Chapter 509
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 509
Chapter Title: Sniping Park Chan-woo (5)
Inside the Creation Abyss.
The Lord of Pitch Black had graciously revealed the progress of this round.
Trickle...
Seated upon his jade throne, he tilted a goblet filled with a liquid as red as wine.
He had finished his preparations to savor the most perfect tragedy that would unfold on his stage.
Above all the skies of the Abyss where the Lord's authority reached.
There, the images of mortals undergoing emotional reversal were being broadcast live in real time.
'Delicious.'
The sight of countless races trapped in primordial darkness, bewildered and lost.
To him, it was the finest accompaniment.
Before this ultimate trial, just how contradictory and selfish a choice would that arrogant human, Park Chan-woo, make?
The moment the grandiose mask of "hero" and "savior" that the bastard had built crumbled away, revealing its ugly essence before the most primal instinct of survival.
That would become the most beautiful climax he sought to orchestrate.
To survive, Park Chan-woo would kill everything coming toward him.
Those who were once his comrades, those who believed in him—all of them would become sacrifices for his survival.
He had no other choice.
The Lord of Pitch Black was certain of it.
For the primordial darkness was a perfect prison designed to force exactly such a choice.
A hell where doubt sprouts, bonds are severed, and everyone must push the person beside them to survive.
...
Indeed, who could preserve noble reason in such a place?
In the end, only beastly survival instincts remain.
Park Chan-woo could not be an exception before that instinct.
Behold. This is the true essence of the one you called a god and followed!
The Lord of Pitch Black was confident.
At the end of this grand psychological war, Park Chan-woo would destroy himself, and he would become the greatest being who even transcended the laws of this Abyss.
This game had its winner and loser decided from the start.
His gaze fixed on a single point of darkness in the screen, the only coordinate-exposed Park Chan-woo.
Shadows encircled him.
It would begin soon.
The first attack from comrades twisted by the curse.
And Park Chan-woo's desperate counterattack. A beautiful slaughter dance stained with blood and betrayal.
But.
An unforeseen anomaly occurred, beyond even imagination.
In Park Chan-woo's mind, the face and voice of that small tribe's chieftain who had offered a flower during the festival resurfaced.
Trembling in fear yet looking up at him with clear eyes, he had said,
"W-We... have nothing worthy to offer to the great god..."
At the time, Park Chan-woo had seen it merely as one among many tributes, a token of respect from a minor race.
But looking back now, there was a deeper meaning in his words.
"...Our homeland was ravaged by demons. Everyone had lost hope. But seeing your actions and hearing your words, we could move again. Thank you."
Pure gratitude.
Park Chan-woo hadn't done anything directly for them.
He hadn't liberated their territory or slain the demons in their stead.
He had simply walked his own path.
Proclaimed a new era and championed the ideal of coexistence.
They had realized it themselves and moved of their own accord.
Having seen the hope embodied by Park Chan-woo's existence, they resolved not to wallow in despair any longer.
And they had conveyed their gratitude for that outcome in this single small flower.
Not to demand more or beg for protection.
This was precisely the realm of emotion the Lord of Pitch Black could never comprehend.
In his world, all emotions were transactions.
Love was an investment to gain exclusive affection from another, loyalty a contract for greater power or safety.
But this gratitude demanded no price, no reciprocation.
It was simply a pure return for the salvation already received.
'An emotion that cannot be reversed.'
The Lord of Pitch Black's curse twisted "positive" into "negative."
However, a completed chain of cause and effect could not be twisted.
For it was the "result" itself, unchangeable.
That was why the flower's light did not extinguish even in the Pitch-Black Lord's darkness.
A realm of pure heart that selfishness and transactional logic could never erode.
Park Chan-woo quietly gazed at the clear light emanating from the dewdrop flower.
This small light was not as intense as the primordial light to illuminate the world.
Yet in his eyes, it shone brighter and more beautifully than the radiance of any divinity.
This was the only key to shattering the Lord of Pitch Black's perfect world.
The answer had emerged.
Now, how to widen the crack.
Park Chan-woo looked at the flower in his hand.
This light was still far too small and faint.
'I need more light.'
From the beginning, the goal of this trial was the journey to find the "primordial light."
Then, it was time to rethink the essence of that distant, faintly glowing goal.
Park Chan-woo recalled the definition of the primordial light, the light flowing from the origin of all things.
Did darkness come first?
Or light?
The philosophical question was irrelevant.
What mattered more was that the primordial light held purpose in its very existence.
It did not shine to gain something or trade with anything.
A beacon that illuminated the world simply by existing, expecting no reward.
That was the purity of the being named "primordial."
