Chapter 301

Chapter 301
## The Final Instruction

“The Deity of Hounds.”

The legendary Wilhelm himself appeared momentarily unsettled the second those syllables left my lips.

A sharp grin tugged at my mouth.

“Weren’t you the one behaving like a ‘mutt’ of a God?”

“…”

He offered no verbal retort, almost as if my barb had pierced a hidden nerve.

His features stayed frozen in a mask of indifference. Yet, there was a transformation—a shift so infinitesimal it required a microscopic lens to detect.

A twitch.

The corner of his eyelid gave a single, frantic shudder.

That was all I needed. It was the confirmation that Wilhelm, a man who guarded his heart like a fortress, was genuinely rattled. Watching him lose his composure provided me a twisted sense of gratification. Besides, this marked our very first encounter where we stood on equal ground, eye to eye.

In our past, either he was the captive or I was the prisoner. We existed in a state where one was always barred from the other. Our history was a void of communication; despite the centuries we had weathered together, we had never truly looked upon one another or shared a single genuine word.

*Schwing.*

I adjusted my hold on the hilt of my blade and spoke aloud.

“Then again… we’ve never been the sort to waste time on meaningless pleasantries.”

Had there ever been a moment for a real conversation? Never, from our inception. And looking ahead, there never would be. More importantly, the grains of sand in our hourglass were running dangerously low.

**[Remaining duration for ‘Intact Golden Rule’ transformation: 7 minutes 32 seconds]**

Less than eight minutes. What kind of meaningful dialogue can be squeezed into such a narrow window? Furthermore, the bitter, ancient resentments we had cultivated over lifetimes couldn’t possibly be untangled in a few minutes of speech.

Since our journey began with the edge of a blade, it was only fitting it ended there. For warriors like us, the clashing of steel was a far more profound exchange than any spoken sentence.

Wilhelm. I was certain you felt that same grim conviction.

*Schwing.*

Mirroring my intent immediately, Wilhelm shifted his stance and leveled his weapon at me. This was all the communication required. Between the two of us—

“…Let the victor be the one who carries the truth.”

Let us cast everything else aside. We would finally determine which of us was the true ‘hound.’

—

Lyca stood frozen, observing the spectacle like a man under a spell. He, the celebrated First Sword of the Empire and the reputed apex predator of Pangenia—

“…”

He was now a spectator to a conflict occurring in a stratosphere far beyond his reach. He had long ago accepted Wilhelm as the ‘Unrivaled One.’ Yet, in the blink of an eye, a new struggle for the title of ‘Strongest’ had ignited.

Wilhelm, having reached the absolute zenith, was locked in combat with the Timeless Deity, Randolph. The sheer intensity of their duel made even Lyca’s veteran hands slick with cold sweat.

*‘This is… insane.’*

To Lyca, the situation felt surreal. He was the man who usually dictated the flow of the world. For the first time in his existence, he was relegated to the sidelines, holding his breath while someone else navigated the ultimate test. Moreover, Wilhelm appeared to have ascended even further since their last encounter, having truly stepped onto the peak.

If that were the case, who was this Randolph, who could trade blows as an equal against such a monstrous Wilhelm?

*‘Randolph…’*

He searched his memory, but the name was a ghost. A warrior of that caliber should have been a household name. What was undeniable, however, was that the Tower of the War God had been warped by this man’s very presence.

The corrupted challenges, the manifestation of Baal, the ‘Eternal Randolph’ who had summoned the Blade Dragon God and mastered the Ant King—all those anomalies traced back to the man standing before them now.

Initially, Lyca had suspected the missing ‘Golden Goat.’ He assumed there was a link between Randolph and that enigmatic figure who had surged through the ranks of the Reaper Cult.

*‘…No, I was wrong. This isn’t the Goat.’*

Lyca had fought the Goat once in the capital. The Randolph currently matching Wilhelm’s lethality was a different beast entirely. His power was on a scale that defied comparison. Furthermore, the Goat was not labeled a Sinner, whereas there was a high probability that Randolph was.

Beyond that.

“Lord Wilhelm…!”

“Ah!”

Observing the terror on the faces of Isabella von Dercian and her companions, it was clear Randolph wasn’t their ally. If it had been the Goat, Isabella would have watched with concern for him. Instead, every eye was fixed on Wilhelm in desperate hope.

Lyca turned his focus back to the collision between the two titans.

*‘Was I just a small frog at the bottom of a well?’*

He squeezed his fists until his knuckles turned white, dropping his head in shame. His skin burned with the heat of his own embarrassment. He had been so arrogant, believing no one left on earth could challenge him. He had retreated into the Abyss, thinking there was nothing left to learn from the world above.

It had been a grand delusion. He had been a fool, bragging about his dominance while trapped in a tiny hole, unaware of the vastness of the sky. His boast of being the best was hollow—it was just the stagnation of a man who refused to move.

*‘The world is limitless. Strength has no ceiling.’*

Suddenly—

*Thump! Thump!*

His pulse quickened. As he watched Wilhelm and Randolph, the fire of competition that had been dormant for decades began to flicker back to life.

*I want to stand where they are. I want to overcome them…!*

To achieve that, he had to climb out of his well. And the ladder was right there: the duel between two masters who had transcended his limits. To memorize every movement and recreate it within his own soul—that was the lifeline cast into the depths.

