I Got My System Late, But I'll Become Beastgod
Chapter 149: He Was My Brother

Chapter 149: He Was My Brother

The moment of silence after the battle was shattered by a sudden buzz inside Aamir’s head.

Ding!

The Gatekeeper of the Dungeon deems you worthy.

You have been rewarded.

Level Up!

Level Up!

Level Up!

You have reached Level 80.

Congratulations! Your skill [Beastlord’s Domain] has leveled up.

Beastlord’s Domain – Level 5

Skill [Pulse Fortress Style] has leveled up.

Pulse Fortress Style – Level 5

You have received a reward for conquering the Ancient Dungeon.

2x Complete Recovery Orbs

Do you wish to use one now, or store both for later?

Aamir’s lips curled into a light smirk. "So I’ve got two of these..." he muttered, opening the system panel with a thought. "Use one now."

At his command, a radiant green aura burst from within his chest, flowing outward in pulsing waves. It enveloped his entire body like a calming storm. Every wound, bruise, and scratch melted away. The exhaustion in his muscles vanished, and his mind felt clearer than it had in days.

But that wasn’t all.

Across the field, Lurkur, who sat slumped with dried blood across his scales, blinked as the energy washed over him. His gashes began to heal. His breath stabilized.

Complete Recovery effect extended to subordinates.

Aamir cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders. "That’s more like it."

Vyuk watched silently from a few feet away, arms crossed.

"You’ve got way too many secrets, kid."

Aamir chuckled. "Well... it’s not like I can use that power freely. It kinda... just happens when it wants to."

Vyuk snorted. "Convenient."

He turned toward the still-open gate. A warm golden light flickered within it — a sign that the dungeon no longer posed a threat.

"Now that the gate’s broken and the dungeon’s yours, you can leave whenever you want. But before you do... there’s something I need to tell you."

Aamir raised a brow. "What is it?"

Without answering, Vyuk walked a little farther into the clearing, then sat cross-legged on the ground, his cloak settling like a shadow around him. Aamir motioned toward Lurkur.

"Go scout the perimeter."

Lurkur nodded, vanishing with a sudden whoosh of air.

Aamir sat down beside Vyuk, resting his forearms on his knees. The tension between them shifted into something heavier — not threatening, but sacred.

Vyuk didn’t waste time.

"I’m going to tell you what happened seventeen hundred years ago."

"The truth about Zorwath."

Aamir’s eyes sharpened. "So... you really knew him?"

Vyuk nodded slowly. "More than knew. I grew with him. We rose together... and we fell together."

He turned his head slightly, not looking at Aamir but staring at the swirling sky above.

"He was my brother."

The battlefield still crackled with fading embers of magic. Dust settled, but the weight in the air hadn’t lifted. Aamir set motionless, his eyes locked onto Vyuk — the mysterious ally who had helped turn the tide... yet now carried a revelation that made time freeze.

"You called Zorwath your brother... what do you mean?" Aamir’s voice was calm, but his fists clenched slightly.

Vyuk didn’t answer right away. His expression darkened, eyes losing focus, as if gazing into a world that no longer existed.

"Yes," Vyuk finally said. "We weren’t bound by blood... but by something deeper. A bond forged in fire, trials, and eternity. Stronger than any bloodline."

Aamir took a cautious step closer, sensing the change in Vyuk’s tone. The battlefield had gone quiet, yet something was about to erupt — not in power, but in truth.

Vyuk’s gaze drifted toward the cloudy sky. His voice dropped, heavier now, like an echo carried through ancient winds.

"It began long before this continent ever saw kingdoms...

When the world was still young. When mana flowed freely, unbound, wild. When we... were not men."

Aamir furrowed his brows. "Then what were you?"

Vyuk let out a breath — not of exhaustion, but of memory.

"We were beings shaped by the world itself. Not born, but manifested. In those days, mana wasn’t tamed. Mages were weak, barely able to cast sparks. But those with high aptitude... they weren’t seen as humans. They were called divine. Worshipped."

He looked directly into Aamir’s eyes now.

"And among them, Zorwath and I were the strongest. Not because we had power... but because we understood it."

Vyuk began to walk forward slowly, his cloak trailing behind him.

"This story... will shatter your understanding of the old world. So sit tight, kid."

"Because what I’m about to tell you... isn’t history. It’s the reason your world exists the way it does."

And thus, the tale began.

1700 years ago...

The world was different then. Wilder. Raw. Mana surged like untamed rivers through the skies, mountains, and oceans — yet the people of Vedanpur, a humble village in the heart of ancient Aryavrata, lived untouched by its flow.

