Chapter 65: The One-Inch Answer.

When Oliver opened his eyes, he was no longer in the room full of slaves.

He was once again in the Night Trial.

The familiar red skull bobbled in the sky above him like an inverted sun, its hollow sockets glowing with wicked amusement.

The usual eerie silence of the bloody ethereal space was quickly shattered by its voice.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to wake up,” it crackled. “You, my boy, just broke some bones, bruised their pride, and beautifully beat those Centaurs like a bard beating a drum at a drunken festival. That was art.”

Oliver remained seated.

He didn’t respond, didn’t even glance up. The sense of victory the skull spoke of... it didn’t exist within him. His breath came slowly, evenly. He was processing, not just physically but morally.

The truth was that Oliver did not believe the slaves to be his enemies. As far as he was concerned, his enemy was the Somara empire.

He had lived his previous life seeing how the slaves were stepped on and suffered terribly. Even now, those images were fresh as blood stains in his mind.

He really did not want to add to their suffering.

Truthfully speaking, there was no one. Absolutely no one that understood the struggles of the slaves more than him. Whether struggles they were facing now or more to come.

Although it was a win, it was not one he had pride in.

The skull noticed his silence. “Wait... you’re actually sad about this?”

Oliver still said nothing.

“I mean, come on! It’s not like it’s the first time you’re beating a slave up. What about that other one you killed... you know, the one with the cockroaches back at the ship?” the skull added with mocking glee.

Oliver’s hand clenched. “No. That was different. My sister’s life was in danger...”

“And just now?” The skull twisted in a loop, its voice rising with irony. “So was your dignity. Even you, know that Garron fellow was right. Or do you think they would’ve stopped at just the potions? Face it—hierarchy is everywhere. Even among the trampled, someone wants to wear the bigger boot.”

Oliver sighed. He hated how the skull sometimes made too much sense.

But still...

He refused to accept that being stronger meant being cruel. That was the belief of the Somara Empire—and it was exactly what he had died trying to break.

But now wasn’t the time for philosophy, though. He stood up slowly, his injuries from earlier with the centaurs was becoming a dull ache. The pain was real. But he had healed enough to move.

He was back here, in the trial. The hollow floor beneath his feet. The floating space around him. And on the opposite end of the platform—

The monk.

Cross-legged as always, perfectly still. A silhouette of composure.

Oliver walked forward, calmly, but with intent in his steps. The moment his feet touched the platform fully—

Boom!

The monk moved. A blur. The same attack.

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The One-Inch Punch.

But Oliver had seen it too many times now. His body responded without conscious thought—twisting low, folding like a ribbon in a storm. The monk’s fist cut air as Oliver rolled sideways.

Then he pivoted sharply, his heel slicing toward the monk’s temple.

The monk ducked, impossibly fast, and responded again with the same devastating one-inch strike—but Oliver bent backward, a matrix-like lean, the fist grazing his chest. The air cracked.

But Oliver didn’t just evade this time. He used the moment. Seizing the monk’s arm, he twisted and leapt around his opponent’s torso, landing behind him. His hand was already moving.

Fingers splayed. Palm open. Reaching forward.

He touched the monk’s chest—just before the punch.

This time, it wasn’t just muscle.

Oliver focused.

He centered every fiber of his being, channeling his Aether Sense, the unique sensory gift of his Nightmare Bloodline. It unfolded like invisible sonar—waves of perception rippling outward, bouncing back to him.

He could feel it.

The Aether in the monk’s chest. Dense. Compressed. Vibrating at a subtle frequency like a coiled spring. Waiting.

He had done it to the Centaurs, three times. But then he had been more rushed with adrenaline.

Now, it was more.

Oliver understood.

The monk’s technique wasn’t just about force. It was about Aether resonance—a collision between the user's will and the target’s flow. When both met at the exact moment of impact, the result was explosive.

And so—

He drew Aether from within himself. Not much. Just a tendril.

He pressed his fingers to the monk’s sternum.

And punched.

It was only an inch. But the moment his knuckles landed, his Aether slammed into the monk’s internal flow—

BOOM!

The explosion was instantaneous.

The monk flew backward like a broken arrow, spiraling through the air and smashing into the far wall of the platform. Stone fractured. The platform trembled from the impact.

The red skull above let out a loud whistle. “Well slap my spirit and call me a priest! Did you see that?! That wasn’t a punch... No, it was a declaration of war!”

Oliver stood in the silence that followed, hand still extended, body trembling from exertion.

He had done it.

Not just mimicked the One-Inch Punch. But unlocked its essence.

