The Wheel Of Samsara - 83 Those at the Peak X

“Because you are weak.” Lloyd’s voice never stopped echoing inside Amon’s head.

The words his father said as he left. The words his father said as he abandoned Amon and Rebecca. The words his father said as he destroyed their lives.

“Crunch, crunch!” The horrifying sound of bones breaking and flesh being torn apart, the blood-curling screams of the past Rebecca and Amon, they also never stopped.

Again and again, Amon was forced to hear them.

Again and again, he struck with his sword.

He discovered that it was surprisingly easy. A swing of his sword and a silhouette would explode. A swing of his sword and the mist would billow away. A swing of his sword and, for but a moment, the voice would stop, the screams would cease.

Windhowler gave an ominous light as the edge of Qi covering it glowed. Not a spec of blood could be found on the sword, but the same could not be said about its wielder.

Amon’s clothes were completely covered in blood that made his ashen hair stick to his face. The scarlet color that had covered the paleness of his face made his golden eyes even more prominent as they shone with a cold light.

The gravel under his feet crunched as he walked forward, and the ground was slowly turning steep. Amon realized he had started another climb. The white mist still covered everything, but he knew he was in the right direction.

He would reach the peak, and he would prove that he was not weak. He would prove it to anyone that doubted him. He would prove it to everyone.

He did not know how long he had been walking. He did not know how many times he had swung his sword. He had never started counting in the first place. It was not important.

“Because you are weak.”

What was important was to prove that his father was wrong.

“Crunch, crunch!”

What was important was to prove that he was strong enough so no one would be harmed because of his weakness.

“Swoosh!”

What was important was to silence the voice, to prove his strength.

It was all that mattered.

One step at a time, one swing of his sword at a time, he moved forward, walking in the ever steeper ground.

At that moment, the mist in front of him started churning madly, its wisps billowing back and forth as another silhouette slowly formed, blocking his path.

Amon raised his sword, prepared to strike again, but as soon as he saw who stood in front of him, his eyes widened in surprise, and his pulse shot up, so fast and powerful that he could actually feel his heart beating.

The figure was very slender, and seemed to be very delicate. She was wearing a white dress that contrasted with her silky black hair that flowed down her back like a waterfall. In front of Amon stood a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

In the hands of the woman, there was a sword. A beautiful sword, with a guard in the shape of a half-moon with a red jewel embedded in it. Even if it was made of common iron, it was an extremely refined piece of craftsmanship, a very elegant blade.

“Why?” He asked with a sorrowful expression as he faced that pair of piercing blue eyes, full of sadness and regret.

“Because you are weak.” The voice that echoed was not cold and indifferent, nor was it masculine. It was a melodious, graceful voice, tainted by a depressive disappointment.

“How?” He asked, dumbstruck. Deep in his eyes, a hint of fear was appearing.

He hadn’t been able to speak to her ever since he had traversed the gateway to the Hellblaze Secret World. Lya should not be appearing in front of him right now.

“Does it matter?” She asked back, not showing any changes in her expression.

Lya stood in Amon’s way and, even if her eyes showed her true feelings, her expression was incredibly solemn and resolute.

Amon did not answer her words. He did not speak, nor did Windhowler. Lya’s gaze slowly turned into one of sheer anger and outrage. The gaze of someone that had been betrayed.

Amon looked at her in silence. A cold, overwhelming silence that turned the atmosphere tense.

“What are you, Amon?” Lya asked in an emotionless voice, and her eyes turned sharp. Her expression too, changed into one of sheer indifference.

It was a strange question, and a very vague one. Nevertheless, Amon understood her meaning. He knew what she wanted to hear.

“A Sword Cultivator.” Amon said, sustaining her gaze with a careful, hesitant expression.

“What do Sword Cultivators do when they draw their sword?” Lya asked with her voice turning louder, her eyes even fiercer.

“They kill.” Amon answered. It was simple, direct answer. The correct one.

“What is your reason to draw the sword, then?” Lya asked again, her tone and expression still lacking any emotions.

Amon returned to his silence, but was still sustaining her gaze.

“You don’t know?” Lya cocked her head slightly, making her black hair wave lightly. “I see that you have your sword in your hands. I’ll change my question, then.”

