Magical Soul Parade - Chapter 246: Paper Prisons

Chapter 246: Paper Prisons

“The floor is all yours, Arros.”

Althea took a step back, recognizing that Finn clearly knew what exactly the inheritance was. Coupled with the fact that he was the only one with divine essence, from her perspective it was a no-brainer decision.

Finn glanced at her cursorily and offered a short nod of acknowledgment, though his mind was clearly occupied.

Already, he was thinking of how to go about claiming this inheritance that he definitely knew was a soul mass. There were too many thoughts going through his head. Thoughts about whether it would be the same as assimilating a soul mass from the future timeline. Thoughts about whether that would even work at all, seeing as he lacked any Ossuarist abilities here.

There were even counter-thoughts about whether he should be thinking about it from that angle at all. He was in a world where divinity existed. The Crimson Fist Tyrant had also been divine. In fact, a very powerful divine — a Rank III Divine entity.

How sure was he then, that the green flame-like thing burning in the statue’s chest was actually a soul mass? Was he simply drawing wrong correlations from his future timeline? It may be similar, but turn out to be entirely different.

And even if it was in fact a soul mass, and even if his attempt at assimilating it like an Ossuarist, despite not being an Ossuarist currently, worked, there was still the fact that the soul mass had belonged to an extremely powerful beast when it was alive.

Back in his timeline he’d been nothing but a humble Grade 3 Initiate Ossuarist seeking promotion to Grade 2. While he knew his soul strength was said to be Grade 2 Initiate level at least — by Althea at the time — he had still never been officially graded with that rank. And even if he had been, that was still many leagues lower than what was required to assimilate a soul mass of this strength.

By Finn’s deduction from what he’d witnessed of the Crimson Fist Tyrant’s life, he had come to the conclusion that only Preceptor rank Ossuarists could handle the Tyrant’s soul. And that was giving them the benefit of the doubt. He truly didn’t have a frame of reference for how powerful a peak Preceptor rank Ossuarist could be.

Either way, the essence of it all was that Finn was no Preceptor rank Ossuarist. His soul strength was not on such a level… at least back in the future…

Just how much have I improved since then? he thought. Could I really have jumped so high in soul strength over the past couple of years?

He didn’t know. And he didn’t have the luxury of finding out before committing.

But he’d already settled into a realization about how to proceed. Somewhere underneath all the deliberation he had come to the conclusion that whether this was divine essence, or a soul mass, or some ancient mixture of both that this era had no clean name for — he didn’t care anymore. The lines between all those separate power systems had blurred to him now. Standing in this chamber after everything the temple had put him through, the distinctions felt irrelevant.

He had instead decided to focus on the most basic truth of all of them.

The Soul.

That was the single commonality between every power system he’d ever encountered, be it Transcendent mana-based power, Ossuarist soul-based power, or even Divine essence. At the core crux of every single one, the soul was the main driving force. He simply needed to interact with the inheritance at a soul level. Whether by Ossuarist methods or by cooking up something else entirely on the spot — that part he’d figure out as he went.

The real dilemma now was whether his soul had grown strong enough to overpower the Tyrant’s.

Don’t overthink it, Finn. He tried to build momentum. If your hunch is correct, you’ve already done this before.

“How gruelling it is,” the Blessed suddenly spoke from behind him. “Watching one with everything suffer themself for naught.”

He turned to look at her. Her black-abyss eyes bore into his, staring past the surface of him entirely.

“Why remain bound by fickle chains and paper prisons…”

Finn’s gaze flickered, something unreadable crossing his eyes as the Blessed spoke.

“Are you not the Errant?” she said. “Are you not the Heretic?”

The words of the Blessed seemed to trigger something in Finn, as immediately, he turned and headed directly for the statue, Althea and the Blessed watching silently behind.

The green flame burned brighter with each purposeful step he took. It was as if the Tyrant’s soul sensed his presence, his will, his determination, and refused to allow it to stand unchallenged, imposing itself to remind him that it was the soul of a Tyrant.