The most pure and immense "good without recompense"!
In this darkness filled with vicious distrust and selfishness, how could such purity be embodied?
Park Chan-woo pondered.
The emotion of gratitude was a return for what was received.
Then, what lay on the opposite side?
'Giving.'
And not expecting anything in return—giving unconditionally, without strings attached.
Park Chan-woo finally reached his conclusion.
An answer so reckless, illogical, bordering on suicide.
But the only path to surpass the Lord of Pitch Black's cunning calculations.
'I won't fight back.'
All the shadows lunging toward him.
Whether comrades twisted by the curse, enemies seeking opportunity, or lost weaklings—it didn't matter.
No matter who aimed their blade at him, he resolved to neither dodge nor block any attack, but accept them all.
The Lord of Pitch Black had designated Park Chan-woo as the "sacrifice," goading everyone to attack him.
Stimulating the most primal desire of selfishness, painting a picture of him dying miserably surrounded by comrades.
But what if that sacrifice willingly laid itself upon the altar?
The very nature of the game would flip.
With his resolve set, Park Chan-woo set down Baal's sword onto the dark floor.
A sharp clang sliced through the darkness.
He laid down his shield, his armor, all his equipment.
Then, he dropped all defensive stances and spread his arms wide.
As if to embrace everything approaching him.
This was not surrender.
It was acceptance.
The shadows circling him stirred.
A target offering no resistance.
An all-too-easy prey.
Finally, the first shadow to lose its reason charged at Park Chan-woo with a scream.
Sharp claws shot toward his heart.
Park Chan-woo did not evade.
He closed his eyes and silently awaited the oncoming pain.
Was this not what the Lord of Pitch Black desired?
Facing one's deepest fear.
And overcoming it.
Thud!
A dull sound. The horrific sensation of flesh tearing and bone piercing overwhelmed his body.
Yet a faint smile bloomed on Park Chan-woo's lips.
"It's okay."
He didn't know who it was.
But through the intense trembling transmitted from his fingertips, Park Chan-woo could feel their confusion.
Park Chan-woo did not shake off the arm impaling him.
Instead, he moved his wounded body to gently embrace that bewildered soul.
"I'm okay."
The attacks continued.
With the first strike succeeding, other shadows that had lost their reason swarmed him like starving beasts.
Blades pierced his back, magic scorched his flesh, blunt weapons crushed his bones.
No matter the transcendent body gained from the Tower of God, he could not endure the ceaseless onslaught.
His wounds deepened, his life force flickering like a candle in the wind.
It was as if the Lord of Pitch Black's mocking laughter echoed.
Behold, did your foolish sacrifice not lead you to death after all?
Yet Park Chan-woo did not counterattack.
Never. No matter what.
Even as he felt the light flowing from his wounds instead of blood washing away the darkness in the attackers' souls and straightening their twisted emotions, he never raised his blade.
He silently accepted every attack and forgave those who wounded him.
Without any recompense.
He simply embraced their confusion, their pain, with his own wounds as they were.
Proving wordlessly with his entire body: It's not your sin. You're not alone.
And then.
A miracle occurred.
The movements of one shadow that had attacked most ferociously halted.
The incomprehensible warmth embracing him even after piercing him shook his soul more intensely than the hatred forced by the curse.
He screamed and staggered back.
That was the beginning.
One, then two.
More and more ceased their attacks.
Before long.
...
No one attacked Park Chan-woo anymore.
The shadows stood at a distance, simply gazing at him, battered and broken.
Some could not even face him directly and bowed their heads.
They dropped the weapons in their hands—the very instruments that had pierced his body moments ago—as if they were venomous snakes.
Soon, one shadow staggered forward and knelt on one knee.
The sound of its knee hitting the floor rang unusually loud in this silent darkness.
That was the signal.
The surrounding shadows began kneeling one by one, as if infected by a contagion.
And some went further, pressing their foreheads to the cold floor, trembling as they poured out their sins.
Their words could not be heard.
The Pitch-Black darkness still devoured all sound.
Who they were, what expressions they wore—still invisible.
But their actions' meaning was clear, even without hearing or seeing.
Awe.
And.
...
Repentance.
The most sublime act possible only for those who had realized their own sins.
The Lord of Pitch Black had twisted their emotions to turn them into selfish monsters, but Park Chan-woo had awakened the "conscience" dormant in their deepest depths.
Before his forgiveness without recompense, they finally grasped the weight of their crimes and judged themselves.
The darkness remained, but the air filling it had completely changed.
The space rife with distrust and murderous intent was now filled with solemn repentance and desperate prayers for salvation.
And that utterly sacred scene.
Countless beings of the Abyss were watching.