“For what reason did you draw your sword?” Her expression somehow turned even colder.

Amon was a Sword Cultivator and he knew for what purpose a Sword Cultivator drew his sword. Then, if Amon had his sword in his hands, he had killed, or he was about to kill.

Amon still did not answer her, for he knew there was no need. He knew why he had drawn his sword. She also knew why he had done so. Amon could see it in her eyes, in the disappointment she showed before.

“You are weak.” Lya said again, raising a pale arm. Her white dress seemed to flutter under the effects of an inexistent breeze.

Yes, he was weak. He might be physically stronger than he once was, his soul might have grown and his skill with a sword might be better, but he was still weak.

Those that needed to prove their strength to others were not confident on such strength themselves.

Lya gave Amon a sidelong glance before turning away. She waved her left hand in a dismissive movement, looking annoyed. Amon felt she actually looked very sad.

The mist started to revolve again, as if agitated. It billowed away from the direction Lya had waved her hands to. The direction of the peak.

“Come with me.” She said, not bothering to look back at him.

Lya moved forward, climbing what was not more than a few meters before the steep path ended up in flat land. It was a very narrow space, only five meters wide or so. It was almost claustrophobic.

The ground on that space was covered with gravel and sharp rocks. It was of a disgusting gray, tinged with black.

The sky above was of a deep azure, incredibly bright and beautiful. Everything else, however, was simply white. The mist formed a barrier around that small piece of flat land, blocking all vision of everything beneath. Blocking all vision of everything around.

In the center of that narrow space, was a throne.

An elegant, yet simple throne made of pure-white wood. The wood suffused a pale light, visible even under the bright sun that shone above the mountain. The throne had a strangely magnetic aura to it, and Amon could not avert his eyes from its beauty.

It was a strange contrast with that dark and ugly ground the throne stood on.

“Congratulations.” Lya said with scorn as she looked at Amon that had been silently following her. “You reached the peak.”

“What?” Amon was caught off guard. His golden eyes shone with surprise as he looked at Lya with an open mouth.

“So, how is it?” Lya faced him suddenly with a distorted expression, a mix of frustration and pain.

“How do you feel?” She asked in a low voice, looking deep into his eyes.

“Does it feel good?” She coked her head, asking in a curious tone. Her expression, however, was still pained. “Do you feel fulfilled?”

“I…” Amon tried to speak, but he found no words. In truth, there was no words to be said. He could only hear.

“Was it worth it?” She asked yet another question.

“Look at yourself.” Lya said, with nothing but a profound disgust in her face. “Look at what you did.”

She raised her hands, and a layer of light formed in front of Amon. It had flat surface that seemed to be made of a viscous fluid rather than light, and rippled with the breeze. Standing in front of it, Amon saw himself as if he was in front of a mirror.

He saw the blood-covered youth looking back at him with a blank expression. He saw a complete stranger.

“I wonder how high would reach the pile of corpses you left behind.” Lya asked with a sad gaze and her voice started to tremble. “Maybe it would be higher than where we stand right now.”

“Is this the cultivator you wanted to be?” She asked a simple question. The question that Amon knew she would ask. The question he feared hearing the most. That question being asked meant he had failed her.

He had failed his promise.

The promise he had made her when she decided to teach him about swords. He had promised that he would become a cultivator Lya would be proud of. He promised that she would be able to smile when she thought of him.

Now, however, she was crying.

“Well, it doesn’t matter, right?” She said with a horribly forced smile as a tear streamed down her face. “You are at the peak. You are strong. This should be enough, no?”

“Was this what you wanted?” She asked, trying to recompose herself, the corner of her eyes still wet from her tears.

“No.” Amon said with a mortified expression. Guilt started creeping on him as he looked at the mirror of light. His chest felt heavy, and a swirl of emotions started to overwhelm him.

He remembered now. The faces of the silhouettes he so easily cut. The innocent people he killed just to silence the voices for a moment. The people he had project Lloyd into.

What had he done?

“Why did you start to cultivate?” Lya asked with a still trembling voice, showing nothing but disappointment. “What was your reason to start this climb?”

