CHAPTER 161: ECHOES OF THE PAST

The news of Achilles’ death spread through the world like a wildfire. The gods of Olympus were in an uproar, their rage shaking the very heavens. The other pantheons, who had been watching the conflict with a detached amusement, were suddenly silent, their eyes now fixed on the small, upstart kingdom in the west and its terrifying, god-slaying monarch.

Nox, however, was not celebrating. The victory over Achilles had been a hollow one. It had been a victory of knowledge, not of strength. He had won because he knew the hero’s story, his secret weakness.

’If I hadn’t known about the heel,’ he thought, sitting in his silent throne room, ’he would have killed me.’

The thought was a cold, sobering one. He was strong, yes. But he was not invincible. There were beings out there, gods and monsters, whose stories he did not know, whose weaknesses were not written in any book.

He looked at his own status.

[Designation: Nox]

[Level: 45]

He hadn’t leveled up from killing Achilles. The demigod, for all his power, was not a monster or a player. He was something else, and his death had granted no EXP.

’I need to get stronger,’ he thought. ’Not just with levels and stats. I need... more.’

He spent the next week in a state of intense, focused preparation. He pushed his army harder than ever before. He sparred with Elisa until they were both bruised and battered, learning the true meaning of combat endurance. He spent hours with Vexia, not just observing her rune magic, but learning its principles, its logic.

He began to experiment with his own void power, not just as a weapon, but as a tool. He learned to weave the void not just into a simple blade, but into complex, interlocking constructs. He learned to feel the subtle flows of mana in the world around him, to see the invisible threads of the Scripture that bound their reality together.

But with his growing power came a growing sense of isolation. His companions, his council, they looked at him with a new distance. He was not just their leader anymore; he was a being of a different order, a king who had slain a hero of legend.

Serian tried to reach him. She would bring him food, sit with him in the silent throne room, tell him stories of her own world. He would listen, but his mind was always somewhere else, lost in the complex equations of power and survival.

"You are building a wall around yourself, Nox," she said to him one evening, her voice full of a sad, gentle concern. "A fortress of power. But even the strongest fortress can be a lonely prison."

"It’s better than being a victim," he said, his voice flat.

"Is it?" she asked softly.

He didn’t have an answer.

On the eighth day after Achilles’ death, a new scout returned. It was one of Mela’s sisters, Liesa, her face pale and her eyes wide with a terror that made Nox’s blood run cold.

"They’re here," Liesa stammered out. "At the southern border of the city. An army."

"Olympus?" Elisa asked, her hand already on her warhammer.

Liesa shook her head. "No. Something... worse."

They all rushed to the southern gate of the city. The sight that greeted them was one of pure, unadulterated horror.

An army was indeed gathered on the plains before the city. But it was not an army of gods or players. It was an army of the past.

Thousands of them, their forms flickering and indistinct, like ghosts from a half-remembered nightmare. There were soldiers in the tattered uniforms of forgotten wars, knights in rusted armor, samurai with spectral blades. And leading them, standing at their head, were figures he knew.

Mark. Ms. Joy. The bullies from his school. His old classmates.

They were not illusions. His Void Gaze could see their spectral forms, the raw, psychic energy that gave them substance. They were ghosts, memories torn from his own past and given a terrifying, malevolent life.

"What is this?" Serian whispered, her hand gripping his arm.

"It is a psychic assault," Vexia stated, her face pale. "A weapon designed not to break our walls, but to break our minds."

At the head of the spectral army, the ghost of Mark stepped forward. He looked exactly as he had in life, his face twisted in the same arrogant sneer.

"Well, well," the ghost’s voice echoed, not in their ears, but in their minds. "Look what we have here. It’s the pathetic loser, playing king."

The army of ghosts laughed, a silent, chilling sound that echoed in their souls.

Nox just stared, his face a mask of cold, absolute fury. He had thought he had left this behind. He had thought he had killed this part of himself. But the past, it seemed, was not so easily erased.

"This is not Zeus’s work," Vexia said. "This is something else. Something... personal."

The ghost of Mark pointed a spectral finger at Nox. "We’ve come back for you, Nox. We’ve come to finish what we started. We’ve come to put you back in your place."

The army of ghosts began to advance, a silent, shimmering tide of his own personal hell.

Nox just stood on the city wall, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was not a king anymore. He was not a monarch. He was just a boy, facing the demons of his own creation.

And for the first time in a very long time, he felt a flicker of the one thing he thought he had conquered.

Fear.

The army of ghosts advanced, a silent, shimmering tide of Nox’s own personal hell. They flowed over the plains, their spectral forms passing through the physical world as if it were smoke. The traps Vexia had laid were useless. The walls of the city were no obstacle.

"They are not physical beings," Vexia stated, her voice tight with a frustration that bordered on panic. "Our weapons, our magic... it will do nothing to them."

"So we just let them walk in?" Elisa growled, her warhammer feeling useless in her hands.

The ghosts reached the city walls and simply passed through them, their chilling presence washing over the defenders. The players, Nox’s hardened soldiers, cried out and stumbled back, their minds assaulted by the raw, negative emotion radiating from the spectral army.

Nox just stood on the battlements, watching them come. The ghost of Mark was at their head, his sneering face a perfect replica of the one that had haunted Nox’s nightmares for years.

"What’s the matter, Nox?" the ghost’s voice echoed in his mind, dripping with a familiar, cruel amusement. "Scared? You should be. There’s nowhere to run this time."

