Endless Debt Chapter 1151 - 14: Curse

Amidst the clamor of the lively bar, the interwoven sounds of music and chatter ebbed and flowed. Silhouettes merged and blurred against the kaleidoscopic backdrop of lights and swirling smoke, their revelry igniting passions repeatedly until all was spent.

The bar's illumination softened to a warm amber hue, the music subsided into a gentle melody, and the earlier cacophony gave way to a profound silence. Bartenders commenced their nightly ritual of stacking glasses and wiping down tables, while lingering patrons began their slow exodus, returning to the routines of their lives.

At this juncture, the bar embraced an uncommon stillness, the air imbued with the subtle aroma of alcohol. In a secluded corner, a man, weighed down by weariness, quietly savored the liquor in his glass. Devoid of companions, all avenues for connection and shared experience had vanished, leaving him adrift in an ocean of infinite loneliness and isolation.

As the surrounding figures dwindled, the man's face bore an expression of profound fatigue. He would occasionally lift his glass for a sip, his gaze drifting towards the sky outside, which was progressively brightening.

Several hours had elapsed since the man's arrival at the bar. With the passage of time, a sense of being ensnared amongst strangers took root, coupled with a deep-seated dread of being forgotten. From his corner, he silently replayed the night's festivities, yet a disquieting realization dawned: these emotions felt utterly hollow in their aftermath.

Within the fading echoes of merriment, he remained solitary, his eyes occasionally tracing the departing forms accompanied by the ghosts of laughter. To be perfectly candid, he harbored envy for these individuals, yet felt an aversion to deriving contentment from social ties. He understood that for those of the Undead, such fleeting satisfaction was ephemeral; in the blink of an eye, these mortals would succumb to old age and decay.

"Is this the affliction of the Undying Body?" Serey murmured, his gaze distant, "All things unfold with unnatural speed yet drag on interminably, rendered meaningless."

Revelry, the relentless march of time, the intoxicating embrace of alcohol to numb existence, and then, at the first rays of dawn, confronting the existential void with a sliver of remaining sober will.

Such cycles had unfurled countless times, day and night, throughout Serey's existence. He had always believed himself desensitized to it all, yet with each recurring cycle, Serey experienced a sharp, visceral pang of pain, his supposedly numb heart betraying him with an instinctive tremor.

The pain was stark and immediate, as if asserting Serey's continued, albeit agonizing, aliveness.

"Much like the afflicted, slashing their own wrists..." Serey's voice trailed off into a hushed whisper.

The more he contemplated his circumstances, the more Serey felt an intensifying wave of inner turmoil and disquiet. He recognized that his repressed emotions, amplified by the influence of alcohol, would inevitably erupt, plunging him into a state of bewildered confusion. After all, the human psyche requires an outlet when subjected to prolonged suppression.

In his earlier years, Serey found a morbid satisfaction in using alcohol as a catalyst for initiating brawls. Exploiting his inherent advantages as an Undead, he invariably emerged victorious. As time wore on, a profound numbness set in, eroding even the motivation to lift a fist. His focus shifted to seeking solace in the company of women, finding temporary respite in their tender embraces, but eventually, even this ceased to hold any allure for Serey.

As epochs passed, Serey could distinctly perceive his desires, his vital energy, and his driving ambitions being systematically worn down, consumed by the ceaseless passage of existence.

Serey acknowledged this grim reality; he was in the process of a peculiar demise, a descent into insensitivity and a numbing, soul-crushing despair.

Reflecting on this, the prospect was truly chilling.

Rising with a languid stretch, Serey exited the bar, stepping into a tableau utterly familiar to him, a scene he had witnessed countless times before.

The sky was a somber grey, casting the entire city in an atmosphere of profound tranquility. The usual flow of vehicles and pedestrians had drastically diminished, with only scattered headlights and the dim glow of streetlamps piercing the encroaching darkness. The nocturnal wanderers had long since retreated to their homes, and the lights aglow in the towering skyscrapers had quietly winked out.

Yet, as the sun began its slow ascent, the city stirred from its slumber, the heavens gradually brightening. The nascent dawn painted the sky in transitioning hues, from a pale, ethereal grey to a soft, luminous blue, mirroring the world's slow emergence from darkness into the embrace of light.

Serey quickened his steps. For many, the spectacle of sunrise and the city's awakening symbolized vibrant life, but for Serey, this very vitality felt like a corrosive poison.

"Like a cornered beast desperately fleeing, yet we both comprehend the futility; this outcome is predetermined."

