Boots and Cloak: Four Years in the Depths
The leech flesh had been decent enough fare—its benefits to his body far outweighed the scraps he'd subsisted on before—but it still left him unsatisfied.
Not worth the cost.
With his lifeline severed, he'd be stuck in this room for a full week. Kyle humbly accepted his arrogant mistake. At the very least, until he had boots, he couldn't afford to venture out during high tide.
Hmm, or do I need a cloak too?
The Fragment had advised that to move during high tide, he'd need both boots and a cloak. The boots to walk the black sea. The cloak to shield from the abyss's gaze.
I'll get the boots first, test them out. If that's not enough, then the cloak too.
Kyle nodded, settling on the plan. All the while, the Fragment raged and shook his body like a rag doll.
"Enough, enough! I get it. I'm sorry. I really screwed up. So stop shaking me already."
"You mad bastard, mad bastard! Without that lifeline, you'd be dead!"
"That's why I tried it—because of the lifeline. Pretty handy thing. I'll be more careful from now on."
"You mad... "
"You said a week for the lifeline to recover? That's too long."
Since he'd caught that leech—tentacle of the anglerfish—couldn't he demand a reward? With that thought, Kyle raised both hands.
"Restore my lifeline."
His hands wrapped in black, translucent light, a thin beam shot from the crown of his head, only to droop limply into the air without connecting. Kyle glanced at the lifeline dangling over his shoulders and muttered.
"Not quite enough for full restoration?"
"Just ask for food and behave, you mad bastard!"
"Too wasteful to settle for just food."
The Fragment staggered in place at the shameless reply, unable to shake him anymore. Clutching his throbbing head and groaning, he finally slumped back into his chair with heavy sighs.
"It's been nigh on 500 years since I last saw your bloodline in the Sword Tower, but you're the craziest of the lot."
"You saw the founder too? He came here, right? What was he like?"
"Ruin Alastor? That guy..."
The Fragment started to answer, then let out another deep sigh.
"He was... a mad bastard in his own right. But his madness ran a different vein from yours. He came here, of course. Just skipped the Mudflat."
"So he went higher up?"
"I can't tell you about the structure of the Layers of the Capital. If you want to know, reach the end of this layer yourself and push on."
"But you said the founder never set foot in the Mudflat?"
"Ruin didn't need to. You're not Ruin. You have to adapt from the bottom up and reach the end."
Too much talk, the Fragment muttered low, shaking his head.
"The lifeline... it'll recover in two days. Spend those two days in here, no funny business—just reflect on your arrogant, foolish mistake."
What would happen if he went into the Mudflat with an incomplete lifeline? He was curious, but Kyle decided against needless risks. A normal Spirit Root might not sense it, but his picked up the Mudflat's ominous gazes all too keenly.
As the Fragment said, it took a full two days for the lifeline to recover. During that time, Kyle productively tailed the Fragment while he worked on the cultivation method, sat cross-legged in the room's center to cultivate, and made the most of it.
Once restored, he headed straight to the Mudflat. Having experienced high tide's dangers firsthand and learned that bootlace fishing was too risky, he focused on low-tide hunts.
By the time he earned his pair of boots, a year had slipped by.
"Hmm."
He'd worried his growth might lag from nutrient-poor meals compared to outside food, but fortunately, his body had shot up steadily. The sticky, still-unfamiliar taste of low-tide dregs must have packed decent nutrition after all.
Kyle slipped on the boots and hopped in place. Freshly made, they fit like custom tailoring—no discomfort in movement whatsoever.
"..."
The Fragment eyed him with utter exasperation. Patience... impressive? For over a year, the kid had subsisted mostly on dregs, and for the last half-year, he barely returned to the room.
He'd adapted fully to Mudflat life. After devouring thousands, tens of thousands of dregs, his body could now withstand the harsh exterior.
Mana petrification lingered, but far weaker than at first. He could now ignore the discomfort, wield mana outside, and recover it by breathing the ambient mana without returning.
"Killing and eating dregs barely changes me anymore. Is that normal?"
Kyle grinned back at the Fragment. Golden eyes gleamed through his shaggy, year-grown hair. The Fragment saw madness unfit for a boy that age in their brilliant glow.
"...Your body's changed too much to turn into dregs anymore."
"Time for the next layer?"
"You could reach the Mudflat's end now, but I don't recommend the next. Survival there demands constant aura to shield your body."
"Aura shield? I can do that."
To prove it, Kyle summoned his aura. He'd opened his middle dantian on the day his Spirit Root awakened two years prior, and aura applications were familiar from his past life. Seeing the purple aura cloak Kyle, the Fragment shook his head.
"No surprise you can at your age. What I need now is cold critique and guidance."
