Chapter 43: Tower of Babel
Liam twisted mid-air like a falling leaf caught in a tempest, flipping upside down with desperate grace. His blade carved a fierce arc across the stone floor, unleashing a violent storm of shattered rock, dirt, and blazing sparks straight into the unknown figure's face, an improvised sandstorm of debris and searing light.
The figure did not slow for even a fraction of a heartbeat. He pursued with brutal fluidity, each movement honed by centuries of predation, the effortless certainty of one who had ended countless lives and knew precisely how the final act would unfold.
Liam tumbled across the rough floor, rolling desperately to regain his footing. The figure's hand sliced past his face, the wind of the strike sharp as a razor's edge against his skin. Yet Liam remained loose, his body flowing like water, refusing to let panic seize his heart or cloud his will.
He raised his sword in a clean, defensive slash, seeking to force the figure back and carve out the sliver of space needed for his next Abyssal Jump.
The figure dissolved like mist, his form blurring and reforming a single step to the side with ethereal grace. Before Liam could complete the technique, a powerful hand seized his shirt and lifting him effortlessly into the air, as though he weighed no more than a feather. Liam reacted like a slippery serpent, sliding free of the garment in one fluid motion. He used the fabric to bind the figure's arms in a tight, improvised knot, then kicked off with both feet, launching himself toward the nearest patch of deep shadow.
But the figure was already there.
He granted Liam not even a hair's breadth of respite. Before Liam's feet could kiss the darkness, the figure's palm struck the empty air with casual authority. In that instant, the entire structure of the punishment hall shifted.
The deep shadows vanished as if burned away by divine light. The dark corners that had served as Liam's hidden highways dissolved into nothingness. In a single breath, the hall transformed into a blindingly bright white chamber, sterile, merciless, and utterly devoid of any trace of darkness.
No corners. No hiding places. No escape through the void.
Liam crashed hard onto the pure white floor. The sudden absence of usable shadows struck him like a physical blow to his aura core. The transition was seamless and absolute.
The room felt clinical, cold, and oppressively luminous. The walls and floor glowed with a soft, uniform white radiance that left no refuge for even the smallest shadow to linger.
The figure stood a few steps away, completely at ease, as though he had merely rearranged the scenery for his own amusement.
"Tower of Babel," he declared calmly, his voice carrying the weight of ancient law.
The white walls pulsed in response, ancient runes igniting with soft, ethereal light. The very laws of the space bent to his will. Gravity grew heavier, pressing down upon Liam's body like the mountains of the Nine skies .
Aura circulation became sluggish and restricted, as though every strand of power had to wade through thick, primordial mud. The air itself suppressed any technique that relied upon movement through darkness, shadow, or rapid shifts in position.
This was no mere room. It was a living cage.
"This is my innate talent," the figure continued, his tone heavy with the arrogance of one who had wielded this power across centuries. "The Tower of Babel. It is not simply a chamber, it is the punishment hall itself. Seven depths. Seven layers of restriction. The deeper one descends, the more the world itself bends to my command.
We stand now upon the fifth layer. I made certain adjustments to the runes recently… just for someone like you. They erase The flow of aura and cripple basic battle techniques. There is no quick escape in this place.
The second layer suppresses aura circulation, turning every technique into a labored struggle through mire.
The third layer heightens pain receptors, a mere cut feels as though your flesh is being slowly peeled away with a dull, rusted blade.
The fourth layer delays healing. Your body may attempt to mend itself, but the process crawls like a snail across a desert of blades.
The fifth layer assaults the mind directly, whispers, illusions, memories twisted into cruel weapons that strike at the very core of one's dao heart.
The sixth layer begins to erode the soul itself, peeling away fragments of your spirit like dead skin from bone.
And the seventh… well, few have ever witnessed it and lived to speak of its horrors."
He tilted his head slightly, his ancient gaze fixed upon Liam like a judge delivering final judgment.
"Before we begin, foolish one… do you serve under Demon Blade?"
Liam lay face-down on the hot white floor, his body trembling under the oppressive weight. The bright light burned against his skin like concentrated solar flames. Every breath felt labored, as though the very air sought to crush his lungs. Still, he forced the words out, audacious and unyielding.
"I do not serve under anyone."
The figure tilted his head in mild confusion.
"But if you speak of Demon Blade…" Liam added, his voice steady despite the growing strain, "then we are merely… affiliated."
The moment the words left his lips, a sickening squelch erupted from his right shoulder. The entire arm twisted at an impossible angle with a wet crunch of bone and tendon, bending backward like a broken reed. Liam clenched his teeth, swallowing the scream that threatened to tear from his throat. Not a single sound escaped.
The figure laughed, a low, rich sound that echoed through the bright chamber like distant thunder rolling across the abyss.
"Such bold words. You, who have not even stepped into the realms of Gold, dare speak with such arrogance?"
He snapped his fingers.
Liam's left leg collapsed next. Bones and muscle crushed inward with brutal force as blood sprayed across the pristine white floor. "Arghhh!" The scream finally tore free. The pain was apocalyptic, every nerve set ablaze and then plunged into acid. The heightened pain receptors transformed even the slightest pressure into pure torment, as though his bones were being ground into dust while molten metal was poured into the open wounds.
"Your pain receptors have been elevated on this layer," the figure explained casually, as if discussing the turning of seasons. "Even a needle's prick will feel like your insides are being shredded. Your healing factor should be suppressed as well… though I see your body possesses some bizarre resilience. How interesting."
His voice now echoed like a million overlapping whispers inside Liam's skull, each syllable drilling deeper into his mind. Liam screamed again, trying to clutch his ears, but invisible pressure pinned his hands in place. Blood trickled from his ears as the mental assault intensified, the pain so overwhelming it felt as though nails were being hammered directly into his brain while his limbs were torn apart piece by piece.
"I should have begun your punishment the moment I laid eyes upon you," the figure said, now standing directly beside the broken youth, gazing down like a god contemplating an insect.
Liam could no longer think clearly.
He was drowning in agony fromhis head to the soles of his feet. Every nerve burned with white-hot fire. Every breath was a blade in his lungs. The world had narrowed to nothing but unrelenting torment, making his earlier battle with Dabara feel like a gentle exchange of pointers between disciples. His mind flickered on the edge of collapse, yet a small, stubborn spark of defiance refused to be extinguished.
The figure crouched slowly, his ancient presence looming over Liam like an executioner savoring the final moment.
"Welcome to the Punishment Hall, foolish one," he whispered.
The bright white room seemed to intensify with joy. The runes on the walls pulsed brighter, feeding greedily on Liam's suffering.