Ascension Was a Lie, So I Destroyed Heaven

Chapter 6 : The Mentor's Mask

"Go home," Aren repeated, his voice still an unnatural echo, hollow and deep. The ground around his bare feet turned to withered, black dust with each step he took towards Elara. The weeping eye on his palm pulsed, a dark star in the rain-soaked twilight.

Elara's hand trembled, the silver dagger glinting dangerously. "I cannot do that, Aren. The Archon sent me. He knows about the market, about... about whatever this is." She gestured wildly at his hand, then at the dying earth. "He knows everything."

"He knows nothing," Aren countered, the lie tasting like ash. "And neither do you." He raised his hand, the dark power flowing through his veins, an extension of the Heaven-Eater now merged with his own core. He didn't want to hurt her, but he needed her to retreat. He needed time.

A wave of oppressive energy, cold and ancient, radiated from him. It pushed against Elara, the air growing heavy, stealing her breath. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and something akin to awe, stared at his hand. She stumbled back, the dagger clattering to the ground. Her body sagged, not from injury, but from the sheer weight of the power he emanated.

"You... you've changed," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper. She looked utterly broken, caught between her duty and the man she thought she knew.

Aren did not reply. He simply held her gaze, letting the dark energy hum around them, a silent threat. He saw the struggle in her eyes, the sudden, terrible understanding that he was no longer the man she could control. He watched as her resolve shattered, her shoulders slumping. She stared at him for another long moment, her face a mask of grief and confusion, then she turned and fled, disappearing into the dark, rain-swept woods.

Aren stood alone, the storm raging around him, but he felt nothing. The rain felt like distant whispers against his skin, and the wind carried no chill. The connection to the Heaven-Eater throbbed, a cold, hungry knot in his chest. It is done.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He had to suppress the power, hide the mark. He couldn't let Thorne see this. Not yet. He focused, drawing the dark energy back into his core, the weeping eye on his palm fading to a faint, silver scar. The withered ground around him slowly began to regain its normal hue, though a lingering chill remained in the air.

He changed his wet, soiled robes for a fresh, formal set, then made his way through the deserted paths of the sect. The rain had cleared, leaving the night air cool and crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. He arrived at Master Thorne’s residence just as the first stars began to pierce the clouds.

The old master’s home was not grand like the Archon’s palace, but rather a sprawling, ancient structure carved directly into the mountainside. Its stone walls were covered in moss, and intricate formations, centuries old, pulsed faintly with a warm, amber light. Tonight, the main hall was illuminated by countless candles, their flames dancing, casting long, shifting shadows.

Master Thorne sat at the head of a long, polished table, a single bowl of steaming soup before him. He wore robes of deep grey, embroidered with patterns of constellations that seemed to shift with the light. His eyes, ancient and sharp, settled on Aren as he entered.

"Aren. You are late," Thorne said, his voice a low rumble. He did not smile.

"My apologies, Master," Aren replied, bowing respectfully. "I was overseeing an unforeseen issue at the construction site." He sat in the chair opposite Thorne, the only other place set at the table. The soup was a simple broth, but the aroma of rare herbs filled the air.

"Unforeseen issues are the Archon’s specialty, not yours," Thorne remarked, picking up his spoon. "I was informed there was a... disturbance... at the Void Market. And Lady Elara was dispatched."

Aren met Thorne's gaze, his own expression carefully blank. He knows Elara was sent. Does he know why? "Indeed. A minor bandit skirmish. Lady Elara handled it with her usual efficiency."

Thorne took a slow sip of his soup. "Is that so? And what of your… recent travels? Did you find what you sought?" His eyes, old as polished stone, seemed to bore into Aren, searching for cracks in his composure.

Aren felt the subtle thrum of the Heaven-Eater within him. He kept his hand beneath the table. "My travels are for the advancement of the Celestial Ladder, Master. Nothing more. New techniques require new insights."

"New insights, or perhaps old ones?" Thorne's lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile. "There are many paths to power, Aren. Not all of them lead upwards."

The conversation continued in this veiled dance throughout the meal. Thorne spoke of sect politics, of the Archon’s impatience, and of the growing unrest among the lower sects. Aren responded with calculated diplomacy, offering insights into the construction of the Ladder, always weaving in subtle falsehoods about minor delays and design complexities. Each word was a carefully placed brick in the wall of his deception.