"Not enough?"
"No. I told you—constant aura protection. How long can you hold that state?"
"Hmm... five minutes?"
Kyle tilted his head. The Mudflat lacked abundant mana. Running the method during uns hunted high tides filled his lower dantian only halfway.
This room brimmed with mana, but not like the Sword Tower's training chamber. Spending most time outside, his dantian hadn't grown much since arrival.
"Five minutes won't cut it. To advance, hold an aura shield a full day."
His unique Spirit Root, method, and Yormungand as filter made mana growth insanely efficient. But at just twelve, even with ample spirit herbs, he couldn't sustain aura all day.
"Hmm."
Kyle scratched his head, wrinkling his nose. Next layer needed dozens more mana in his lower dantian—either hole up cultivating or demand herbs as dreg rewards.
"...No real rush for the next layer, right?"
He didn't dwell long. Once the method completed, mana would surge; outside, filial piety to Julius meant more herbs. No need to rush.
"With boots, I can hit the sea at high tide now, yeah?"
"Not yet... not yet! No cloak, you brute. Your body's adapted outside, but not to the abyss's gaze!"
"I've adapted this much—should handle the gaze fine."
"Fool talk! No human can adapt to that gaze!"
"If humans can't adapt, does transcending humanity mean we can?"
Kyle grinned slyly; the Fragment flinched, clamping his mouth. In the silence, Kyle chuckled, tapping his temple.
"Word is, clearing here transcends humanity. Guess that's when we face those eyes, huh?"
"Know too much, see too much, feel too much... and new terrors awaken you never knew."
The Fragment shook his head in dismay.
"For my sanity—and yours—I'll skip the rest. Julius wouldn't answer either."
"Got it, got it. No dog death for me; no overreaching. Took a year for boots... how long for the cloak?"
"Cloak's pricier than boots. Temporary abyss shield. Can't hunt faster, so another full year."
"Method completion?"
"If you'd half-assed your body here, it'd be done. But you've exceeded expectations... in every way."
The Fragment pointed to the thick stack of parchments on his desk.
"Checking your body each return... gives me chills. Those dregs you devoured twisted your already freakish frame even more freakishly."
"Bad?"
"No. Becoming the perfect vessel for your Spirit Root. But..."
Another sigh as he sank into his chair.
"Vessel keeps changing, so rewriting the method each time is a pain. Far bolder, more radical than planned—but my head feels like it's cracking."
"You won't half-ass it, right?"
"What do you take me for? You wouldn't get it, but to my kind... promises are absolute. So drop the needless suspicion, quit souring my mood, and go earn that cloak."
"Yes, sir."
Kyle grinned and left. The Fragment's math was spot-on. Another year passed before Kyle claimed his cloak.
"Design's meh."
Two years in the Layers of the Capital. Post-puberty, Kyle's voice remained a fine tenor but lost its childish edge. He fiddled with his ragged, self-cut hair, staring at the floating cloak.
Thin black cloth scrap, coarsely plain—no embroidery or flair. Kyle draped it over himself.
Like the boots, it clung perfectly. Focusing on the odd sensation: brief chill like immersion in cold water, then void-like erasure of presence.
He checked the mirror. Cloak edges blurred and rippled. Murmuring admiration, he lifted the hem.
"Oh... assassination gear too."
"Assassination? As if the great Alastor youngest young master would stoop to that. Precious artifact against abyss gaze—use it properly."
The Fragment grumbled from his chair.
"I've said it a million times: cloak's not omnipotent. Temporary gaze resistance only. Boots too. All consumables—wear out with use."
"How long?"
"You'll feel it naturally. Focus on senses. Odd foot sensation? Boots gone. Feels like death... or can't take more? Cloak worn. Retreat to coral then—no heroics."
"Guess I'll know when I feel it."
Kyle headed to the Mudflat.
"Mm—reeks of rot."
Two years' toil in this rotten Mudflat for boots and cloak. Far from boring.
Dreg fights held no tension now, but endless real combat honed his known sword arts sharper, more fluid.
Wonder what's happening outside.
Has Aslan escaped house arrest? Maybe... a sibling born. Hoped for a sister.
Pig might be disowned. Uncles back?
If uncles returned triumphant, he might meet grandma, asleep all this time.
No clue how long here, but years out means changes outside.
Not 500-year crazy, but fun ones hopefully. Kyle anticipated.
Rumble...
Time. Ignoring fresh dreg corpses, he dashed to nearby coral. They no longer changed him—just meal substitutes.
But today, new fare. Recalling two-year-old leech: "byproducts" tasted far more food-like than dregs.
"Dinner's a new flavor today. Excited, Yor?"