“Where are the people important to you?” Lya asked, as if Amon had answered the question, despite him keeping his silence.

Brightmoon glinted with a dangerous light as Lya raised it above her head. The force pressing down on Amon turned even stronger, so much so that he could barely breathe.

“Killing people to prove that you are strong, killing people that you think are in your way…” Lya looked at him with a hint of emotion in her eyes. A hint of disgust. “You are no different than an animal trying to carve his own territory as it takes down its opponents.”

“I told you before, didn’t I?” Lya looked down, slowly shaking her head. “Sword Cultivators that act like animals are put down like animals.”

“This weak being that you are, this animal… it is better off dead.” She shed one last tear as she looked at Amon with nothing but sorrow in her blue eyes.

Then, she changed.

Her gaze turned murderous. He felt his scalp turning numb, his hair standing on end, his instincts telling him to run. Still, it was all useless. He was being held in place by that crushing pressure.

No matter how much he struggled or how much he tried to push all the Qi weighting down on him away, it would not budge. The Qi was being held firmly in place, but somehow beyond his reach.

Lya’s aura started to rise, and Amon looked at her in a daze. Her eyes seemed to glow with pure savagery, and a bright light started emanating from the blade of Brightmoon. Like a beacon, it flashed with a blinding light.

The light then started to retract back into the sword, eventually condensing in an almost solid form around the blade of the sword, in an edge so sharp that it seemed to cut the very space it touched. It was the same move Lya had shown Amon in the Bridge of Lamenting when he was learning about Sword Qi.

His thoughts seemed to stop, as if his mind was shutting down. He was about to die, but he could not utter a word, nor change his dazed expression. Deep down, he never believed that Lya would truly kill him.

Lya waved her arm, and Brighmoon descended. The earth rumbled, and was torn asunder. The skies howled in pain, and were cleaved apart. All light in the world seemed to fade away, and the only thing in Amon’s eyes was the enormous wave of bright Qi coming in his direction.

For that fleeting moment, all that existed was that divine light reaching for him, carrying judgement. Cutting anything on its way. Destroying everything it touched.

Amon’s vision was overwhelmed by that wave of light. All that he saw was whiteness. The same whiteness he had been surrounded by this whole time. The earth calmed down. The skies turned quiet. The world became silent, as if time had stopped.

There was only white. There was only nothing.

—-

After an unknown ammount of time, Amon opened his eyes again. It felt like an eternity, but it also felt like mere moments.

He said nothing. Somehow, he found himself lying on the ground. A dense mist covered his surroundings, and the air was cold and humid. Still, Amon felt warm, comfortable. His body was light, and his mind was clear, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Something was different.

He slowly stood up, looking around. As expected, he saw nothing but the mist. He felt a familiar weight over his shoulder, and he found Windhowler sheathed to his back, as if it had never left.

He looked down, at his feet. He could faintly see a deep scarlet color tainting the ground bellow him. A red and viscous liquid was covering the gravel and rocks in the ground, forming an ominous trail.

A trail that Amon himself had created. A trail of blood.

He took a deep breath, trying to put his thoughts and emotions in order. He couldn’t believe in what he had done. How he had been so easily pushed over the edge.

Why had that happened?

“Because you are weak.” A cold, indifferent voice echoed from the mist as a silhouette formed in front of Amon.

With ravenous black eyes, a hair as dark as the night and a cloak that covered him like a shadow, Lloyd Kressler stood in front of him, with a emotionless expression.

“Yes.” Amon said, lightly nodding his head to his father’s words. He was weak. Unbearably weak.

His will had proven to be weak. His mind had proven to be weak. His heart had proven to be weak.

All of the resolutions he had. All of the objectives he would pursue. All of his ideals. All of that had been scattered with the wind the moment Amon was faced with his weakness. When he so desperately tried to deny the truth.

What came from it was nothing but pain and sorrow.

Amon passed by Lloyd, ignoring him completely, never taking his eyes away from the trail beneath his feet.

He had caused it. He had made this. Lya was right, he had been no more than an animal.

More than anything, Amon felt deeply ashamed.

“Crunch, crunch!” The horrifying sound echoed from the mist, and Rebecca’s screams reverberated in Amon’s mind.