But Finn continued unabated. He forged forward with confident strides, a look of unbroken focus in his eyes. They were locked onto the green flame that was now raging like an inferno, rapidly spreading across the entire length of the statue’s chest, then its arms, then its entire body until the stone figure blazed from head to foot.

The space around the statue began to ripple and deform in that familiar way chaotic soul masses did. And with that deformation, the full might of the soul spread across the chamber like a wave.

It hit Finn like a physical thing, making him stagger mid-step. It spread outward further and sent Althea skidding back, her arm raised to shield her face from the roiling energy. Ailin’s hair fluttered wildly about her shoulders, but she stood still, watching calmly as Finn ground his feet into the stone and tried to push forward against the force with sheer will.

It was a daunting task.

The billowing waves that had only made him stagger at first were now pushing him back steadily, costing him ground he’d already covered. His boots scraped against the stone floor. His jaw tightened.

The Blessed watched on.

With each passing second the situation looked more impossible. All the bravado and confident strides from before seemed useless now.

Yet the Blessed watched on. Her deep gaze more insistent.

Finn’s body trembled. His bones creaked under the weight of the rapidly soaring might pressing against him. It was no longer just an inheritance; it was a battle. The Tyrant’s soul was questioning him directly. Asking whether he was deserving. Whether he had the strength to claim authority over it.

Althea was doubled over near the chamber walls, pushed fully to the edge of the room by the forces at play.

Yet the Blessed didn’t bat an eye. She simply looked on, her gaze firmly on Finn the entire time.

Finn couldn’t feel her gaze. He couldn’t sense anything of what was happening behind him, fully occupied by the pressure attacking not just his body but his soul directly. It was only by pure will that he was still standing at all.

This is futile. Finn thought through his dazed struggle.

My soul can’t keep up with this kind of power. He could feel his resistance fading. The effort it took just to hold his position was exceeding what he had to give. He was going to lose.

What did I even think was going to happen? That I was going to push through with will alone?

His body begged to let go. His soul wanted things to simply take their course.

Are you not the Errant? Are you not the Heretic? What had she meant by that?

Thinking outside the box? Not being bound by rules?

But there were no rules to break here. His bravado from earlier had been exactly that — an attempt to find rules to break. There had been none. This was simply a fight between a superior soul and a lesser soul. There was no breaking that logic. That wasn’t a rule. That was just what was true.

…Really, though? Finn thought, the beginnings of something crazy starting to form in his mind. Is there really no way to break that logic…?

A fight between souls assumed a soul was a fixed quantity. His soul against the Tyrant’s. One against one. He was losing because one was clearly larger. That was the entirety of the situation, laid bare.

But a fixed quantity assumed the soul had borders that couldn’t move.

But what if they could?

He couldn’t manufacture soul strength he didn’t have. He couldn’t inflate his own soul through sheer desire. That wasn’t how any of this worked, in any system he’d ever encountered. That logic was airtight.

But what if I could borrow strength…? Steal soul strength…?

The thought was insane. He recognized that immediately, in the same moment he thought of it.

Souls weren’t external resources. Consciousness wasn’t something you reached into another person and drew from. Everything he’d ever learned treated the soul as singular, entirely contained within the being it belonged to. That wasn’t a rule someone had written down and enforced. That was simply what was real.

But he was the Errant.

And paper prisons… were still prisons.

He stopped trying to push forward. Stopped directing everything outward against the Tyrant’s pressure. Instead, he turned his consciousness inward… and then, carefully, like a man testing ice he wasn’t sure would hold, spread his consciousness outward in a completely different direction.

Toward Ailin.

He didn’t know what he was doing. That was the honest truth of it. He had a half-formed idea and no methodology and the vague, desperate shape of a gamble. He reached toward her consciousness the way you reached toward something in the dark… feeling for the edge of her.

And then…