He breathed heavily. Sweat dripped from his brow. His wounded arm throbbed again. But none of it mattered.

This feeling, it was a good one.

[Alert]

[Congratulations on Mastering a New Fighting Skill]

[One-Inch Punch Learned]

[May Blood Bless the battlefield with your skill.]

[Alert]

[Will you like to learn another skill?]

Oliver thought of it a bit. But he shook his head.

He had not progressed in strength in more than a week now. He needed to grow in power. Meaning that he was going back to the trial.

He had a date with the Bottomless-Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpions.

–––

The moment Oliver requested to return to the Night Trial, the air around him trembled.

The branches of the Mountain Tree That Bleeds Skill shriveled backward like clutching fingers, retreating into shadows as the skies above fractured like glass. Light twisted. Sound bent.

Gravity collapsed in upon itself—and suddenly, with a burst of acrid heat, Oliver was standing once again in the scorched, brown-colored sands of the Bottomless-Bellied Desert.

He was back.

He grinned. Fiercely.

There was a new light in his eyes—something cold, calculated, and craving carnage. After all, he had a new skill now. A new weapon in his arsenal. And this time, he intended to test it properly.

But as he gazed out across the blistering horizon, something felt… off.

His brow furrowed.

There had been 29 scorpions when he left. Twenty-nine monstrous, venom-bloated, armor-plated beasts that had taken him to the edge of death just a few nights before.

And yet now…

He paused.

He raised a hand and counted, slowly, carefully.

“One… two… three—”

His voice caught in his throat.

“—twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, forty— What the hell?!”

The sand shifted with movement. Tail spikes shimmered under the boiling sun. Razor mandibles clicked like a twisted symphony. There weren’t just more of them—there were dozens more.

Some played with one another and some others rested within the hot sands.

He turned sharply toward the floating red skull bobbing lazily in the air beside him.

“What is this?” Oliver snapped. “There weren’t this many before! Why the hell are there fifty of them now?!”

The skull cackled, twirling in the air.

“Ahh, young prince of rage, did you think the Nightmare Realm paused for your absence?” it hummed, voice dry as dust. “These creatures are alive. As real as anything. Time here flows differently. And what do creatures do when given enough time and enough food?”

Oliver’s eyes widened in realization.

“They… multiply.”

“Indeed!” the skull declared, delighted. “They did as beasts do—fed, bred, and bloated the sands with their young.”

Oliver’s gaze swept across the dunes once more.

The evidence was all around him—larger scorpions hunting smaller ones. Juveniles darting between carcasses. Some were the size of a child’s fist, still soft, twitching and clumsy. Others were lithe and full-grown. Monstrous.

The Trial Notification shimmered back to life in his vision:

[Trial Objective: Vengeance of the Wastes]

100 Bottomless-Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpions have taken over this land, killing its people, poisoning its soil, and consuming all life—save for the accursed poisonous Blue Carcass Plant.

Kill Count: 71 / 100

Bonus Birth: 21 scorpions

Note: If live count equals or exceeds total required kill count, mission fails.

Punishment: Death

---

“Shit,” Oliver muttered.

His fists clenched. He turned again to the grinning skull.

“You couldn’t have warned me?”

The skull spun, teeth bared in something between mirth and mockery.

“But where’s the thrill in that, boy? Discovery is the spice of survival.”

Oliver shot it a murderous glare, but it only floated higher out of reach, its laughter echoing across the dunes.

He scanned the sands.

The corpses of scorpions he had slain earlier were nothing more than torn carapaces and snapped claws—picked clean by their kin. But something else caught his eye. From the rib-like remains of the dead creatures, Blue Carcass Plants had begun to sprout—tall, twisted stalks, their bark bruised purple, their spines riddled with dormant venom sacs.

But there were no fruits.

He pointed. “No fruits?”

The skull shrugged, or at least mimicked the gesture. “It’s not the season for blooming. Didn’t they teach you anything about spring in royal school?” it rolled its eyes.

And Oliver sighed, rubbing his temples.

He couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t wait.

After what had happened in the waking world, Oliver was not so foolish to think that pay back would not come his way.

He dropped back onto the crooked spiky roots of the tree he stood on and sat, staring out at the scuttling swarm, the red desert stretching endless and angry before him.

A moment passed.

Then he straightened.

His eyes, like twin furnaces. “Screw it,” he muttered under his breath, fire igniting behind every word. “We end this. Here. Now.”

The skull crackled with laughter. “That’s the spirit. Go forth, O Bloody Dreamer. Carve the nightmare into shape.”