Chapter 47: Traveling Alone

"Mo Wen, are you okay? The communication was jammed just now, so I couldn't reach you. But I want you to know that even as some people belittle and despise you, there are others supporting you."

Ren Sisi's voice echoed in Mo Wen's ear as she tried hard to cheer up the terrifying-looking Mo Wen... though he seemed to have looked like this ever since this battle began.

The silent monster gazed straight ahead. In his eyes, there was only one path, one direction, one goal. To achieve it, he would trample upon every moral law and legal code in the world, crushing all who dared to stand in his way.

Yet, as if Mo Wen's demeanor just a moment ago had been nothing more than an illusion of Ren Sisi's, he replied in a raspy, gentle voice, "Faction conflict. It's normal."

"We cannot let the deaths of the others be in vain."

"Next, get ready to support me in cracking those seventy quadrillion questions. I don't understand that stuff; finishing it in nine minutes will depend entirely on you."

Ren Sisi said with confidence, "No problem—"

Before she could finish, Mo Wen felt his connection with her snap.

Did the remnants of [The Corporation] jam the psionic signal? Was her computing matrix destroyed? Or was it simply that the Stairway to Divinity forbade cheating?

She should still be alive, right...

Regardless, there was no one left by his side.

Seventy quadrillion steps, seventy quadrillion questions—could he answer them all?

Without even thinking, Mo Wen knew he couldn't do it alone.

His past was defined entirely by pain: dying over and over again, being tormented, struggling to overcome enemies, only to be struck down by the next formidable foe.

Bickering, dying, growing stronger... Trapped in this tedious cycle, he had no experience ruling over others, nor had he ever really communicated much with people.

Even if he forced out answers, he doubted the Stairway would ever acknowledge them.

Yet, he still wished to reach the Throne of Gods, to witness firsthand what kind of person Qi Shiming truly was, to see if Number Zero possessed any insurmountable flaws, and to make his final choice before the dust settled.

And... if necessary, he wanted to seize that power for himself.

If he became powerful enough, he would no longer fear death; he could dictate his own destiny and embrace happiness.

Moreover, he wanted to resurrect his comrades.

Even if their connection was limited to this single battle, even if they had long since prepared themselves for death, even if it meant desecrating mortality... they deserved better than to simply perish like this.

"I need to break free from the framework of the Stairway to Divinity."

If he chose not to answer the questions, he would have to endure crushing pressure—pressure so intense that even Mo Wen's top-tier cybernetic body couldn't withstand it, though his psionics might.

The higher the energy level, the stronger the distortion of reality, to the point where it could manifest raw power out of thin air. However, this demanded extreme focus, and his Dreamweaver might give out first.

Additionally, if he wanted to forcibly bypass the Stairway to Divinity, its distance-altering effects would likely no longer favor him, forcing him to literally fly across the abyss-like chasms between each step.

Mo Wen wasn't sure how far that distance actually was, but 117 had mentioned that Qi Shiming would resurrect in 9 minutes and 20 seconds. If translated into the distance traveled by light, this duration corresponded to the distance between the star Aviel and its host star—which was likely the actual physical distance he would need to traverse through a forced leap.

Under time acceleration, his subjective speed relative to the outside world was heightened, meaning he should be able to reach the Throne of Gods before the resurrection occurred, but his actual velocity remained unchanged.

At 35 times the speed of sound, covering this distance would take 14,117,647 seconds, or 235,294 minutes, or 3,921 hours, or 163 days.

Maintaining a state of extreme concentration while moving forward alone for 163 days along a path with no end in sight would be an absolute impossibility for anyone else on this planet. But for Mo Wen, he could at least try.

Mo Wen concentrated his focus.

The crushing weight, heavy enough to immobilize his cybernetic body, was truly neutralized by Mo Wen's psionics in the absence of other interfering enemies, leaving him even with enough leeway to accelerate.

He charged forward at full speed toward the direction of Number Zero as indicated by his psionic perception.

Cruel boredom was the first to attack Mo Wen.

The learning device he had purchased earlier had been busy cramming combat skills into his brain, leaving no room to install entertainment media. With no network connection available now, Mo Wen had nothing to pass the time except his own imagination.

Meanwhile, because he was moving too fast, no sound could catch up to Mo Wen. The world in his ears was utterly silent, devoid of anything save the hums and notifications of his own cybernetics.

Nor were there any sights to behold on the Stairway to Divinity; before his eyes lay only repeating colors and shapes, utterly devoid of novelty. It was enough to make one think they weren't moving forward at all, but merely repeating themselves in the exact same space.

Fortunately, psionic perception allowed Mo Wen to lock onto his destination and confirm that the distance between them was shrinking.

Yet his mental state and the stability of his cybernetic body continued to deteriorate rapidly.

[Cybernetic Stability: 0%]

His comrades had traded their lives to take down powerful enemies and leave Mo Wen in peak condition, but their efforts would be exhausted long before he reached the Throne of Gods.

The atomic clock in his cybernetic body indicated that eight days had already passed—less than one-tenth of this arduous journey.

Yet Mo Wen did not stop.

The fact that his cybernetics could no longer suppress his psionics did not mean he would be unable to keep moving the next second.

Another facet of his psionic power—jokingly dubbed the "Super Kill-Resistant King" by Mo Wen—came into play.

He would not die so easily.

Psionics shattered his brain, overflowing from his soul into his physical form, continuously eroding his cybernetics and his life, yet his regeneration and destruction achieved a delicate balance.

In every fleeting instant, Mo Wen could feel the itching sensation of new nerves sprouting and the burning pain of those same nerves melting away. The meager flesh left in his body continuously transmitted pain of astonishing clarity.

Pain, that cruel and eager old friend, had presented him with yet another breathtakingly exquisite new gift.

Ah, though perhaps it couldn't be called a new gift.

Long, agonizing memories of death were crawling out, bit by bit, from the deepest recesses of Mo Wen's consciousness.

Unlike the previous occasion, where death had merely been a simple flood of recollections, this time he felt it with stark clarity.

His greatest fear. His ultimate despair.

Unable to live, unable to die, incapable of even crying out, left entirely at the mercy of passing time to endure everything inflicted upon him, utterly helpless to change a thing.

Yet, unlike that past instance, the power to surrender was now held firmly in Mo Wen's own hands.

The moment he chose to let go of his obsession with survival, the equilibrium of his regeneration would shatter, allowing him to die effortlessly and return to the [Resurrection Point].

He could even burst into tears, wail loudly, and vent his agony to his heart's content.

But Mo Wen refused to die.

"I reject death."

"I reject peace."

"I reject this failure."

"Until my goal is achieved..."

"I will never die!"

Power—growing ever stronger, power that felt formidable enough to conquer everything and ravage the entire world—surged forth endlessly.

There were many factors influencing psionic energy levels: innate talent, the duration of one's conscious existence, the pain experienced and overcome, and the desire and determination to achieve one's goal.

Without a doubt, Mo Wen had maxed out every single one of them.