There was no other way for Vikram.
Releasing this creature was a gamble—a wager no wiser than playing dice with fate while blindfolded, on a board you didn't even know existed. But the moment he weighed the other options, the path ahead became painfully clear.
Following the Hulk and the Caravan, his fate would be sealed, because the Hulk had planned to sell him to the slave traders, or someone from the royalty.
The frustrating thing about all of this is that he didn't even know that The Hulk deserved such fate that he had bestowed upon him. Ramess II was a twisted and sick human that didn't win an ounce of sympathy from Vikram. But if he tried to plead or explain...
The situation was hopeless. All he could do was struggle.
Struggle with all his might, and bite like a rabid dog... No, like a lion...
The voice echoed again, hoarse and amused. "You're not from here, are you?"
Vikram grimaced inwardly. His body ached down to the marrow, every breath like sandpaper on his lungs, and he could barely stand without swaying like a drunk in a storm. But words were cheap, and bluffing was his only coin.
"Yeah," he muttered, "I come from the far east."
The red-eyed being squinted. "This is the Far East."
"...Ah." Vikram coughed twice, scratched his head, and glanced at the pitch-dark cave walls. "Well, you know how it is. Two thousand years of life and even directions start getting blurry."
The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.
At last, the being spoke again. "There is no ritual, no incantation. Just touch the cross and let blood fall. The desert will shift. The cave will vanish. But beware—the price is yours to bear."
Vikram chuckled weakly, masking the hurricane behind his eyes. The simplicity of the seal annoyed him. Where were the cultists? The lunatics scribbling runes in blood to awaken their dark messiah? Was he truly the first to stumble on this?
Still, the realization struck hard: this sealed entity was the source of the Black Desert's corruption. Unleashing it would reshape the land, perhaps the world.
Doubt gnawed at his resolve. But doubt was a luxury he could no longer afford.
Vikram stepped forward and bit down on his finger, watching the blood pool at the tip. "Funny," he said lightly, "the murals paint you as a monster."
"They tell the truth," the being replied, with an unsettling calm.
But Vikram pressed on. The blood met the cold steel of the cross.
A soundless quake shook the chamber.
Chains clinked. Nails burst from ancient flesh with wet, sickening pops. The sealed one moaned—half agony, half ecstasy—and levitated, unbound. For the first time, emotion touched his face: amusement.
"You really are insane," the crimson-eyed man murmured.
Vikram offered a weary smile. "I've been told."
The ground rumbled again, and Vikram nearly collapsed. His gamble had worked. He'd played the part of the fool well enough to lower the being's guard—but now he had to face the aftermath.
And then, for the first time, the Immortal's amusement died. His gaze sharpened, and the atmosphere shifted. The temperature plummeted as the being stared at Vikram's abdomen.
For the first time, Vikram felt it.
The true pressure of an Immortal.
It wasn't just spiritual. It wasn't just magical. It was a force that gripped the world and bent it around a will honed across centuries, a presence that demanded obedience simply by existing.
The Immortal raised his hand, and Vikram's body rose with it—weightless, helpless, like a puppet dancing on invisible strings. Then, with a flick of the wrist, he was turned upside down, limbs dangling uselessly.
The Immortal's face was no longer playful. A grave silence had overtaken him, his eyes glinting with unspoken thoughts. He placed his hand gently on Vikram's lower abdomen.
A cold current surged through Vikram's veins—alien and ancient, burrowing deep into his body like it was searching for answers Vikram didn't even know he possessed. He couldn't resist. He couldn't even move. The sensation wasn't painful, but it stripped away every ounce of resistance, leaving him vulnerable...
A deep, bone-weary exhale that seemed to pull the light from the air.
The hand left Vikram's stomach and moved to his forehead, lingering there like a mourning gesture. When the Immortal finally spoke, his voice was soft. Regretful.
"…Umm. What happened?" Vikram asked weakly, still awkwardly upside down.
The Immortal opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head with a look Vikram knew far too well. That look—the one people gave when they were about to say something awful, but didn't want to be the one to say it.
Vikram's temper flared. "Spit it out."
The Immortal did. "This is the first time I've seen something like this in person. And to think… someone would actually do this to a mortal? It's beyond cruel." His gaze darkened. "Kid, you're in a messed up situation."
Vikram forced a smirk. "When am I not?"
But the Immortal didn't laugh. The look in his eyes only grew heavier.
"How bad is it?" Vikram asked, now genuinely unsettled.
The Immortal didn't mince words. "You cannot have power."
The words struck like a hammer to the chest. Even though Vikram had suspected, the confirmation landed with a finality that sent ripples through his very soul.
"…What do you mean?" he asked, though a part of him already knew.
The Immortal exhaled again, this time like a teacher breaking bad news to a stubborn student. "Your physique… rejects progression. Not resists it. Not slows it. Rejects it. Completely."
Vikram blinked. "So… like a cursed body?"
The Immortal shook his head. "No. Worse. Cursed physiques can be broken, reversed, reawakened. But this? This was built. Engineered. Someone carved this into your flesh, your meridians, your very essence. It's man-made."
The world seemed to quiet around them. Even the hum of the now-fading seal was gone.
"I… I have a body that rejects progression?" Vikram echoed, barely able to believe the words leaving his own mouth.
The Immortal nodded grimly. "Yes. And any attempt to break your limits—any genuine cultivation breakthrough—your body will turn on itself. It will drain your life force to stop you."
"…So I'm done?" Vikram asked.
The Immortal tilted his head. "You might still find limited success with weapon arts or non-core techniques—paths that don't involve personal cultivation. But forging a path to power like others? Becoming an Immortal? You're locked out. Shackled in place."
Silence again.
Then, slowly, Vikram's lips curled into a smile. It was cracked. Bitter. But determined.
"There's a way around, right? There's always a way around!"