Nestled between sloping hills and thick forest groves, Vedanpur wasn’t known for magic. Its people couldn’t summon flames, heal with light, or bend water to their will. They had no aptitude for mana.

But they had something else.

Skill.

From intricate wood carvings to master-forged blades, from handwoven silk to durable clay vessels — everything that left Vedanpur’s soil was a masterpiece. Traders from magical cities traveled long distances just to barter for their goods.

And yet, despite their craft being sought after, the villagers remained humble. Simple homes made of stone and sunbaked clay lined the narrow streets. Children played with wooden toys, while the elderly shared ancient tales under banyan trees.

The mana-rich nobles and sorcerers who passed through often looked down on them.

"A village with no light," they’d sneer.

"No talents. No future."

But the people of Vedanpur smiled anyway. They had learned long ago that not all power came from mana.

One such morning, the sun cast a soft golden glow over the village rooftops. Birds chirped from tiled edges as smoke from breakfast fires curled into the air. The scent of warm roti and burnt ghee drifted through the alleys.

Near the edge of the village, two young boys raced each other up a hill — both barefoot, laughing.

One was slightly taller, with ruffled black hair and sharp eyes that held curiosity beyond his years. The other was quieter, gentler, with brown curls and a habit of picking up every injured bird he found.

Neither of them had shown the slightest spark of mana.

But the taller boy would always say:

"Who needs magic when your hands can build anything?"

And the other would answer with a small smile:

"And what if our hearts are stronger than spells?"

Their names — Vaibhav and Zorawar — meant little to the world at the time.

They were just two boys. Powerless. Unremarkable.

The breeze on the hilltop was gentle, brushing through the grass like a whisper from the past. The sun was high, painting the earth in gold. On a small patch of dirt, surrounded by scattered pebbles and half-built wooden toys, two boys stood—barefoot, sun-touched, and full of dreams.

Zorawar gripped a carved wooden stick, jagged and crooked from yesterday’s firewood pile. He held it up, eyes narrowed, feet firmly planted.

"Look at this, Vyuk," he said, his voice full of childlike pride. "With this sword, I could cut through steel."

Vaibhav, who everyone in the village called Vyuk, snorted from where he was sitting cross-legged in the grass. "That’s not even a sword, idiot. It’s a stick."

Zorawar frowned, not lowering the ’blade’. "You’re disturbing the flow, man. Just imagine it."

Vyuk laughed, hands raised in surrender. "Alright, alright! My bad. I’m sorry, Sir Holy Knight."

Zorawar smirked. He swung the stick a couple of times in the air — each move slow, dramatic, as if he were dueling invisible monsters. "One day... I’ll be like him."

Vyuk tilted his head. "Like who?"

Zorawar’s eyes lit up. "The Holy Knight Karunik."

"No magic. No mana affinity. And still... one of the strongest warriors in Aryavrata."

Vyuk leaned back on his elbows, watching his friend with a quiet grin. "You’ve really got it bad for that guy, huh?"

"Why wouldn’t I?" Zorawar said, lowering his wooden sword. "He was born like us. Powerless. The world didn’t care about him. But he trained. He protected people. He proved that strength isn’t just mana."

For a moment, silence returned between them — not awkward, but thoughtful.

Zorawar stared up at the sky.

"If he can rise without magic... then maybe we can too."

Vyuk nodded slowly. The wind carried his friend’s words across the hill, unnoticed by the world — but not forgotten.

The wooden stick was now resting on Zorawar’s shoulder like a legendary blade. He walked in slow, dramatic circles as if patrolling an imaginary battlefield.

Vyuk lay sprawled in the grass, arms behind his head, watching the clouds.

After a long pause, Vyuk said, "You know, yesterday I learned to make a blackspine bow. Dad finally let me touch the real stuff. Showed me how to carve the grip too."

Zorawar’s eyes widened for a second, but then he raised his chin smugly. "Pfft. I learned that before you. Weeks ago."

Vyuk turned his head and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah... show-off." He grinned. "Still cool though, right? Just imagine—one day I’ll hunt a demon beast myself. Use its bones to craft a real weapon. Not this stick business."

Zorawar lowered his fake sword and nodded, a rare moment of sincerity breaking through the fun.

"Yeah. And I’ll help you with that. We’ll hunt it together."

The two boys locked eyes for a second and smiled.

Their dreams were foolish by the standards of the world. Neither could channel mana. Neither had shown even a flicker of magical aptitude. But in that moment, none of that mattered.

All that mattered was the promise. And the belief that, together, they could do anything.