My Charity System made me too OP-Chapter 338: Fighting XV

Silence returned, but it no longer felt empty.

Instead, it felt… respectful.

[Rank 26 Champion Defeated: Varthos the Echoless Warden]

[Shell Reverb Mastery: 99.9%]

[You have unlocked: Origin Return – Final Echo Form (Locked at 100%)]

[Level: 606 → 608]

Leon dropped to one knee, panting. His fists shook, but his eyes were steady.

Roselia and Milim appeared from the upper walkway, expressions unreadable.

All synced to one heartbeat.

His own.

The staff struck the ground—and ten spears of condensed Destruction Mana roared into the sky, slamming into the Seraph's blades and shattering three of them instantly.

Leon followed through—his staff a blur.

The Seraph raised its remaining blades to parry.

But now Leon wasn't attacking.

He was conducting.

"Shell Pulse: Origin Echo – Karmic Loop."

He let Vel-Rael's attacks hit him—but reversed the kinetic trail mid-blow, sending the power back, layered with Destruction and Aether feedback.

A blade snapped. Then another.

The Seraph stumbled.

Leon leapt.

"You fought with ten blades."

"But I fight with ten lives worth of pain."

Final strike: a staff spin, charged with Abyssal Mana, threaded with Gold, and crowned by the full return of every strike Leon had endured since entering the Obsidian Arena.

He landed it squarely on Vel-Rael's core.

Silence.

The halo shattered.

The Seraph dropped to one knee, blades vanishing one by one.

"You have passed... the judgment of the halfway mark," the Seraph whispered.

Then, fading into ash and light:

"Go. Your trial continues beyond mortals."

Aftermath

[Rank 25 Champion Defeated: Vel-Rael, the Seraph of Ten Blades]

[Level: 608 → 610]

Leon exhaled slowly, falling to one knee, staff digging into the obsidian.

The platform was scorched. The sky above, silent.

Milim looked ready to jump down and carry him back.

Roselia didn't speak.

Roman saluted quietly.

Naval murmured, "He's not even done."

Leon chuckled darkly, wiping blood from his eye.

"Next... Twenty-four more."

"And then, I find out what waits at the top."

The arena shifted again—but this time, the transformation was not one of stone or fury.

It was silence.

White parchment unfurled beneath Leon's feet. The walls became endless shelves of scrolls, tomes, and crystalline tablets. The scent of aged ink and memory filled the air. The arena floor was lined with countless runes, arranged in patterns that shifted with every footstep. It was not a battlefield—it was a library sanctum of the ancients.

Above, ink-black crows circled.

A figure stood at the far end.

Tall, robed in parchment-colored silk etched with moving script, its face concealed by a mask resembling a blank sheet of paper.

In its hand: no weapon.

Only a pen.

A single, feathered quill that pulsed with ink-black mana.

"Rank 24: Archivist Vaer'Zhul, Keeper of the Pale Archives."

Leon narrowed his gaze.

No blade. No muscle.

And yet the pressure... was immense.

"Prepare," came a whisper—more written than spoken. "You face the echo of every warrior's forgotten truth."

Vaer'Zhul waved the quill once.

Instantly, spectral pages shot outward, encircling Leon. Each page held a memory—his memory. Battles. Fears. Mistakes. Wounds.

Then—

They attacked.

The pages became constructs. Shadows of his past selves—versions of Leon at Tier V, Tier VI, Tier VII. Dozens of echoes charged him in synchrony.

"Shell Pulse: Karmic Loop — Defensive Layer."

Leon's aura flared as he spun, blocking and redirecting attacks, but each echo fought as he once had. They anticipated him.

He was being forced to fight his entire journey, mistake by mistake.

Blood spattered.

He destroyed five echoes—but eight more surged in.

"Destruction Core — Lash Wave!"

A red arc of ruin tore through the arena, shredding spectral pasts into ash. But it was a delay—Vaer'Zhul had barely moved.

He dipped his quill again.