Two years aged him through puberty. Normal kids hit adolescence now, but Kyle's mind was Sword Ghost's—no such phase.
Yor differed. Three years contracted, middle dantian settled, he'd shed baby spirit shell.
[M... Master... die, die!]
Kyle learned spirits had puberty too. Puberty or dreg-tainted mana madness? Anyway, Yor hit rebellious phase lately—rougher speech.
"Die? I die, you die. Still don't get that?"
[Die... dying!]
"Oh, not me dying—you? Who's weak-talking?"
Chortling, Kyle glanced under coral. Thanks to diligent water-pumping hand-thing far off, black sea filled below.
"Let's go."
Heart pounding with thrill, Kyle leaped down.
[Aaaah!]
Feet hit sea. Boots prevented sinking, but waves felt alien to Mudflat stance. He wobbled, then steadied.
"Just standing here's training."
Mudflat squelched unpleasantly but didn't buck like this. Waves surged, any imbalance risked instant swallow.
"..."
Chill.
Cloak buzzed; fabric, skin prickled. Goosebumps rose. Kyle swallowed, standing silent.
Felt deep abyss gaze below. From coral, he'd craved it—but not now. Just chill, no madness nausea.
So this is enduring it.
Still hold. Gaze departed—abyss eye closed. Kyle clenched sweat-slick hands, grinning.
"Wonder what monster lurks down there."
Curious, but not yet.
Shouldn't know. Gliding sea surface, peeking below. Cloak shielded from byproduct gazes too—no attacks.
So provoke first. Skating long, he stopped. Below: wriggling leech, deeper: still massive anglerfish.
Same as two years ago? Cut leech then, but regenerated possible.
Didn't matter. Leech tasty then; monumental first high-tide meal: that.
Aura-clad wooden sword plunged sea.
Surface roiled. Kyle stood firm, sensing reaction, probing depths via sinking aura.
Sword aura... compressing.
Past-life sword aura recreated perfectly—now shriveling, bursting on entry. Without his control, it'd shatter instantly.
Water pressure...
Fragment called it contaminating venom, but pressure alone seemed body-crushing.
Focused harder. Aura touched leech—violent shake transmitted. Heart racing, Kyle vaulted back.
—Kwaaaa!
Standing spot exploded. Waves surged; Kyle didn't dodge—instead mana-operated via boot soles.
Boots enabled sea-standing. Kept balance in torrent. Body tossed, core unshaken.
Black water vortexed center. Anglerfish's gaping maw sucked sea rising.
[Die, die! Die!]
Pubescent Yor shrieked curtly. So spineless. Time for spirit boot camp?
[W-worried! Worried!]
Reading his mind, Yor yelled. Hated camp apparently.
Talk tough, but Yor worked perfectly: middle dantian mana surged, refining lower dantian mana to sword aura.
Crackle! Exiting water, wooden sword aura-wreathed—sharper, huger than dreg dismantling. Chaotic lightning stabilized, vortexing blade. Kyle gripped hilt two-handed.
"Been a while."
Same individual? Kyle greeted warmly anyway. Eaten by that type two years back.
No lifeline, dead then—second death across two lives. Objectively, that angler matched Ruin Alastor's feat.
If I'd really died then.
Kyle's lip curled. Lifeline saved him, but defeat nonetheless. Past life defeats? No shame—win rematch. Sword Ghost fled defeats thinking that.
Kwarrr!
Sea sucked into gaping maw. Kyle surrendered to inflow, fearless of all-devouring jaws.
Circumstances changed. Then: no escape atop coral, mana inflexible. Now: leap anywhere, choose timing, mana fluid.
Endless ways to slice; picked easy. Skin tough like leech—thrust maw first.
Sword follows will. Two-handed thrust forward—pre-swallow. Toward black cave maw, aura spun fiercer, exploded.
Splaaash! Linear vortex became sword gang, pierced dark, surged up.
Pfsh!
Angler palate split.
Done. Inflow reversed. Kyle vaulted to coral wall—not standing firm, avoiding drift.
Sea calmed. Kyle eyed depths warily. Black waters hid monsters beyond angler; intel said no packs—wary or ignoring, kept distance.
Easy pick-offs, but scavenger rushes on corpse? Headache. Especially this oversized.
Mana burned plenty.
Can't eat whole—grab share, rest today. Thinking so, black smoke rose from angler.
Like dregs, successful byproduct hunts empowered body.
Fwoosh!
Black smoke engulfed Kyle.
"Ugh...!"
Teeth clenched instinctively. Aura density leagues beyond dregs—like molten lava poured over skin.
Crack!
Bones twisted, muscles spasmed. Even Fragment's blessing purifying Mudflat foulness strained against this potent venom, shaking mind.
[M-Master?]
