Prince of The Abyss-Chapter 178: Denial(4)

Aether stood at the table together with his team, having a feast for their great recent success. After all, they had done something incredible.

He had first formed this group to bring the Withered closer to the Blue Rose, but to think they would get so close to union, he couldn’t be more honored.

And he couldn’t have done it without his right hand, Riven, who has been here since the beginning. Who loved the Blue Rose more than anything, after all, his father was inside of it. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

Or without his left hand, Lyra, who had only joined a little later than Riven, but at the same time, if it wasn’t for her carefree attitude, they would have died of exhaustion.

Either way, he was grateful for each person on his team, since all have helped him in his journey.

This feast was actually personally designed by the Blue Rose, so it was quite expensive and professional. Which, for some people inside the Withered, was unheard of. I mean, most lived on scraps, to have so much food...

Well, they were never planning to eat it all; they were also going to give some of it to the people of the Withered.

The hall itself felt unreal to anyone born beneath the rusted ceilings of the Withered. It was not large in the way palaces were rumored to be, but every inch of it spoke of deliberate excess. The table was carved from a single slab of pale stone veined with faint blue lines, as if a frozen river...

’A... Frozen River?’ Aether shook his head, getting that useless thought out.

As if a frozen river had been trapped inside it. Soft light drifted from crystalline fixtures overhead, not torches, not lamps, but something cleaner, cooler, illuminating without smoke or heat. Even the air felt different here, filtered, faintly scented with herbs and something floral that refused to name itself.

The food arrived in waves, layered and patient, as if it had all the time in the world. Platters of slow-roasted meat rested beside bowls of jewel-toned fruit, their skins unblemished, their colors almost violent in their freshness. Cuts of fish flaked apart at the touch, glazed with sauces so carefully balanced they shimmered instead of pooled. Bread was stacked in warm baskets, crusts dusted with salt crystals that caught the light, the inside impossibly soft, bread that had never known rationing, never known desperation.

There were dishes no one at the table had names for. Stews dark and rich, carrying spices imported from places most of the Withered only knew as rumors. Cheese aged long enough to develop sharpness without bitterness, paired with honey thick enough to stretch when lifted. Even the vegetables felt indulgent, greens crisp and vibrant, roots roasted until sweet, as if the soil itself had been generous rather than cruel.

Drink flowed just as freely. Clear glasses filled with pale blue wine that tasted cool even before it touched the tongue. Darker liquors sat untouched for the moment, their scent heavy, promising warmth later. Even water was served with care, chilled and clean, infused lightly with citrus and mint. Nothing here was accidental. Nothing here was merely enough.

For those who had grown up measuring meals by survival, the sheer abundance was disorienting. Plates overflowed not because they had to, but because they could. Because the Blue Rose believed excess was a language, one that said you are valued, you are seen. And yet, beneath the luxury, there was intention. Crates were stacked neatly along the walls, already prepared for distribution. Wrapped loaves, sealed containers, preserved meats. This feast was not just a celebration; it was a redistribution dressed in silk and crystal.

Here, wealth did not shout. It rested comfortably, confidently, knowing it could afford to be generous. And in a place like the Withered, that quiet confidence felt almost louder than hunger ever had.

He wondered if they were here.

As Aether let his gaze drift across the table, past the untouched excess and the careful order behind it, his thoughts slipped beyond the hall, beyond the light.

He could already picture how it would unfold once the doors opened.

The people of the Withered would not rush forward. They never did. They would stand at the threshold as if crossing it meant violating something unspoken. Faces hardened by scarcity would tighten, not with suspicion, but with restraint. They would bow their heads, avert their eyes, murmur that this was too much. That it should be saved. That they could not accept food so clearly born of wealth when others had none.

Some would refuse outright, their pride quiet but unyielding. Elders would insist they had endured worse and would endure again. Parents would keep their children close, hands firm on thin shoulders, teaching respect even when hunger gnawed. To take would feel like stealing warmth from a fire never meant for them.

Aether imagined himself standing there, listening, not correcting them, not arguing. Just smiling.

Riven would step in beside him, steady and sincere, explaining that nothing was being lost. Lyra would follow, laughing softly, turning the moment lighter than it deserved to be, making generosity feel ordinary. Food would be placed into hands before refusal could settle. Not offered. Given.

Resistance would loosen in small fractures. Someone would accept a loaf only to hold it. Another would take a portion "for later." The scent would carry further than words ever could. Once the first bite was taken, the rest would follow, not greedily, never greedily, but with care.

He imagined the quiet afterward most vividly. Meals divided evenly. People eating slowly, savoring not just fullness, but safety. No cheers. No excess. Just warmth spreading where cold had lived too long.

The thought settled in his chest, gentle and steady. Not pride. Relief.

Because when that moment came, it would mean the Withered no longer saw kindness as a trap, and that alone would make all of this worth it.

...

He smiled at that thought.

...

Suddenly, he heard something trying to open the door, wanting to get in. At first his smilled brightned, thinking it was the Withered people, and that the scene in his mind was coming true... but the people of the Withered wouldn’t... hit the door like some animals.

In the end, the door slowly opened. Revealing a human figure, yet he couldn’t say it was human, not at all. His whole body was glowing, and made out of that white glow. It also didn’t have a face, which... was quite creepy.

When Aether looked around, he didn’t see any of his friends anymore, and the food on the table had turned into dead animals or even more disgusting things.

But how, and where had Riven and the others disappeared... was this only an illusion, had he fallen asleep?

...

This being coudnt be real...

...

Aether suddenly froze, spacing out... almost as if he was remembering something, or rather searching for something buried inside his mind, but something he had marked before this, that he could find it.

He looked back at the figure and gave it a wicked smile.

"Except you are real."

The figure looked irritated, gripping his fist, as he slowly moved forward.

Which was bad, if that thing touched him, they would just go for another run. He had to do something now that he wasnt fully under its powers. He had to find a memory to mark, one that would help him fight it next round.

Aether closed his eyes, trying to find a memory in this little time.

Yet his mind was all blurry; it was like walking through a thick mist and trying to find something. But he couldn’t give up, if he didnt he would be trapped here forever, and in the end, he would go insane. He needed to find a memory.

So he pushed through, walking through the thick mist and the rough wind that had started to keep him back.

He didn’t have much time, and really, after walking for so much time, he thought he was seconds away from failure, but... then he saw some chains on the ground, leading up to something... this seemed familiar, so he ran in search of whatever memory it was.

He found a sheeted blade on the pedestal, between two flames, burning brightly.

Looking at the blade, he felt as if it was staring back... with a hunger to challenge the Gods.

...

Aether lips curled up slightly, "Voidpiercer..."

He didn’t waste any time picking it up from the pedestal. The blade was exactly what he needed, and now that he remembered perfectly how the chains wrapped around his arms, the mark... he wasn’t going to forget it next time.

But as he reached the memory, it got to him.

It grabbed its chin, forcing him to look at it, to stare into the white glow, as his vision started to slowly get corrupted by it.

...

Next run... he was going to fight back; he was done denying reality.