Finally, the bowls were cleared, and Thorne pushed back from the table. "Walk with me, Aren. There is something I wish to show you."

Aren nodded. He followed Thorne down a dimly lit corridor, the air growing colder, heavier. Tapestries depicting ancient celestial maps lined the walls, their threads shimmering with residual energy. They stopped before a nondescript stone door, almost hidden by an illusionary mural of a serene mountain landscape.

Thorne pressed his palm against the stone. The mural rippled and faded, revealing intricate locking formations etched into the door. With a low hum, the heavy door swung inwards, revealing a vast, circular chamber.

This was Thorne's private laboratory.

Aren stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, arcane reagents, and the metallic tang of dried blood. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with dusty scrolls, strange glass vials filled with glowing liquids, and dissected celestial creatures preserved in amber. In the centre, a large stone table bore the faint scorch marks of countless experiments.

"Impressive, Master," Aren said, feigning mild curiosity. He saw ancient runic diagrams covering every surface, the walls themselves part of a giant, static formation. It was a place where knowledge, both forbidden and sacred, was meticulously hoarded.

Thorne walked to a workbench cluttered with half-finished constructs. "I have dedicated centuries to the study of the Upper Realm, Aren. Longer than your entire lifespan." He picked up a small, obsidian shard, turning it in his fingers. "And in all that time, I have found one constant truth."

"And what is that, Master?" Aren asked, his eyes scanning the shelves, searching. He needed to find the journal. The voice from the future had warned him.

"The heavens lie," Thorne stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "They promise paradise, but they deliver only silence. A cold, endless silence that devours all who seek it."

Aren't heart gave a lurch. Thorne knew. Or at least, he suspected. This was not the naive mentor he had once known.

"The Archon would be displeased to hear such heresy," Aren said, testing the waters.

Thorne merely scoffed. "The Archon is a fool. A pawn who believes he is a player. He worships the very entities that will consume him, just as they have consumed countless others before him." He set the obsidian shard down and turned to face Aren. "Tell me, Aren, what do you truly believe lies beyond the Celestial Ladder?"

Aren paused. He saw a small, unmarked book tucked away behind a row of ancient texts on a lower shelf, partially obscured by a dangling piece of dried root. There.

"I believe in the promise of the ancestors, Master," Aren replied, keeping his voice even. "A realm of pure energy, where one can shed the mortal coil and ascend to true divinity." He moved slowly, casually, towards the shelf, pretending to admire a collection of fossilised wings.

Thorne watched him, his gaze unwavering. "A pretty lie. One I once believed myself. But the records tell a different story. They tell of Ascension attempts ending not in glory, but in annihilation. Of souls consumed, not elevated."

Aren reached the shelf. His fingers brushed against the spine of the hidden book. It was bound in plain, dark leather, with no title. This is it. "Perhaps those who failed were simply not worthy, Master."

"Perhaps," Thorne conceded, his voice laced with a subtle sarcasm. "Or perhaps the path itself is a lie. A lure, set by a fisherman for his catch." He turned back to his workbench, his back now partially to Aren. "I remember the first time I witnessed an 'Ascension'. My own master, a man of immense power and purity. He stepped onto the threshold, full of hope. And then, he simply vanished. Not into light, but into nothingness. The gate closed, leaving only a lingering stench of ozone and fear."

Aren't fingers expertly slipped the journal from the shelf. He held it close, hidden by the folds of his sleeve. "A tragic loss, Master."

"Indeed," Thorne said. "And the Archon, even then, spoke of 'unforeseen variables'. Always a variable. Never a predator." He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weariness of centuries. "But I have learned much since then. I have searched for the true nature of the 'Upper Realm'. Not through their scriptures, but through the whispers of the dying. The screams of the consumed."

Aren’s heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped the journal tighter. Thorne was saying too much. He was too close to the truth.

"And what have these whispers revealed, Master?" Aren asked, forcing his voice to be steady.

Thorne picked up a small, crystal orb, its surface swirling with dim, ethereal lights. "They reveal a hunger, Aren. An endless, insatiable hunger. The 'Immortals' are not gods. They are feeders. And our world is their cattle farm."