Yor frantically circulated mana to cool; Kyle shook head.
"Fine."
Pain birthed stark change. Energy tore muscle fibers, rewove tougher, denser. Mana circuits—already ample—expanded; near-connections solidified.
Keep eating, they'll link.
Spirit Root felt it most. All-encompassing, chaotic potential—harmonious no, but anything-possible.
Even that couldn't hold Mudflat denizens' grotesque warp. Two years' dreg feasts added twists gradually—no single-meal leap like this.
Dregs and byproducts... different leagues.
Heat faded. Kyle steadied breath, wiped cold sweat.
[Ughigigik...]
Middle dantian: Yor writhed, emitting weird groans. Kyle's change rippled to nester. Lightning baby spirit exceeding norms since Layers entry.
Me too?
Deep breaths, pondering. Two Mudflat years. Countless dregs slain, devoured. Freakish body now? Who knows.
But toward better sword-swinging.
Certain. Leaped to calm sea, approached corpse, raised wooden sword. Slash! No method mana—pure swing birthed sharp wind, neatly carving angler flesh.
"..."
Body incomparable pre-Layers. Byproducts would strengthen further. Kyle chuckled, nodding.
"Gotta master control."
Keep powering up, might snap spoons at meals. Grabbed torso-sized chunk, hopped to coral top.
Sat edge, peered down. Angler blood oozed sticky red—sea unchanged, dissolving corpse swiftly.
Soon, massive body vanished traceless. Kyle shook head, wry smile.
"Can't eat it all anyway."
Glad no theft? Turned to chunk.
[Uhgigik... gigik... H-hungry... food?]
Writhing Yor stammered. Kyle rubbed jaw, sniffed close.
Red-gooed meat chunk nauseating visually, but two-year dreg vet Kyle unfazed.
Hmm.
Surprisingly good smell—deep, rich sea. Sniffed, bit boldly.
Crunch.
Tasty?
Sincere. Unlike nauseous dregs, angler food-like. Thick seafood soup vibe. Chewing: mouth, body exploding bursts.
Hmm...
Taste great, body pained. Eyes closed, felt changes. Lower dantian-linked circuits—two years linking—snapped, rebuilt sturdy.
"Hoo..."
Endured pain, finished meal. Eyes shut, operated method.
Pre-Layers Mixed Origin Sword Scripture felt low-tier to this body. Mana flow viscerally fast, fierce, omnipresent. So free, old method felt shackled.
This makes true monster.
Sword Tower: Julius called treasure-monster, monster-treasure. Kyle never thrilled—past life Sword Ghost memories.
Swordplay, mana all past-life reruns—inferior, immature.
Pushing past life hard to envision. Sword Ghost content: fought enough, enjoyed enough, peaked imaginable strength.
Just shy of Ruin, slain by him. Vague: surpass past, Ruin. Love sword more. But hard to picture.
Simple: never saw Ruin's full power. Knew own—thought peak then.
Now knew how low that ceiling. This body complete? Past life eclipsed. At 13, intuiting it—self-proclaimed monster time.
...
Gazed distant hand beyond horizon. Still chilled spine, head throbbed—but cloak let clearer view.
Hand...
Hand-like not-hand beyond. Sky: gaze-up terror. Deep sea: face-it madness/death/worse.
Transcendent beyond "monster." Kyle grinned unwittingly, glanced side.
Half-eaten angler chunk. Not full—instinct: more risks ruin.
Best herbs overdose wreck. Byproduct flesh same. Force more? Body breaks. Hunting too: greedy energy risks existence warp.
Years more here, then.
Kyle closed eyes.
*
As Fragment said, boots and cloak consumables. Two-year dreg haul rewards, but wear vanishes.
Luckily lasted longer than thought—didn't linger sea, quick byproduct hunts.
Still wore. Two months: both gone. Kyle returned instantly.
"Cloak and boots."
Casual greet, demanded. Byproducts far above dregs—granted immediately.
Thence fixed routine.
Day: kill dregs. Night: kill, eat byproducts.
Worn? Return, replenish.
"Hmm."
Black sea.
Atop sea anemone corpse dangling countless tentacles, Kyle checked pocket watch.
Four years in Layers of the Capital.
"Killing, eating... no changes anymore."
[Then... then...]
Behind: massive purple snake crunching tentacles raised head. Ferocious look belied teary, sparkling eyes.
[Finally... leaving?]
"Hmmm..."
Kyle slurped bite-sized tentacle, propping chin.
[Master, why no answer? No change means go now!]
Yor—finger-sized five years back—now man-swallowing huge, begged thrusting head.
Kyle pushed head, stood.
"Room first."
[Waaaaa!]
Yor quivered, cheering.