Chapter 181: The Gods’ Inheritance

Jonathan walked through a silent cave, each of his steps echoing like a muffled thunderclap against the narrow, damp walls. The air was thick, heavy with moisture and the strong scent of ancient earth, as if time itself had stopped in that place. The stones beneath his boots were slick with moss, demanding careful footing with every move.

Ahead of him, the old figure known only as the Hanged Man led the way with calm, measured steps, as if he had walked this labyrinth a thousand times before. In his hand, a flickering torch cast an unsteady glow across the stone, sending shadows dancing across the walls, shadows that, to Jonathan, felt alive. Watching.

Over the past few days, Jonathan had learned more about the tutorial and the gods than he ever wanted to. Hidden truths had been hurled at him like blades, cutting through old certainties and revealing a world far more complex and cruel than he’d ever imagined.

“So… Marshall really was being manipulated by a god?” he asked, voice low, tense.

The Hanged Man didn’t turn. His reply came steady, unhurried.

“Yes. A god who longed for chaos.” He paused. “But I’m different. I only care for good, old-fashioned justice.”

They walked on. The cave walls tightened in places, narrowing into oppressive corridors. The sound of water dripping from unseen cracks echoed steadily in the distance, counting time with cruel patience.

“Marshall… ah,” the old man muttered, lost in thought, as if reliving something from long ago. “He played a part in your beloved’s death. If he’d used all his time and talent to complete the tutorial… maybe things would’ve turned out differently.”

The words landed heavy.

Jonathan clenched his fists, eyes fixed on the old man’s back.

“That doesn’t change what Luke did,” he said, each word tight with restrained fury. “He killed Angelica. I’ll make him pay. I’ll hunt him down… and the rest of those Renegades who are still alive. Anyone who stands in my way dies.”

The Hanged Man stopped.

He remained still for a few seconds, his back still turned.

“Or…” he said, voice almost serene, “you could use the power you’re about to receive to complete the tutorial. Let fate deliver its justice.”

“No.” Jonathan’s gaze bore into the hunched figure ahead, as if trying to pierce him with sheer hatred. “I’ll have my revenge. No one’s walking out of this place. Not until the last of them is dead.”

The old man smiled, barely visible, more felt than seen, but he didn’t turn around. He simply resumed walking, the torch swaying in his hand.

“Are we close?” Jonathan asked, irritation rising in his voice. The cave’s silence seemed to mock his urgency.

“Be patient…” the old man replied, as if telling a story to someone not yet ready to hear it. “Do you know what a legacy path is? No, I imagine you don’t. Forgive me.”

He coughed, a dry, hollow cough that echoed through the tunnels like a warning.

“When a god crafts his treasure, what we call a legacy, he forges paths sometimes never walked before. He specializes. He deepens. He creates unique branches. Every new domain, every technique, every fragment of power… it’s like a precious coin in the vault of his legacy.”

He stopped and turned slowly on his heels, finally facing Jonathan. Even in the shadow cast by the wavering torch, his eyes gleamed with a strange light, feverish. Intense.

“And every so often… a coin falls,” the old man said. “And if you’re lucky enough, you might be the one to find it.”

Silence settled once again, thick, almost reverent. Jonathan absorbed the words without breaking eye contact.

“Losing a coin doesn’t affect the god at all,” the old man went on. “On the contrary, it’s as if, indirectly, the god is making an investment. And still profiting from whatever treasure the finder manages to gather.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

With slow, measured steps, the Hanged Man resumed walking. His pace was more fluid now, almost contemplative, as if guiding Jonathan not just through the tunnel… but through a deeper thought. One older than either of them.

“These fallen coins exist because of the system. They’re sanctioned branches. Tiny permissions… sacred loopholes. That’s why class mutations are possible.”

He raised his free hand. The torch flickered more intensely, almost as if reacting to his words.

“Take the legacy of the God of Shadows, for instance. Someone with the Assassin class might one day stumble upon one of these coins, a path that leads directly into a shadow-aligned legacy. And just like that, a common assassin gains power drawn from the shadows.”

The Hanged Man glanced over his shoulder and looked Jonathan straight in the eye. His gaze was steady, deep, and layered with meaning.

“It’s not the pure essence of the god’s power. But it is a path. One of many… opened by those who came before.”

A fresh bout of coughing overtook him. Shaking slightly, the old man covered his mouth and paused to steady himself. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher but no less resolute.

“It’s like a pirate’s treasure,” he said. “There’s so much out there waiting to be found. Buried. Forgotten. Just waiting for the lucky soul who’ll unearth it.”

He lifted the torch higher. The flame wavered, casting light across the uneven stone walls, rough ridges, deep cracks, small insects fleeing from the sudden heat.