Odyssey Of Survival-Chapter 82 Nate’s Origin

Nate gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into the thick ice pinning him to the wall. The impact sent a jolt through his arm, but the ice didn’t even crack. It was too solid. Too strong. His flames flared around his knuckles, heating the surface, but still, it refused to melt.

No matter how much strength he put into it, it wouldn’t break.

His breath came out in short bursts, fogging in the cold air. His body ached from exhaustion, and frustration clawed at his mind. This wasn’t just any ice—it was something different, something beyond normal.

Then the old man spoke again.

"Who are you?"

His voice was slow, deliberate—each word felt like it carried centuries of weight. His pale, sunken eyes shifted away from Nate and landed on Alice.

And in the next moment, a thin, razor-sharp shard of ice shot from his palm.

It moved faster than a bullet.

Alice’s instincts kicked in at the last possible second. She sidestepped just in time, the ice slicing through the air where her head had been moments before. The sheer speed and precision of the attack sent a chill through her—not from the cold, but from the realization that she had seen it coming.

The old man’s face shifted ever so slightly, the faintest hint of surprise flickering through his features.

"You can see it?"

Alice didn’t answer. Her breathing was unsteady as she took a step back. She had no idea how she dodged that, but she wasn’t about to stick around and find out what else he could do.

Nate saw the fear in her eyes. She was in trouble.

He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t let this old man toy with them.

Pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into his right hand, Nate focused his fire into a single, concentrated point. The flames around his fist burned white-hot as he drew his arm back and punched the ice trapping him.

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A sharp pain ripped through his knuckles. His vision blurred for a second, and then he felt something warm trickle down his fingers.

Blood.

His own blood.

The ice remained untouched. Not even a scratch. But his skin had split open, his knuckles raw and bleeding. The crimson droplets splattered onto the surface of the ice.

And then—everything changed.

The old man’s expression, once calm and unreadable, snapped into something else entirely. His pale face twitched. His eyes widened. His entire demeanor shifted, like something deep inside him had suddenly awakened.

Then—the ice shattered.

Not from Nate’s punch.

But from something else.

The force holding him against the wall simply vanished, and he felt himself being lowered gently to the ground as if carried by invisible hands.

Alice’s mouth parted in shock.

"What the hell just happened?" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

She took a step forward, trying to reach Nate—but then she froze.

Completely.

Not just stopped mid-step.

Not just caught in hesitation.

Her entire body locked in place, like a statue carved from ice. Her expression still held concern, her mouth still slightly open—but she wasn’t moving.

Nate’s heart pounded.

"Alice?" He stepped closer and tapped her shoulder.

Nothing.

She was solid. Unmoving.

A heavy silence filled the palace.

Nate turned his head slowly—his gut already telling him who was responsible.

And what he saw nearly made his heart stop.

The old man was kneeling.

Not just a shallow bow. A full, deep kneel, forehead nearly touching the icy floor.

It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a trick.

He was bowing to Nate.

Nate’s breath caught in his throat. He looked around—but there was no one else here.

It was just him and Alice.

Which meant the old man was kneeling to him.

Nate’s fingers curled into a fist, the wound on his knuckles still dripping blood.

"…What is going on?" he murmured.

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The old man lifted his head slowly, his pale, withered eyes locking onto Nate’s.

And then, in a voice filled with ancient reverence, he spoke:

"Welcome. I have been waiting for you… for over a thousand years."

Nate’s expression twisted into one of pure disbelief. He blinked at the old man, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Wait—hold on. Am I stupid, or did you just say you’ve been waiting for me for a thousand years?" His voice carried an edge of amusement, but underneath it, there was something unsettled. "I don’t know what kind of joke this is, but I’m only twenty." He spread his arms, gesturing to himself as if to prove his point. "How the hell does that make any sense?"

The old man’s face remained still, unreadable. Then, in a voice as ancient as time itself, he spoke. "There are things ye know not, son."

