Eternal Master: Path to Godlike Status-Chapter 32: Seal Part 3

The purple vapor churned violently, yet no one moved. Every pair of eyes stayed fixed on it, waiting to see what would emerge.

The toxic mist was so powerful it began melting the surrounding stone, eating through it despite its durability.

Then it moved.

Not dispersed — pushed. Shoved outward in a clean ring as if something inside had exhaled.

Rain stood at the center, healing. A black spear had replaced the katana.

He rolled his shoulder once, adjusting his grip with the ease of a man picking up a tool he had carried for decades.

The Heretics stared.

One raised his hands, weaving a gale of toxic energy between his fingers. The cyclone shrieked, a meat-grinder of wind spinning into existence.

Rain didn’t wait. He was already in motion before the spell could reach its peak.

Mid-air, the raging current tried to slow him, dragging against his body. He forced through it by sheer strength.

"You’ll have to try harder than that."

His spear-tip drove into the eye of the storm, slipping through the single fragile thread where the pressure faltered.

The vortex shuddered under the intrusion. Then it collapsed.

Another was already mid-cast. Hands rising. Energy pooling between his fingers.

Rain didn’t give them a chance to breathe. He twisted through the dying current and let its momentum hurl him forward even faster.

He crossed the distance in less than a breath and drove the spear straight into the enemy’s chest, tearing a gaping hole through the center.

Without missing a beat, the spear vanished mid-pull.

A dagger materialized in his right hand—short, efficient—and he pivoted seamlessly, redirecting toward the nearest enemy.

The man’s eyes were only just beginning to follow the falling body of his companion when he felt his neck gushing blood.

The last one ran.

Smart instinct. Wrong decision.

His footsteps echoed across the floor, scrambling over rubble, putting distance between him and death.

Rain watched him go for exactly one second.

The dagger dissolved.

A bow formed in his grip — black, short-limbed, already drawn. An arrow materialized against the string between his fingers as naturally as breath.

He didn’t track the running man. He read the floor ahead of him. The angle. The next step. The inevitable.

He released.

The arrow crossed the chamber in a flat line and found the back of the man’s skull.

Rain lowered the bow, turned it over once in his grip, and let it dissolve back into nothing.

He flexed his hand—open, closed—measuring the residue of each transition. He cycled through multiple weapons deliberately, testing the Veil’s responsiveness under real-time conditions.

’Master the weapon before it masters you.’

Only someone who had conquered every weapon on Earth could speak it with confidence. Katana, broadsword, hammer, axe, even a simple stick—he could wield them all to their fullest.

.

.

.

.

A few seconds earlier.

Across the chamber, the giant translucent hand held the serpent at a standstill — light and darkness grinding against each other, neither yielding.

She was smiling.

The old man noticed. His eyes narrowed above his cane.

"You find this amusing, High Priest?"

"A little," she admitted.

She wasn’t watching him when she said it. Her gaze drifted — just for a moment — toward Rain, who was already lowering the bow.

The old man followed her eyes. His expression didn’t change, but something behind it shifted.

She returned her attention to him without explaining herself.

There was nothing to explain, really. Not to him.

She read the Veil’s recorded history. Every owner documented across multiple generations — warriors, assassins, a handful of scholars who tried to wield it as theory rather than practice.

All of them grasped its core function quickly enough, but none ever fully utilized it.

The limitation was never the artifact.

It was the mind behind it.

Biological thought moved in sequence. One intention collapsed before the next could fully form — a structural delay, built into the architecture of living cognition.

The Veil read intent, not action. Which meant the gap between wanting a weapon and having it was exactly as wide as the user’s own processing allowed.

No one could transition to a new weapon in under thirty seconds—until him. He cycled through three in under five seconds.

She turned the implication over carefully, the way she handled an interesting book.

His thought process wasn’t moving faster because he trained it to. There was no technique here, no discipline.

He simply was faster — transmitting intention at a speed that biological architecture couldn’t structurally reach, the way a river couldn’t naturally flow uphill.

"Now," she said with a pleasant smile, "shall we stop wasting each other’s time? My man is already done with his business. It would be rude to delay things any further."

Her opponent’s eyes narrowed, hands trembling as he sensed the change in the air.

Alicia’s innocent smile was gone, replaced by a wide, dangerous grin.

For a second, he wondered if he was staring at a monster in human skin rather than a holy maiden.

Rain watched from afar, feeling the tension as well. His eyes stayed locked on her—curious to see what she would show him today.

Unconsciously, his killing intent seeped through his skin, amplified by the Veil.

The old man, trapped between their gazes, felt sweat trickle down his temples. It was as if two predators were sizing him up, deciding whether he would make a suitable dinner.

Was he truly the heretic here? The villain of the story?