THE VILLAIN'S POV Chapter 742: Beyond Redemption (1)

A bloody inferno unfolded, with shambling undead stacked in heaps, their limbs outstretched in hopeless agony, grasping desperately at the ankles of one lone figure.

In the midst of this nightmare realm, those contorted, grotesque visages clawed toward Frey in vain desperation, forcing him to escape upward, ascending relentlessly to escape their reach and attain the distant peak.

The undead showed no mercy. They scaled over one another relentlessly until they built a towering mound—a horrifying vision pulled right from the depths of hell.

All this scene played out before Nameless, who observed quietly. His features stayed concealed behind that icy mask, offering no clue to his inner thoughts... or the extent to which Frey Starlight’s turmoil impacted him.

Frey, meanwhile, bolted away in raw terror, utterly baffled by the chaos surrounding him.

"What the hell are these abominations?! How did this sanctuary become an ocean of blood?!"

This spot was meant to serve as his refuge... isolated from the outer world.

But now, even that haven lay in ruins, as infernal torment burst forth from its depths without any forewarning.

"You mentioned craving power, right?" Nameless said from his position close by.

"Well, here you have it. This is the strength you desire—right in your grasp... or more precisely, under your soles."

"What do you mean by that?! How does this madness benefit me at all?!" Frey yelled, struggling fiercely to shake off the undead gripping him.

Those warped, grimy countenances... no rational person could gaze upon them for extended moments.

"Don’t you know who they are, Frey Starlight?" Nameless inquired. His tone reverberated softly, almost drowned out by the ferocious howls and shrieks from those horrors.

Still, Frey caught every word distinctly.

"I’ve never laid eyes on these creatures before," Frey shot back, flinging the undead aside repeatedly... casting them over the precipice of that mound of flesh... the pile of remains.

"I figured you’d respond that way," Nameless answered with composure.

"Each one perished in under a second from your blade. You didn’t even bother looking at them."

Through the hellish din, Nameless’s statement struck Frey like a splash of freezing water... triggering a terrifying epiphany.

"You’re saying..."

Nameless inclined his head.

"They’re the ones you slew... no others, Frey Starlight."

The undead kept stacking without end upon each other.

Frey couldn’t grasp the situation, so Nameless clarified.

"The Sixth Stage of Shadow Adaptation links to a special skill bound to the Law of Life and Death. There’s a key fact about me you need to learn, Frey Starlight."

"Long ago, I could control souls... keeping them stored and bringing them back via bodies I forged. However, that worked only for those who met their end from causes outside my doing... fatalities unrelated to my actions."

Nameless settled down gradually at the top that Frey had scrambled so hard to attain, speaking steadily:

"But deaths caused by my hand differ. The instant anyone falls to me, they vanish nowhere. Their essence gains no peace, no freedom... it stays locked inside me, enduring torment without cease."

"The Sixth Stage of Shadow Adaptation draws its force from incinerating the souls of all I’ve ever slain."

Frey’s gaze bulged in horror.

"Incinerating their souls means utterly devouring their being... every piece of who they were, to the final trace. They smolder gradually inside me, until oblivion claims them... converting into strength I unleash on foes."

Soul-burning echoed the feat Abraham Starlight achieved ages back—when he set his own soul ablaze to achieve that exalted form.

Yet Nameless wielded it across innumerable souls... all to chase might beyond mortal dreams.

"This skill was crafted mainly to battle the Demon King. It stands as the sole counter to his Devouring prowess."

The Sixth Stage of Shadow Adaptation delivered the mightiest boost, growing in proportion to the tally of lives claimed by its user.

It formed a singular talent... one woven into the Path of Blood.

"That same rule extends to you—since you hold the identical ability. Put another way..."

Nameless pointed downward.

"These twisted undead howling under your boots represent the essences of everyone you’ve slain with your own hand up to now."

At that harsh revelation...

Frey bowed his head again.

This moment, he perceived no beasts.

He viewed no remains.

He beheld individuals.

Males.

Females.

Demons too.

Without distinction.

Every entity he’d dispatched lingered there—eternally—poised for devouring.

And their sentiments persisted undimmed.

Their pain.

Their cries.

Their anguish.

All assaulted Frey simultaneously.

An boundless animosity... so fierce it pierced him vividly, akin to myriad daggers assaulting from all sides.

Previously, Nameless had butchered vast multitudes from endless species. Frey had thought it stemmed from his deranged trials.

Reflecting now, though... a mere three or four bodies would have served for tests.

Nevertheless, Nameless wiped out millions per occasion.

The motive shone evident at last.

He sought the dominance that elevated him over everyone—to confront the Demon King directly.

Nameless harbored no feelings. The laments of the departed never swayed him, guilt for their agony never weighed him down.

He could tread upon their forms, burn them as kindling to fuel his blaze... impeccably, without flaw.

But Frey?

Like it or not, Frey retained his sentiments.

No matter his growing chill... they lingered.

He remained capable of sensation.

He could sense it all.

Could any sound psyche withstand such a nightmare?

A nightmare of myriad tormented essences damning you to insanity.

Every element in that crimson tide consisted of those Frey had personally ended.

Far less numerous than Nameless’s former count.

And still...

It sufficed to make Frey sense his skull on the verge of bursting, as those tortured yells ripped into his thoughts.

The calls... previously confined... at last shattered free the instant Frey unlocked the Sixth Stage of Shadow Adaptation.

The burden proved crushing, beyond human limits—so intense that, back in reality, Frey dropped to one knee unwittingly, gripping his skull while fighting for air.

"Their calls... their yells... their pain... it all rings sharp and vivid in my thoughts..."

"They damn me... all of them do.

They damn me... while pleading too... for release from this agony..."

Frey ground his jaws as he confronted the essence of myriad tormented essences shrieking within his skull together.

Despite that, he hauled himself upright... gradually, with torment.

"This strength suits a fiend... not a ruler," Frey grumbled, his tone thick with loathing.

"Whoever wields such a thing forfeits any hope of grace... no virtue awaits their existence.

The fate for those depending on this might stays pitiless...

How can one who inflicts torment on countless essences—living and beyond—aspire to absolution?"

No angle he considered altered the stark fact Frey grasped:

This talent embodied pure malice... the truest form of abomination.

Life and death formed a wheel, a natural decree from creation’s start.

But Nameless had broken that wheel—crushed it beneathfoot—twisting others’ essences into instruments for his use.

"This defies pardon...

You deserve no pardon. None shall ever grant it to you."

Gripping his head still, Frey compelled himself to persist.

"Nor shall I receive any... for treading your trail."

His stare dimmed progressively... the look of one embracing his destiny.

"Perhaps I’ve felled fewer than you...

Yet the count of essences ended by my strikes isn’t trivial."

Even unaware...

Even oblivious that those essences would dwell within, agonizing ceaselessly, denied any escape...

Frey rose once more and raised his sight.

Before him stretched the clash—where Amon clashed with Gehrman and Abraham.

At this juncture, Frey required strength.

Strength to rescue the surviving.

Strength to prevent further losses among his dear ones.

"Even embracing this might...

Even trampling their remains... fine. I’ll shoulder it."

Deliberately...

Frey advanced his initial stride.

Followed by the next.

Then another.

All amid the brutal laments and ceaseless fury resounding in his psyche.

"I’ll turn into a beast if needed.

To claim the strength required, I’ll withstand.

As long as I bear the ultimate cost... I’ll proceed."

Frey realized this talent would strip away his final traces of humanity.

And regardless... he pressed on.

He understood types like him evaded salvation.

That the dead’s wrath and fury might pull him to a doom worse than their own ends.

Yet Frey showed no delay.