’This is inefficient,’ a part of his mind, the cold, logical part that was Liona, stated. ’The enemy is a psychic construct. Physical engagement is illogical. The optimal strategy is to sever the psychic link at its source.’

But another part of him, the older, more wounded part, wasn’t listening to logic. It was listening to the jeering laughter of his past.

"Nox, what do we do?" Serian asked, her own face pale as the ghosts began to flow into the plaza, surrounding them.

He didn’t answer her. He just leaped from the wall, landing in the center of the plaza, his Infernal Monarch Armor flowing over his skin. He stood alone, facing the army of his own memories.

"You want me?" he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Come and get me."

The ghost of Mark just laughed. "Same old Nox. Always trying to act tough. But we all know what you really are, don’t we?"

The entire army of ghosts spoke as one, their voices a deafening chorus in his mind. "A pathetic loser."

Nox roared, a sound of pure, untamed fury, and charged.

He was a whirlwind of black and red, his armored fists smashing into the spectral forms. But it was like punching smoke. His blows passed right through them, doing nothing.

The ghosts, however, could touch him. Their cold, ethereal hands passed through his armor, through his skin, touching the raw, wounded soul beneath. Each touch was a memory, a fresh wave of pain and humiliation.

He felt the cold shock of toilet water. He felt the sting of a slap across his face. He felt the crushing weight of being held down, helpless, while the world laughed.

He stumbled, his mind reeling from the psychic assault.

"You see?" the ghost of Mark sneered, circling him. "You can’t fight us. We’re a part of you. We’re the truth you’ve been running from."

"Nox!" Serian screamed from the wall, her voice a distant, desperate sound. "Don’t listen to them! They are not real!"

But they felt real. The pain felt real. The shame felt real.

He was that weak, helpless boy again, trapped in a school hallway with nowhere to run.

The ghosts swarmed him, their hands all over him, their voices a cacophony of his worst fears, his deepest insecurities.

"Weak."

"Freak."

"Nobody."

"Alone."

He fell to his knees, his head in his hands, the Monarch’s armor flickering around him. He was losing. He was being consumed by his own past.

’Is this it?’ he thought, a wave of despair washing over him. ’After all this, after all the power I’ve gained... am I still just that pathetic kid?’

He saw the ghost of Ms. Joy, her face a mask of cruel indifference. "Boys will be boys, after all," her voice echoed in his mind.

He saw the faces of his classmates, turning away, pretending not to see.

He saw himself, a small, broken thing, crying in a dark, empty room.

The pain was overwhelming. The shame was a poison. It was easier to just... give up. To let the ghosts consume him. To let the darkness take him.

’No.’

The thought was a tiny, defiant spark in the overwhelming darkness.

’No.’

It was not his voice. It was not Liona’s voice. It was a new voice, quiet and clear, but full of an unshakable strength.

It was the voice of the king he had become.

He slowly lifted his head. His eyes were no longer burning with a chaotic rage. They were calm. Cold. And absolutely, terrifyingly clear.

"You are right," he said, his voice quiet but carrying across the silent plaza.

The ghosts paused, surprised by his sudden calm.

"You are a part of me," he continued, getting to his feet. "You are my past. You are my pain, my anger, my shame." He looked at the ghost of Mark. "You are the reason I am what I am today."

He held out his hands, and the void answered his call. It was not a weapon or a shield. It was a quiet, devouring darkness that began to spread from his fingertips.

"And I am grateful to you for that," he said, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. "You taught me a very important lesson."

The ghost of Mark stumbled back, a flicker of genuine fear in its spectral eyes. "What... what are you talking about?"

"You taught me that mercy is a weakness," Nox said, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "You taught me that power is the only thing that matters. You taught me how to hate."

The devouring void spread, covering the plaza floor, turning the cobblestones into a sea of absolute blackness.

"And now," he finished, his eyes glowing with the light of a thousand dying stars, "I’m going to give that gift back to you."

He closed his hands. "Void Eater."

It was not a punch. It was not a spell. It was an act of absolute, royal will.

The entire army of ghosts screamed, a sound that was not a sound, but a psychic shriek of pure, soul-shredding terror. The void rose up, not as a wave, but as a silent, hungry tide, and it consumed them.

It did not just destroy them. It ate them. It devoured their spectral energy, their manufactured memories, their very existence, and added it to his own.

The ghost of Mark was the last to go. It stared at Nox, its face a mask of horrified disbelief. "What... are you?"

"I am the Void Monarch," Nox said. "And you are my first meal."

The void consumed him.

The plaza was silent. The ghosts were gone.

Nox stood alone in the center of his city, his armor a dark silhouette against the gray sky. He had not just defeated his past. He had devoured it. He had taken all the pain, all the shame, all the weakness that had defined him, and he had turned it into power.

Serian, Vexia, Elisa, and Mela just stared from the battlements, their faces a mixture of awe and a deep, profound terror.

The boy they knew was well and truly gone. In his place stood a king who had consumed his own demons and made them his strength. A king who was no longer haunted by his past, because his past was now a part of his power.

He turned to look at them, and his eyes were not the eyes of a boy, or even a king. They were the eyes of something ancient, something hungry, and something utterly, completely, and terrifyingly free.

The god chat was, for the first time, completely silent. There were no jokes, no analysis, no cheers or condemnations. The gods were just watching, their silent gaze fixed on the mortal who had just done the impossible.

He had not just killed his ghosts. He had become them.