, etched with glowing red inscriptions.

His eyes narrowed.

A strength measuring pillar?

It was nearly identical to the one he’d trained with in the military compound—same runic engravings, same faint pulse of spiritual energy humming beneath its surface.

But this one... felt different.

Older. Colder. Hungrier.

"Candidate identity confirmed.

Native of the regional group.

Source code scan completed.

No traces of abyssal corruption found.

Trial initiated.

Please use as much force as possible to strike the pillar."

The voice was no longer that of a woman, but a cold, genderless system prompt—its dispassion made the threat of death sound like routine protocol.

Damien exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His knuckles clenched.

Beside him, Arctic tilted his head slightly, as if to say, Are you going first or shall I?

Damien returned the glance with a shrug.

Then, without a word, Arctic snorted—an amused, dismissive breath—and strode forward with the swagger of a being who feared nothing in this world or the next.

His boots echoed on the stone floor as he came to a stop just one step away from the pillar.

The atmosphere shifted.

Even the shadows seemed to draw back, wary of what this horned being was about to unleash.

Damien’s gaze sharpened.

Let’s see what you’re hiding, Arctic.

The next moment, Arctic’s fist began to swell—first subtly, then rapidly, inflating like a grotesque balloon. Veins bulged and popped across his forearm as his skin shimmered with an eerie, volcanic hue. The size of his hand doubled, then tripled, until it looked cartoonishly oversized—comically exaggerated yet menacingly dense with power. His arm now resembled a weapon forged in the deepest pits of the Infernal Realm.

Damien’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of interest gleaming beneath his composed demeanor. He leaned forward just a little, focusing entirely on Arctic. He wasn’t just curious—he was intrigued. What the hell is this guy trying to pull?

Despite Arctic’s usual theatrics, something about the way he was preparing himself didn’t feel like a bluff.

Meanwhile, Arctic’s mind was in complete disarray.

The moment he heard the words "Divine Strength Saint," his thoughts spiraled into chaos. His breath caught, his heart thundered, and his entire spiritual foundation quivered. Unlike Damien, Arctic wasn’t ignorant of ancient legacies and powerful figures. As a proud noble of the Hell Realm—someone who had not only attended but hosted high-ranking gatherings of infernal aristocracy—he considered himself relatively well-informed.

And yet, this name... this title... had struck him like a thunderbolt.

If there was anyone in the vast realms more famous than the Lord of Hell himself, it was the Divine Strength Saint.

Legends spoke of him in whispers, scattered across the abyss like fragments of divine scripture. No one knew his true form. No one knew his origin. But the one thing everyone agreed on—even those too arrogant to admit it aloud—was that he was a being who stood above the Lord of Hell.

Not beside him. Above.

Even among the infernal elite, it was taboo to speak of him casually. The Divine Strength Saint was a myth and a miracle—a presence said to embody the very laws of brute force.

And now, this trial bore his aura. His judgment.

Arctic’s mind raced.

Was Satan testing me all this time?

Have I been chosen?

His gaze flickered with uncharacteristic emotion—somewhere between awe, desperation, and vindication.

Am I finally being rewarded for all the injustices I’ve suffered?

He clenched his swollen fist tighter, until cracks appeared on the ground beneath his feet. The spiritual pressure around him surged violently, and yet he didn’t strike.

Not yet.

He stood there, trembling—not from fear, but from something deeper. Purpose.

Something inside him had been stirred awake.

And Damien, silent and watchful, could feel it.

Something real was about to happen.