Aren felt a profound shock. Thorne knew everything. He had understood the nature of the Upper Realm long before Aren's first death. Is he an ally? Or is he trying to replace one horror with another?

"If that is true, Master, why continue building the Ladder?" Aren asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Why aid the Archon in this deception?"

Thorne turned, his face illuminated by the flickering light of the orb. His eyes gleamed with a fierce, desperate intelligence. "Because, Aren, you cannot destroy what you do not understand. And to truly understand it, you must first build it." He walked slowly towards Aren, his gaze fixed on him. "The Celestial Ladder is not merely a bridge to the Upper Realm. It is also a key. A key that can unlock its secrets, or perhaps, shatter its very foundation."

Aren felt a cold dread mix with a flicker of hope. He looked down at the journal in his hand. He knows. He's been planning this for centuries.

"And what is your plan, Master?" Aren asked, his voice low. "If not to ascend, then what?"

Thorne stopped a few feet from Aren. He raised the crystal orb, its swirling lights reflecting in his ancient eyes. "To take its place. To seize the power that the 'Immortals' wield, and use it to forge a true heaven. One that protects, rather than devours." His voice gained a messianic fervor. "To become the new architect of destiny. The true God of this world."

No, Aren thought, a chill running down his spine. Not destroy it. Replace it. He wants to become the Archon of a new, equally oppressive system.

"You would become what you fight against," Aren said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Thorne's eyes narrowed. "A necessary evil, Aren. To wield power without succumbing to its corruption is the ultimate challenge. But someone must do it. Someone must guide humanity into a new era, free from the false promises of the sky."

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. Aren realised that Thorne was not a pure enemy, but his vision was equally dangerous. He wanted control, just like the Archon, just like the entities of the Upper Realm. He would simply don a more benevolent mask.

"I see," Aren said, his mind racing, trying to assimilate this new, complex truth. He needed to understand the full scope of Thorne’s plans, to find the flaws in his twisted idealism.

"You hold a journal, do you not, Aren?" Thorne's voice was calm, but there was an underlying current of iron. "The one from the lower shelf. The one I accidentally left within your reach."

Aren froze. His hand tightened around the book. Thorne had known all along. He had anticipated Aren's move, perhaps even orchestrated it. He had led Aren here, not to reveal his secrets, but to test him.

"This?" Aren said, pulling the journal from his sleeve. He feigned surprise. "I merely found it intriguing. An old record, perhaps?"

Thorne chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "An old record indeed. My personal account of every failed Ascension ritual for the past five centuries. A record of screams, of sacrifices, of hopes turned to ash." He extended a hand. "May I have it back? I prefer to keep my failures close."

Aren hesitated. He had barely glimpsed its contents. He needed to read it, to understand Thorne's full history, his strategies, his weaknesses. But to refuse would be to expose his deception entirely.

With a heavy heart, Aren handed the journal to Thorne. Their fingers brushed. Aren felt a faint, lingering pulse of dark energy radiating from Thorne's skin. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Thorne, too, was touched by something ancient, something from the void. Has he also absorbed a forbidden artifact?

Thorne took the journal, his eyes never leaving Aren's face. He tapped the cover lightly. "This journal details the methods. But it does not explain the why." He turned, walking back towards his workbench. "Why do the heavens demand such a price, Aren? Why do they crave our souls? Is it sustenance, or something more... profound?"

Aren watched him, his mind reeling. Thorne had played him, but he had also revealed a crucial piece of the puzzle. Thorne's goals aligned with his own in part: to stop the harvest. But his solution was merely a change of tyranny.

Thorne paused at the centre table, placing the journal down. He looked up at the intricate patterns etched into the stone ceiling of his lab, patterns that mirrored the celestial sphere. His gaze was distant, as if staring into the abyss itself.

"Imagine, Aren, a sky without limits. A sky that does not judge, does not demand, does not consume. What would humanity become, if the heavens themselves were broken?" Thorne's voice echoed in the chamber, heavy with an ancient sorrow. "Would we find true freedom? Or merely a deeper, more terrifying void?"

He turned his head slowly, his eyes fixing on Aren's. A challenge, a question, and a profound philosophical abyss opened between them.

"Tell me, Aren," Thorne said, his voice dropping to a whisper, cold and sharp as winter ice. "What do you truly wish to do with the sky?"