The Wheel Of Samsara - 80 Those at the Peak VII

“Because you are weak.”

The words echoed inside Amon’s head as he dejectedly watched his father’s broad back moving away. His father never once looked back before he disappeared in the endless expanse of white that surrounded him, dispersing in the mist.

The pain Amon felt in his body disappeared as Lloyd’s phantom left, fading along that horrible memory. Amon stood there, lying down on the ground with a blank look on his face.

He realized he was his old self again, not the child of six years ago anymore. He looked up, trying to gaze at the skies. What he saw, however, was only a monochromatic white, a monochromatic emptiness.

Yes, he was weak. It was something he had known all along, but deep down refused to accept. Even if he knew it was pointless, he still fought hard. Even if he knew it was useless, he still did his best at trying to cultivate. He had never given up.

When he found Lya, when he saw that beautiful woman floating in front of him by the small lake, he knew he had a chance to turn his life around. He did not hesitate in asking Lya for help, no matter how bizarre or suspicious the circumstances were.

At that point, he did not know what to do anymore. In truth, Amon had fallen to his despair long ago, even if he did not show it to anyone else. That was the reason why he followed Lya’s directions and advice without hesitation. He felt this was his only option, his only chance. As such, he held onto it tightly, never letting it go.

He was willing to risk everything to prove his father’s words wrong.

He was willing to risk everything to prove that he had worth.

He was willing to risk everything to make his mother smile as she did in the past.

No matter how much he convinced himself that this world was unfair, that it was twisted beyond repair, the fact would not change that he needed to be strong enough to pursue his objectives.

As such, Amon decided to cultivate, because only cultivation would give him the strength he needed.

“Because you are weak.” His father’s words echoed from the mist again, reverberating in his thoughts, taking them over. Amon shook his head, and tried to clear his mind, but the voice would not go away.

He was not weak. Not anymore. He had met Lya, he had undergone his Body Tempering and he was a Soul Cultivator. A Sword Cultivator. He was not weak. He was pursuing it already. He was pursuing the strength he needed. He was walking towards his goal, he was not stranded anymore, stuck with his despair in a limbo, a purgatory of mediocrity from which he would never escape.

“Crunch, crunch!” That horrifying sound took over his father’s voice, alongside the screams that both he and his mother had given that day as the Silverback Wolf reached a defenseless Rebecca.

“I am not weak!” He shouted to the skies, as a blazing fury burned in his golden eyes and his expression distorted into one of pure anger and denial.

He started moving again, walking towards where he believed was the center of the vortex of clouds. The place where the peak was.

“You are weak! You are weak! You are weak!” The voices said nonstop, coming from all directions. Mocking him. Looking down on him.

“ENOUGH!” He shouted, extending his hand to his shoulder and drawing Windhowler. The blade hummed wildly, sending waves of sounds that fought back against the voice.

However, it was not enough.

Eventually, the humming stopped, and Amon had to hear it all again.

“Crunch, crunch!”

The sword in his hand started making clinking noises as Amon’s hands started trembling. His jaws were clenched so hard that they were starting to hurt, and his lips were turning pale from the excessive strength he used as he pursed them.

“Because you are weak.” This time, Amon clearly identified the origin of the voice. He raised his eyes, and saw a familiar silhouette standing ahead, covered in mist. He could not see it clearly, but he still could feel the cold indifference it exuded.

His gaze turned sharp, and his grip on the sword tightened even more. Like slithering snakes, thin lines of light started spreading through the blade. With a blinding flash, a pale layer of light covered the sword.

He was a Sword Cultivator. He refused to be weak, and he would do anything to prove his strength if it meant accomplishing what he wanted.

“Because you are weak.” The figure spoke again, but before it could finish Amon was already upon it and Windhowler was whistling through the air in a wild, violent slash.

“SHUT UP!” He shouted at Lloyd. Lloyd looked at him with the same cold eyes, the same indifferent expression as ever. Windhowler descended with a dazzling light, hitting Lloyd’s shoulder and splitting him in half.

Lloyd was still indifferent as he looked at Amon and his figure exploded in wisps of red mist that blew into Amon’s face. He felt something viscous in his skin, making his hair turn wet and cling to his face, staining his clothes and making them sticky and warm. However, he did not mind. Something else had caught his attention.

In front of him, silhouettes started to silently form from the mist. Like statues, they stood in place, and like his father, they spoke the words that tore at his heart.

“Because you are weak.” They spoke as they stood on his way, blocking his path.

Amon’s face distorted even more, the fire in his eyes turned even fiercer, and the trembling of his hands stopped.

“Swish!”

He slashed out with Windhowler, cutting a silhouette in half. More red mist exploded, tainting him even more. He took a step forward, facing another Lloyd.

He was still the same, still looking at him with cold eyes and an indifferent expression, clad in black like a shadow.

Why wouldn’t they stop?

“Because you are weak.” Lloyd said.

“Swish!”Windhowler answered for Amon as he took yet another step forward.

When was this going to end?

“Crunch, crunch!” The mist answered, as if mocking Amon.

“Swish!” Windhowler repeated, unyielding and unforgiving. However, it hit nothing, and the mist simply billowed away as the sword cut through it.

“Why don’t you stop!?” Amon shouted in a desperate and confused voice.

“Because you are weak.” Lloyd said again, scorn appearing in his eyes this time as a mocking smile appeared on his lips.

“Swooosh!” The Qi enveloping Windhowler seemed to change, turning more corporeal as it condensed into an edge over the sword.

More red mist exploded, and Amon moved again. He felt he was stuck in an endless loop, an unending conversation that always went the same way.

“Crunch, crunch!” The mist would say, and the screams of the young Amon and Rebecca would reverberate Amon’s ears.

“Why?” Amon would ask, more and more desperate.

“Because you are weak.” Lloyd would answer.

“Swoosh!” Windhowler would respond, making red mist explode and Amon take a step forward.

Again and again, the same conversation would happen. Amon was stuck in a cycle he did not know how to avoid, and slowly he started to lose himself even further.

He did not realize that, after some time, the voices had completely stopped, and the silhouettes forming from the mist were not even similar to Lloyd. They were not speaking to Amon, nor were they standing on his way.

Nevertheless, the conversation never stopped for Amon. He could still hear his mother’s screams. He could still see his father’s cold face in every silhouette he put his eyes on.

As long as the conversation continued, he would answer the same way he had been answering since the start. Red mist would explode, and he would move closer to the peak.

For anyone else, however, this was not a conversation, but a monologue.

“Swoosh!” The sword would say.

A person would be cut down, and red mist would explode, tainting Amon even more. He had long since gotten used to whatever the red mist was, and never gave it any importance.

Because of that, he never looked down to see the red droplets falling from his dirty clothes into the ground, forming a horrifying scarlet trail.

Drenched in blood from head to toe, Amon continued walking.

With no mercy nor distinction, his sword spoke to all that stood close to him in his path to the peak.