I Died and Received an SSS-Rank Unique Ability-Chapter 45: Final Truth

Vale lingered for a few moments, staring at the black flames depicted on the painting before him. His thoughts spiraled, just like the staircase he was climbing, confusion settling over him.

His group, unaware of the similarity between the black flames and his unique ability, continued ascending the stairs without pause.

"You okay, Vale?" Ayla asked, stopping midstep as she noticed he was falling behind.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Vale lifted his gaze toward the sound of her voice.

"Yeah," he replied, pushing forward to catch up.

Soon, he stood before another painting.

A clear blue sky stretched across the canvas. The familiar shadowy figure with two horns floated among the clouds—but this time, it wasn’t alone.

Five more human-like figures stood there, painted in pristine white. They looked nothing like the dark figure.

Each wielded a different weapon—spears, swords and a bow strung with light itself.

"Gods," he muttered under his breath, his eyes tracing the radiant figures.

He didn’t know why, but he felt almost certain. Those had to be depictions of gods. And that shadowy figure—his gaze shifted back to the horned being—could only be a demon.

"I thought so too," Dain said behind him. "I’ve read a lot of books about gods, and they were always painted as annoyingly bright."

The others nodded in agreement.

But one thought kept spinning through Vale’s mind—why was a demon facing five gods alone? How could it even hope to stand a chance?

Pushing the questions aside, Vale climbed faster, urgency building inside him—each step feeling heavier, as if he was drawing closer to something that had been waiting for him all along.

Then he stopped, breath catching in his throat.

The next painting stretched across the wall.

The blue sky was gone.

Instead, it showed the peak of a grassy hill, bathed in unnatural darkness.

Atop it stood the shadowy figure—the same horned demon—its sword slick with a dark, glistening liquid. Below its feet, five broken bodies lay scattered, their once-radiant forms crumpled and lifeless. Dark flames burned all around them, coiling and twisting, devouring the hill, the gods, the very air itself.

Vale felt his blood run cold.

"It... it killed the gods?" he whispered, voice barely audible.

He staggered a half-step back, unable to tear his gaze away.

Gods were supposed to be beyond mortal comprehension—eternal and untouchable. How could a single demon have slain them all?

Confusion hit him like a hammer to the chest.

He found his eyes drawn to the black flames, staring deeper and deeper, almost as if he could fall into the painting itself.

"What the hell are those flames?" he thought, a cold shiver running down his spine.

His companions lingered in silence beside him, each equally captivated. Even Dain, usually quick with some comment, said nothing.

It was a fairly accepted belief that the gods had long ago vanished—but to see it laid out so plainly, here of all places, deep within a tower tied to the Demon Realm.

Something about it felt wrong. Deeply, eerily wrong.

Vale rushed to the next painting.

The background remained the same—the peak of the grassy hill, the broken bodies of the slain gods—but one thing was different.

There were four shadowy figures now.

Right behind the demon wielding the black flames, three more stood. Their weapons were outstretched, the blades of their swords driven straight through the demon’s back.

The very demon that had defeated the gods had been betrayed—backstabbed by its own kind.

Vale stared, disbelief tightening in his chest.

"Why would demons betray one of their own? Especially after they killed the gods?" he muttered under his breath.

No one answered.

The silence that followed felt heavier than stone.

Urgency prickled down his spine. Without thinking, Vale ascended the stairs, desperate for answers.

The next painting awaited him.

This time, it showed the demon, the black-flamed figure, fleeing.

Its form was battered, leaking shadows, its wounds visible even through the rough strokes of paint.

The demon floated alone in a vast, empty space, stars scattered like broken glass around it.

And in the distance, unmistakable, was a familiar sight—a planet made of blue and green colours.

Vale’s breath hitched.

"Earth..." he whispered.

There was no mistaking it.

The demon—betrayed by its own kind, hunted and broken, had fled to Earth.

One singular question gnawed at Vale’s mind like a starving beast—Why?

Why would a Demon choose Earth of all places?

Unwilling to piece together a puzzle without all its fragments, he rushed to the next painting.

This time, Earth filled the canvas—closer, almost within reach. And above it, suspended in the void, lingered the battered figure of the Demon. Its arm was outstretched, and a dark orb rested at the edge of its palm.

From the orb, tendrils of shadow stretched downward—dark, sickly streaks that almost resembled mana, if mana could ever be so black.

It looked as if the Demon was using the last of its strength either to bestow its power upon the world below... or to destroy it.

Vale lingered, staring at the painting.

Was the Demon granting Earth its power? Or was it cursing it?

Had it been the Demon who tore open the rifts between worlds? Had it planted the roots of the System that now ruled Earth?

Countless questions screamed through Vale’s mind, but no answers came.

His gaze drifted upward.

Not many stairs remained to the summit.

He climbed slowly, each step heavier than the last, as though the tower itself was weighing down on him.

And then, just as he reached the final stair, he saw it.

A patch of wall, darker than the rest. Old, but not weathered like the others. A place where a painting had once hung... but was now gone.

"What?" Vale muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

He stepped closer, running his fingers across the bare stone. There was nothing, no painting, no remnants and no clues.

He turned, searching desperately, but the others only stared back at him, just as lost.

There was nothing. Only silence and a growing, gnawing sense that someone—or something—had taken the final truth away.