Level 50 wasn’t just a number. It was the first most important threshold. It was where Classes evolved, where the difference between the weak and the strong beca even more emphasized.
At Level 50, so Awakeners awakened an innate talent.
Most didn’t, but the few that did were the ones who beca the strongest amongst the strongest. The Legacy Awakeners and the Vanguards of the Kings.
In his last life, his innate talent was another chanism that drew him towards being overpowered.
Battle Fever was the na.
While the fundantal law of combat dictates that stamina drains and muscles fatigue over ti, Percival’s body had functioned in reverse.
His physiology did not let him suffer fatigue; instead, the stress of combat triggered a continuous, compounding surge of adrenaline and mana.
This ant that Percival was weakest at the very start of a battle. However, for every second he remained in a state of conflict—blocking, striking, or even rely dodging—his physical paraters rose.
His strength, speed, and reaction ti did not just maintain their peak; they climbed past his natural limits.
It was a passive state of infinite acceleration. An enemy who could block Percival’s strike in the first minute would find their bones shattering from the sa strike in the fifth.
There was no upper ceiling to this growth, only a condition: the battle had to continue.
As long as steel clashed against steel, Percival beca a creature of perpetual motion, transforming the duration of a fight from a test of endurance into a countdown to his opponent’s inevitable execution.
Simply put, he got stronger the longer a fight lasted.
He rembered that his party had known this and had used it against him, making sure to overwhelm him at the very start of their attack.
That was why it was always better to keep your innate talent a secret.
Percival had learnt his lesson.
His innate talent, along with the powerful items he gathered in his past life, were gone.
So, Percival assud that once he arrived at Lvl 50, not only would he awaken his Necromancer innate talent, but he could reawaken his Swordsman’s.
Whatever the case, he was more than prepared to cross than line and enter a new stage of his growing power.
"A few more kills will do it," Percival said, his voice hardening. "Just a few more dead Demons."
He closed the interface. With it, the thrill of the level-up disappeared, and he returned to his reality; to the cold, dark Gate World around him.
Ding!
⸢Reminder!⸥
⸢Foyer of Lost Breaths cleared successfully⸥
⸢Proceed to the next Encounter Zone⸥
He walked to the far end of the Foyer, where a set of heavy, iron-bound oak doors stood. They were shut.
Gently, he pushed one of them to peep into the darkness. Then, he kicked them open.
They swung inward with a groan of rusted hinges, echoing in the haunting silence. Percival hesitated for a while, and then stepped through.
He looked down at the Gate World Map, inspecting the Zone he had just walked into.
⸢Entering Zone: The Gallery of Whispered Sins⸥
The air here was different. In the Foyer, it had slled of dust and old blood. Here, it slled of rot and ammonia—the sharp, stinging scent of concentrated filth.
From as far as Percival’s eyes could see, all that was was a long, cavernous hallway, stretching far. It seed almost beyond what the exterior geotry of the manor should have allowed.
The floor was covered in a carpet that might have once been crimson but was now a sodden, brownish-black mat that squelched under his boots.
On the walls, hundreds of portraits hung. Unlike the slashed paintings in the Foyer, these were intact. But they were covered in semi-translucent veils of spiderweb and dust.
Behind the veils, Percival could feel eyes watching him. Not painted eyes. Real eyes.
The silence here wasn’t empty; it was pressurized. It pressed against his eardrums, filled with a low-frequency thrumming sound.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Like a heartbeat.
Percival walked down the center of the gallery, his senses extended to their limit. He didn’t know what to expect in this Encounter Zone.
So far, most of the Gate Worlds he’d cleared in this tiline where the ones he had prior experience from the corner tiline. From what he knew, this Demon Gate World never even existed in his last tiline.
Thirty ters in, he saw sothing curious.
On the left wall, between two veiled portraits of weeping won, the plaster had bulged outward. It looked like a tumor growing on the skin of the house.
Percival narrowed his eyes and the description followed beside the strange object.
It was the Demon Source.
It took the shape of a nest, made from hardened mud, saliva, and bone. It had been plastered on the wall, resembling a massive wasp nest that let out these sizzling, greenish light and watery rhythm.
Green veins throbbed across its surface, pumping mana into the heart of the structure.
"Seems like they work just the sa way as Beast Sources," Percival noted, raising his scythe.
As if sensing his intent, the heartbeat of the nest spiked.
A sharp scratching sound tore through the gallery, high-pitched and drilling.
Suddenly, corners of the top of the hallway exploded, chunk of hardened mud and bone shrapnel flew across from everywhere.
From the gaping wounds in the wall, a cloud of erald erupted.
A swarm of mid-sized flying Demons burst out. They poured like erald mist, coalescing to form what looked like bats; hundreds of them.
⸢Threat Detected: Vampiric Demon Bats (Lvl 40)⸥
They were hideous, malford things. They had leathery wings that spanned three feet, with bodies covered in matted, wet fur.
They had no eyes. Instead, their faces were dominated by oversized ears that twitched erratically, and gaping, circular mouths filled with rows of needle-like teeth that dripped with a glowing green venom.
They flew with violent, chaotic hunger, swirling around the hallway like they were trying to create a tornado to scoop him off his feet.
"Skreee!"
The swarm shrieked in unison, a sonic blast that rattled Percival’s armor. They banked in the air, and then, they dove straight for him.
Percival narrowed his eyes, summoning Soulfire into his fists and Scythe. He planted his feet on the rotting carpet, the War-Scythe held low.
"I hate bats."
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