Serey continued his hushed monologue, engaging in a strange, internal dialogue of questioning and self-reply.

The unfolding streetscape seemed to warp and shift around him, influenced by the lingering effects of alcohol, conjuring peculiar notions within Serey's mind.

Serey possessed the profound understanding that he was an entity unbound by the constraints of time and space. He could linger indefinitely in any locale, directly witnessing the grand tapestry of temporal progression.

He was, in essence, a venerated Night Race Lord, gifted with an Undying Body. Exempt from the ravages of age, illness, and the finality of death, this seemingly enviable "immortality" had, paradoxically, become the source of his unending solitude and profound suffering.

As time flowed onward, Serey witnessed an endless stream of people depart from his life. He once shared bonds with companions and lovers, yet they all eventually faded into the river of time. He observed the world's constant transformations and the rise and fall of entire civilizations. Despite this, he found himself unable to truly integrate into this world, leading to a profound sense of isolation and prompting him to question the very meaning of his existence.

A persistent weariness and pain often resonated within Serey's heart. At moments, he yearned to bring an end to his protracted existence, much like he felt now. All it would take was slowing his steps, allowing the relentless sunlight to finally catch up to him...

It felt akin to a desperate race between life and death.

Reflecting on this, Serey let out a self-deprecating chuckle. Such contests of life and death had played out numerous times throughout his past.

Yet, each encounter saw Serey emerging victorious against the God of Death, only to be defeated by his own inherent cowardice.

He admitted it; he was indeed a coward, just like his father.

Caught in this internal conflict, Serey began to harbor doubts about the true meaning of 'immortality.' He questioned if his continued existence could even be considered 'life' in any meaningful sense.

His life appeared devoid of any substantial purpose or direction.

The initial rays of sunlight descended, first gracing Serey's attire, then boldly sweeping across his neck. A searing pain erupted, swiftly spreading through his nerves to encompass his entire body.

The agony inflicted by the sunlight far surpassed any conceivable limit of sensation, yet Serey remained outwardly impassive. His skin turned a stark, ashen white, reminiscent of consumed wood. A wisp of thick smoke ascended, followed by the crumbling of ashes, revealing ghastly, hollow blood-holes.

Serey could distinctly feel the sun's warmth on his back, even as brilliant flames began to scorch his skin. The deep, bone-chilling pain and an instinctive surge of fear caused him to lose voluntary control over his physical form.

Serey's pace accelerated, breaking into a full sprint until the shadows mercifully enveloped him once more. He hunched over, gasping for breath in agonizing fits, only for a tidal wave of profound sadness and self-recrimination to surge within his heart.

Each time he managed to survive, Serey would invariably question if he truly possessed courage. His self-assurance was riddled with fissures, and his dignity had long since been incinerated.

Gazing upward, Serey’s eyes landed on a familiar figure standing a short distance away, obstructing his path and observing him with intense scrutiny.

"You cut a rather pathetic figure, Serey."

Bologue spoke. He had arrived earlier, intending only to inquire about something from Serey, but he had not anticipated finding him in such a wretched state.

"Ah, Bologue, have you returned from your travels?"

A confident smile materialized on Serey's lips, a stark transformation from his earlier demeanor. He smoothed his long hair, his steps regained their steadiness and firmness, and within moments, he reverted from his disheveled state back to his inherent noble bearing.

"I have something I need to ask you," Bologue stated.

"Numerous individuals have sought me out recently," Serey replied, shaking his head. "I apologize, Bologue, but I cannot disclose anything. It goes against the rules."

"Then perhaps I can inform you of something else," Bologue offered.

"Next time, I am quite weary. It is time for me to return and rest."

Serey moved past Bologue without further engagement. As he watched Serey's retreating back, Bologue called out loudly.

"We've made some headway concerning the Night Race. Lebius mentioned they refer to themselves as the Rebellious Royal Court, headed by a High Tier Night Race they call the Regent King."

"Olivia!"

Bologue uttered her name, and Serey's stride faltered simultaneously.

"Is she connected to this Rebellious Royal Court? After all, she too is a Night Race who departed from the Land of Eternal Night..."

Serey turned his head, the haze of intoxication vanishing from his eyes. He was a noble Night Race Lord, the son of the Night King; alcohol had never held any true sway over him.

"I also observed a name, one you expunged from the Dawn Oath, a name not bound by its tenets. Could that name be Olivia Villeries?"

Bologue organized his thoughts, piecing together a deduction.

"Serey, did your act of mercy back then inadvertently forge a new Empire?"