Amon stopped for a moment, closing his eyes. He could not change what happened. He had been weak and his mother had paid for that.

He, however, could change what would happen. He was still weak, but he would not be so anymore. He would truly become strong.

And so Amon walked, stepping on the blood he had spilled on the floor as the voices echoed nonstop through the mist.

“Because you are weak.” Lloyd would say.

Silence would answer him.

“Crunch, crunch!” The mist would say.

Silence would answer it.

Amon walked and walked, never stopping, never talking. He eventually reached the slope again, getting close to the peak.

The voices never stopped, and Amon never answered. The mist in front of him started churning again, just like it did when Lya first appeared. This time, however, it was Lloyd that appeared again.

His cloak fluttered behind his back, as if it was a pair of dark wings. He held a pitch-black curved sword in his right hand. A sword with no guard, and a single edge. A sword with only attacking in mind.

Amon looked at him still maintaining his silence.

Lloyd, however, said nothing this time. He simple stood there, sword in hand, looking at Amon with those cold eyes. His posture, the arrogance he could not hide. It was as if he was inviting Amon for a fight.

Amon sneered as he looked at Lloyd standing in front of him. He somehow forgot how tall his father truly was. Even if Amon had grown a lot, the difference still felt abysmal.

“They say that sons always feel less love for their parents than the other way around.” Amon broke his silence, looking deeply at Lloyd. “I think this is right.”

“While you loathe me, I can’t say I feel anything other than sheer hatred for you.”

“The way you abandoned us, the pain you caused to mom… this is not something I will ever forgive. Not that you care about it anyway.”

“That being said, I would never kill you the way I did before. I feel that existence itself is a fitting punishment for a man like you.” Amon spoke the words from his heart. He spoke what he felt about Lloyd, and Lloyd only listened. “You may not be at the level of an animal, but you are certainly close to it in my eyes.”

“In truth, I find you worth of pity.”

With that, Amon ignored Lloyd again, passing through him just like that.

He broke through the mist, and reached the flat ground of the peak again.

It was truly rather simple, but also rather complicated.

As the white beast had said in what now felt like ages ago, it was all relative. Amon just needed to look at the obstacles in front of him in another way and see the truth.

He took heavy steps as he approached the throne in the center of that narrow space, leaving deep footprints on the ground.

Lya’s voice echoed from the mist again, asking many of the questions she had made before.

“So, how is it?”

It was strange. Somewhat lackluster.

“How do you feel?”

Amon felt disappointed. Torn.

“Do you feel fulfilled?”

How could he? He naturally was feeling empty, rather than fulfilled.

“Was it worth it?”

In the peak, he could look down and see that ugly ground that sustained the throne. He could also look around and see nothing but the white mist formed by the clouds that blocked both the view of the peak for those below and the view of what was below from those at the peak.

In truth, he could only look up, and try to peer into that cloudless sky.

He could not see the beautiful scenery of the world below him if he stood at the peak.

He did not feel it had been worth it.

“You are at the peak. You are strong. This should be enough, no?”

No. This was not enough. Strength had never been his objective.

“Was this what you wanted?”

No. This was far from what he wanted.

“Why did you start to cultivate? What was your reason to start this climb?”

He had found his answer long ago. It was all about him, but it was also about the people important to him.

“Where are the people important to you?”

They were down below. Amon could not see them, nor could he speak with them. He had left them behind in his climb. He had abandoned them.

At the peak, he stood alone, only being able to look up at an unreachable sky. The peak was truly a rather pitiful place to be. A good match for the pitiful cultivators that chased after it.

Amon looked at the throne in front of him. That beautiful throne that had never stopped charming him.

Then, he looked again.

At the peak, there was nothing. There were only the clouds, the gravel and the rocks. The throne was gone. It disappeared, as if it had never been there.

In the end, it was all relative.

Amon gave a wry smile as he turned his back to the peak and slowly started walking back.

The mist around him slowly faded away, as if it had never been anything but an illusion.

The voices that always echoed from it went completely silent. There were no more conversations to be had.

In truth, there had never been a true conversation.

Ever since he had started the climb, he had been the only one speaking, and the only one hearing.