Nate’s smirk faltered. There was something about the way the man spoke, something weighty, something absolute. He wasn’t laughing anymore. Instead, his brows knitted together, his body stiffening with caution. "Alright," he said, his tone more serious now. "Then start explaining. Because right now, you sound insane."

The old man inclined his head slightly, his weathered features betraying no hint of offense. His pale, withered fingers twitched at his sides as he began to speak. "A thousand years ago, thy father created this world."

Silence fell between them. Nate barely breathed. His father?

The words were so unexpected, so impossibly absurd, that for a moment, his mind refused to process them. He could only stare, his lips slightly parted as if waiting for the punchline. But none came. The old man stood before him, unwavering, his gaze filled with something Nate couldn’t quite decipher.

Nate exhaled sharply through his nose. "You’re kidding," he muttered, shaking his head. But the longer he looked at the man, the harder it became to dismiss. His gut twisted with unease. "That’s impossible," he finally said. "I don’t even know who my father is."

The old man’s gaze didn’t waver. "And yet, he knew thee. He knew ye would come one day, and thus, he bade me prepare for thy arrival. When ye did, I was to provide ye with all that ye need."

His words carried an eerie certainty, like a prophecy that had already been fulfilled.

Nate clenched his jaw, trying to push away the unsettling weight that pressed against his chest. He wanted to refute it, to call the man delusional, but something in the back of his mind whispered that this was bigger than just some old hermit’s ramblings.

Taking a slow breath, Nate finally spoke, his voice calmer but no less firm. "Look, I don’t know what kind of ’father’ you think I have, but I’m just a regular guy. An orphan. I grew up on Earth. I don’t know who my parents were." He crossed his arms. "So whatever you think you know about me, I promise you—it’s wrong."

The old man’s gaze remained steady. Then, slowly, he straightened his frail body, his ancient bones cracking as he rose from his kneeling position. Despite his age, there was something imposing about the way he stood, as if time itself bent to his will.

"Tell me, lad," he said. "Did thy foster mother ever reveal the truth of thine origin? Did she ever speak of thy true father, thy true mother? Or where she found thee?"

Nate opened his mouth to answer, but the words caught in his throat. His hands clenched at his sides. No—she never had. Whenever he asked, she would always brush it off, offering vague reassurances and half-answers. "It doesn’t matter where you came from, Nate," she would say. "What matters is where you are now."

For years, he had accepted that. He never questioned it, never pushed further. But now… Now, a strange unease coiled inside him.

"…No," he admitted at last. "She never told me anything."

The old man nodded, as if he had expected that answer. Then, in a voice like the whisper of a coming storm, he said, "That is because thou wert never an Earthling to begin with."

A cold chill ran down Nate’s spine. He felt as though the air had been sucked from the room.

"What?"

"Thou art not of Earth," the man continued. "Thy blood, thy very being, hails from an ancient civilization lost to the sands of time. A civilization known as the Koryathans."

Nate staggered back a step, his heart hammering in his chest.

No. That… that wasn’t possible.

He had heard of the Koryathans. They were the monsters in Earth’s history books—the ancient enemy, the warmongers, the ones who had tried to destroy the planet before they were driven away. His professor had spoken of them during the museum tour, describing their cruelty, their terrifying power, their ultimate exile.

And now this man was saying that he—Nate—was one of them?

No. No way.

His breathing quickened, his fists clenching. His mind raced, scrambling for some kind of logic, some kind of explanation that didn’t end in this impossible revelation being true. But even as he struggled to deny it, something deep inside him—something primal—felt… right. As if a puzzle piece he hadn’t known was missing had just clicked into place.

As if knowing his thoughts, the old man spoke again, his voice calm yet heavy with meaning.

"It is time thou learn the truth, boy." His pale eyes bore into Nate’s, unyielding. "For all thy life, thou hast lived beneath the veil of the Earthlings’ lies. But now, the veil must be lifted."

Nate’s pulse roared in his ears. His entire world—the reality he had known—was shifting beneath him.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready to face what lay on the other side.

"Okay old man, before I agree to anything. You have to drop the accent first."

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