He had to seize it. He had to absorb it. To do that, he had to admit he was lacking. He had to purge his old self to make room for the new.

*‘It feels like I’m a novice again…’*

He hadn’t felt this level of raw hunger in an eternity. Not since his forgotten youth, when he was first plucked by the heir of the Eight Houses and given a sword.

The craving for knowledge. The refusal to ever be a servant again. The oath to control his own destiny through strength.

…Had he honored that ‘initial spark’?

Slowly.

Lyca’s hand closed around his hilt. Could he ever mirror their grace? Could he ever enter their domain? He remained perfectly still, yet he was drenched in perspiration. Simply witnessing and processing the data was an exhausting labor. He held his weapon, but he lacked the audacity to even practice a swing.

“…”

“…”

Lyca wasn’t alone in his awe. Every spectator was gripped by the same paralyzing mixture of thrill and terror. Their hearts hammered against their ribs while a cold shiver ran down their spines.

*—What if the Tower crumbles?*
*—What if Randolph turns his blade on us?*

The hypothetical was nightmare-inducing. If Wilhelm fell, it was the end of the line. No one else possessed the strength to halt a catastrophe like Randolph.

And yet, Randolph was a Player. Even if the Tower had altered him, how could any Player wield such reality-bending martial power?

*—What have we been doing with our lives?*
*—Why am I so pathetic?*

Moreover, Randolph’s tenure as a player was minuscule compared to the veterans. No matter how much hidden information he possessed or how lucky he had been, he couldn’t have achieved this without a superhuman level of dedication.

However, others were sinking into despair.

“It’s no use… the gap is just too wide.”

“Effort doesn’t matter here. That… that is a different species of existence.”

“How could the Great Expedition have ever hoped to succeed?”

A wave of resignation washed over the crowd as they witnessed a power that felt unreachable. They felt that no matter how hard they worked, they would never touch that sky. It was the realm of gods. They were quitting before they started because the peak seemed invisible.

“It is reachable.”

Lyca’s voice, amplified by his mana, cut through their defeatism, ringing in the ears of the hundreds of thousands watching. His expression was set in stone.

“It must be reached.”

He spoke with an edge of absolute desperation.

It was only four words, but they carried the weight of the world. Everyone understood the subtext. The level of mastery displayed by Wilhelm and Randolph wasn’t just a spectacle; it was a revelation. It was proof that a higher ceiling existed.

If they stagnated now, if they didn’t push themselves to the brink, humanity was doomed. They had to ascend. Failure to reach that height meant extinction.

It happened then.

“W-What kind of ‘sword’ is that…?”

The weapon Randolph manifested—a blade so gargantuan it threatened to eclipse the horizon—descended toward Wilhelm, radiating the absolute essence of ‘Oblivion.’

The moment that ultimate strike collided with Wilhelm—

**K-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM—!**

A cataclysmic detonation rocked the foundations of the Tower.

*Rumble!*

The ground beneath the spectators heaved so violently that people were thrown from their feet. Even as they scrambled for balance, clawing at the earth or each other, not a single soul looked away from the monitors.

When the dust finally began to settle—

“Ah…!”

It was a sight that defied logic. Wilhelm was holding that divine, world-swallowing blade with his bare, unprotected hands.

And then, Wilhelm launched his counter-strike—

“…?”

“…What?”

The crowd fell into a panic as the broadcast feed abruptly died.

“Not now! Of all the times to lose the signal!”

“What’s happening? Who won?”

The screens remained dark, refusing to yield the outcome. While the masses shouted and theorized, one man remained silent and rigid. Only one man had truly seen the finality in the sword Wilhelm swung.

Lyca. He whispered a private thought to the empty air.

“That one… I’ll never be able to touch.”

…Because it felt as though that final ‘sword’ existed in a dimension he could never hope to enter.

—

“Lacking focus.”

Those were Wilhelm’s first words after our initial exchange of blows. He called me disorganized—my blade, my style. No, he was looking deeper. He wasn’t just criticizing my technique; he was critiquing my very essence, my entire identity.

In this moment, I was a fragmented mess. My power was like a tree with branches growing chaotically in every direction. My encounters with the Deity of Ill-Omen and the Deity of Cinders had only exacerbated the internal clutter.

That was his point—that I was a jumble of conflicting forces, as messy as it gets.

“Bring them together. Are you playing around, or is this a choice?”

His tone rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn’t quite grasp what he meant by ‘unifying.’ He wasn’t telling me to cut away the excess; he was telling me to merge it all into a singular point.

Seeing my confusion, Wilhelm let out a mocking huff.

“Or are you just incompetent? O ‘hound-like’ Deity?”

This prick. He was intentionally baiting me, leaning into the ‘hound’ insult with obvious spite.

Mocking me? No, he was definitely taunting me. He was demanding to know why a God was struggling with something so fundamental.

But… I had no comeback. Because Wilhelm was right. I had become so spread out that I was lost. I didn’t know which thread to pull, which strike to commit to, or how to forge a path forward.

I felt it even more clearly now than I did in my own mind-scape: if I stayed this way, I would never catch up to Wilhelm, this arrogant bastard.

Yet, despite the insults, I found myself drawn into the rhythm of his blade. He was communicating through the steel. He was showing me the blind spots I hadn’t noticed and the truths I hadn’t understood.

In essence—

“Pay attention. The difficulty is about to spike.”

This was Wilhelm’s final gift to me. This was the last lesson.