I Refused To Be Reincarnated-Chapter 673: When Power Speaks Louder

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Chapter 673: When Power Speaks Louder

Adam and Misha followed behind Bill, admiring the sculptures of individuals illuminated by the flickering torches arranged between.

"Who are those people?" Adam raised a brow, intrigued by their different attires.

The first few wore the popular noble coat and shirt from the magic world—a primitive version filled with rough flourishes. But those after? The cultivation realm had clearly influenced their styles, with some draped in embroidered robes.

Bill gestured at statues with a proud smile. "The illustrious leaders who ensured the order of the venomous path never fell into oblivion. But after six thousand years away from the western archipelago, the order... changed."

He paused before wooden doors emblazoned with a snake coiling around a staff, his face conflicted. "The scariest thing is my generation doesn’t notice it anymore. Progress, they call it. Dilution, assimilation—that’s how I feel. We’re losing our roots, and perhaps in another six thousand years, we’ll become no different from cultivators using mana instead of qi."

"That’s... deep coming from you." A frown creased Adam’s brows, the question striking him out of nowhere.

His origins made him untethered to any culture. Was he from Belloria, Alkemia Al-Nur, Lóngshān valley, or the blessed land? He didn’t know. Even earth’s culture was a memory from Prometheus and what he heard from others rather than his own experiences.

But did it matter? Certainly not. He took what he needed from each culture and integrated them like blocks to build a tower of understanding and power.

Still, he could understand Bill’s worry. After all, the earthlings boasted about their culture twenty-four-seven. They, too, didn’t want to lose it, but unlike Bill, they improved it with magic and cultivation.

A soft smile curved on his lips. "No one wants to see their traditions fade. But refusing change isn’t better. Things aren’t black or white, so why don’t you add more colors to find balance?"

Bill’s hands froze on the doors, his voice low and unconvinced. "Because I’m scared."

Misha offered him a soothing smile. "You shouldn’t be. Imagine if your complex processing method of brewing an ancestral venom could become easier by integrating cultivator knowledge. Wouldn’t it still be part of your culture?"

"I-I guess." Bill hesitated before it struck him. Build on their culture by using others. It wouldn’t dilute since the recipe and knowledge were theirs in the first place. At worst, it would optimise the process.

"I think I get it!" He bowed toward Adam and Misha, confidence returning to his voice. "Ha! We need more youths like you—a shame you weren’t born in our order. But we digress. Ready to meet with Noah?"

Misha chuckled while Adam nodded with a wry smile. "About time we do."

Bill pushed the doors open, revealing a broad room. A long conference table carved from rocks and polished until it sparkled took the center. Behind it, a purple, spiked-haired man sat at a thick, engraved desk bearing the marks of millennia of predecessors. freeωebnovēl.c૦m

He frowned, signing a last document with an ancient quill before his blue eyes landed on the visitors. He smoothed his robe, sighing. "Bill? I don’t have time to entertain your uncertainties. Please return tomorrow if your guests have nothing urgent to discuss."

Bill rushed inside, paling and trying to explain everything before a misunderstanding arose. But Noah’s eyes narrowed into violet slits, his words dripping with poison before he could. "Cultivator robes of the highest quality. Who are you? Why did you bring them to my office when no one hates them more than you?"

Cracking fingers forced Bill’s gaze toward Adam’s raised knuckles before his heart almost stopped beating at his words.

"Do I need to demonstrate again? Might be dangerous in such a close space, but I don’t mind."

"N-No!" Bill stuttered, his face lowered and his legs trembling. "They’re mages like us! I-I confirmed it myself, we all did! Please hear him, leader."

Noah rose from his seat, his eyes locked with Adam’s. To frighten one of his devoted guards this much at such a young age... He channeled his mana, eager to test him.

However, before his spell could manifest, Adam picked up the vibrations. Misha did, too, and her golden eyes instantly locked on Noah as if she were an eagle gazing at a mouse.

Adam shook his head, snorting. "I wouldn’t do that in your stead. Humph, attacking me has consequences you can’t bear."

"Oh?" Noah’s lips curled into a defiant smirk. "I wonder what they are. I guess I’ll have to find out."

Adam rolled his eyes. It was always the same with people who believed themselves above him. Yet, the time when Vikram and Shepard suppressed him with mana had long passed. He was in charge, not that mere order leader.

His mana circuits roared to life, forming a vortex around him. In the blink of an eye, it devoured the ambient mana.

Noah tried to activate his poisonous spell but gasped when nothing happened. Even worse, his eyes widened in horror. Adam had disappeared.

As he grappled with the surreal situation, firm fingers wrapped around his throat. He tried to loosen the grip threatening to suffocate him as his feet left the ground. But nothing worked. The fingers felt cast from iron, unshakable and powerful enough to snap his vertebrae like twigs.

Icy sweat formed on his forehead, death’s icy fingers clutching his hammering heart. Would he die because of a mere test? He? The forty-seventh order leader?

Against his expectation, the fingers loosened on their own before they flung him on his seat.

"I don’t have time to waste either. Now that you know who has the biggest fist, show me your records of the Western Archipelago. I also want to browse your best mana-gathering techniques."

He reached for his reddened neck, feeling the marks left by the youth’s fingers. Nothing made sense. He was a better mage than him, yet faster and stronger than most void refinement experts.

But time wasn’t for doubts. A single chance. That’s all he had to salvage the situation, and he knew better than to waste it.

"They’re stored underground." He pushed his desk, unreluctantly revealing a concealed trapdoor.

With a flick of his fingers, he made it slide to the side with a screeching noise. Soft winds charged with the scent of dust and old parchments blew from the opening that led to the order’s most precious knowledge.

This content is taken from fr(e)ewebn(o)vel.𝓬𝓸𝓶