SSS-Tier Extraction: From Outcast to Overgod!-Chapter 101: The Prophet’s Sermon

The journey to the base of the Schism Monolith was a slow, grueling march. It was less of a fight and more of a constant, oppressive struggle against the environment itself.

The very air seemed to fight them, thick with a chaotic energy that made their skin crawl and their heads ache. The ground beneath their feet would sometimes shift and ripple like liquid, forcing them to find solid footing. Strange, whispering sounds, like a thousand mad voices, resound from the twisted rocks around them.

The two Sanctuary Wardens were the key to their survival. They walked at the front of the small group, their hands held out, projecting a constant, moving bubble of pure, white light.

Inside this bubble, the air was clean, the ground was stable, and the mad whispers were silenced. It was a tiny, mobile island of sanity. But the effort was immense. The Wardens’ faces were pale with strain, and sweat dripped from their brows. They were pushing back against the power of the entire valley.

Ryan and Scarlett walked on either side of the bubble, acting as guards. They would quickly dispatch any corrupted creature that got too close, their movements a blur of deadly efficiency.

Zara walked in the protected center with the Wardens, her drones zipping in and out of the bubble, constantly taking readings.

"The chaotic energy is getting stronger as we get closer to the Monolith," she reported, her voice tight with concentration. "It’s starting to interfere with my drones’ flight systems. It’s like trying to fly a kite in a hurricane."

After what felt like an eternity, they finally reached the base of the giant, black tower.

The Schism Monolith was even more terrifying up close. It was a jagged, ugly spire of pulsing, obsidian-like rock that seemed to absorb the very light from the sky. The air around it vibrated with a low, sickening hum that they could feel deep in their bones.

And they were not alone.

Gathered at the base of the Monolith was a crowd of Schism Cultists. There were about fifty of them, their faces painted with the same strange, unsettling symbols that had been on the crude altars Tom Kane had found.

They were a motley crew of men and women, their eyes wide with a feverish, crazed light. They swayed and chanted, their voices a discordant, unsettling drone.

They didn’t look like soldiers; they looked like people who had stared into the abyss for too long, and the abyss had stared back and given them a very weird haircut.

Standing on a raised platform of black rock in front of the Monolith was their leader.

He was a tall, thin man with long, stringy black hair and eyes that burned with a charismatic fire. He wasn’t wearing armor, just simple, dark robes.

He held no weapon. He didn’t need one. Power rolled off him in waves, a chaotic, reality-bending energy that made the air around him shimmer. This was the Schism Prophet, Malakor.

He saw Ryan’s small team approach, and a wide, unsettling smile spread across his face. He raised his hands, and the chanting of his followers grew louder.

"Welcome, children of Order!" Malakor’s voice boomed, but it wasn’t a normal sound. It resounded in their minds, a psychic projection that was impossible to block out.

"Welcome to the dawn of true freedom! You cling to your rules, to your physics, to your predictable little reality. You live in a cage and call it a home!"

The chaotic energy radiating from him intensified. Ryan felt it as a pressure against his mind, but his high Spirit stat and his "god Shaper" status made it feel like little more than an annoying headache.

But his team was not so lucky.

The two Sanctuary Wardens gasped, and the bubble of pure, white light around them flickered violently. "His power... it’s like a poison to our light," one of them choked out, stumbling to one knee.

Zara cried out in frustration. "My drones! Their systems are failing! The chaotic whispers are overriding their programming!" Her two little helper-bots began to spin erratically in the air before crashing to the ground, twitching uselessly.

Even Scarlett, the unshakable warrior, was affected. She shook her head, her eyes losing focus for a split second. "The whispers... they’re in my head," she gritted out, her knuckles white as she gripped her pistols. "They’re showing me... things..."

Malakor laughed, a sound that felt like scraping rock inside their skulls. "Yes! Feel the glorious chaos! Why fight for a future that is uncertain? Why struggle for a victory that is not guaranteed? The Schism offers you freedom! Freedom from hope! Freedom from fear! Freedom from choice! Let go! Embrace the beautiful, wonderful randomness of it all!"

His A-Tier talent, "Whispers of Chaos," was a terrifyingly effective weapon. It didn’t attack the body. It attacked the soul. It attacked the very will to fight, whispering lies and showing visions of failure and despair until its victims simply gave up.

But it wasn’t working on Ryan.

To him, Malakor’s grand sermon just sounded like the babbling of a lunatic. Freedom from choice? That was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Choice was everything.

He looked at his friends, at the strong, brilliant women who had chosen to follow him, to fight alongside him. He saw the flicker of doubt in their eyes, planted there by the Prophet’s psychic poison. A cold, hard anger rose in his chest.

No one messed with his team.

"Scarlett, Zara, Wardens," Ryan’s voice cut through the psychic noise, calm, steady, and filled with an unshakeable authority. "Fall back. Form a defensive circle. Protect each other. I’ll handle this."

He walked forward, stepping out of the flickering bubble of holy light and into the full, oppressive force of Malakor’s chaotic aura. The world around him seemed to warp and twist.

He saw a brief, fleeting vision of the "Odyssey" crashing, of his friends falling, of his entire Sector being swallowed by darkness. He blinked, and the visions were gone. They were just illusions. Pathetic little magic tricks.

He walked until he was standing just a few yards from the raised platform, his eyes locked on the charismatic, crazy-eyed Prophet. He was alone, one man against a psychic powerhouse and his fifty devoted followers.

Malakor’s smile widened. He had been trying to convert the whole team, but to have the leader walk right up to him, to face him alone? This was even better.

"Ah, the leader," Malakor purred, his mind-voice dripping with false sympathy. "You carry such a heavy burden, don’t you, little Lord? All those lives depending on you. All that pressure. What if you fail? What if you lead them all to their doom? Wouldn’t it be easier to just... let go?"

Ryan just stood there, his expression unreadable. He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t activate any flashy skills.

He just raised an eyebrow. "Are you done?" he asked, his real voice cutting through the air, simple and unimpressed. "Because your monologue is getting a little boring. And frankly, you cultist types all sound the same."

The smile vanished from Malakor’s face, replaced by a flash of furious disbelief. His most powerful psychic attack, the whispers that could break the minds of hardened soldiers, had just been shrugged off like an annoying fly.

This wasn’t going to be a battle of armies. It was going to be a duel. A battle of wills. And Ryan had just made it clear that his will was a fortress that could not be broken.

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