In the shadows of the S Ranked Main character
Chapter 54: No way out(8)

Chapter 54: No way out(8)

June jolted upright, gasping, his hands clenching into the fabric of the cold stone beneath him.

For a second for a long, disorienting second — his heart hammered in his chest like it was trying to break free. His eyes darted wildly across the space, breath shaky, every inch of him trembling as if he had just clawed his way out of a nightmare that was far too real.

His vision cleared.

He wasn’t in the war-torn fields.

He wasn’t on the cracked marble floor of Veldax’s court.

He wasn’t wearing a Slave’s Crown, wasn’t bearing the weight of ancient rot, wasn’t surrounded by generals and abominations and dragons.

He was in the Prism.

The cold, magic-soaked chamber, veined with pale blue and purple light.

The relic Prism.

June’s fists slowly unclenched, his arms trembling faintly as he stared down at himself. His own clothes. His own body. No monstrous strength, no centuries of hardened battle scars, no kingdom, no crown.

Just him.

The trial

the years of war, the rise of a kingdom, the fall, the rot, the dragon’s gift

none of it had been real.

It had been the trial.

A fabricated, forced memory.

His throat felt dry, raw.

His voice scraped out in a low, hoarse whisper:

"...that wasn’t me."

The realization hit hard.

Whatever the Prism had just forced him through

whatever madness it had conjured, whatever test it had devised

it hadn’t been about him.

It had been about someone else.

Someone who had walked a path like that before.

Someone whose imprint, whose history, was buried deep inside the Prism’s twisted magic.

The relics didn’t test with illusions.

They tested with truths.

And sometimes... they used the echoes of past wielders, past failures, past stories as the bait.

June sagged forward, his hands bracing on his knees as he struggled to steady his breathing. His golden eyes flicked faintly, sharp despite the exhaustion, the haze, the spinning in his head.

"Alright," he muttered softly, almost to himself.

"Alright. So it wasn’t my story."

He swallowed hard, straightened slowly.

"...Then whose was it?"

He looked around, taking in the faint pulse of the walls, the subtle flicker of the Prism’s colors.

The trial had let him go.

But the answers —

the real ones, the ones buried beneath the layers of magic and memory —

those were still waiting deeper inside.

June narrowed his eyes faintly, his grin twitching just slightly at the corner of his mouth despite the pounding ache in his skull.

"Fine," he murmured under his breath.

"Let’s see how deep this rabbit hole goes."

Without another word, he pushed himself up to his feet, shook the lingering tremors from his fingers, and stepped forward — deeper into the Prism’s maze, leaving the false memories, the old wars, and the ghosts of someone else’s past behind him.

June moved carefully now, one hand trailing faintly along the cracked stone wall as he advanced deeper into the Prism. His golden eyes flicked side to side, sharp and restless, watching for any flicker of magic, any trap, any shift in the air.

The Prism pulsed faintly under his feet — not with hostile intent, not this time. It felt... quieter. Almost like it was holding its breath, waiting for him to come closer.

June’s boots crunched softly over uneven stone as he entered a long, narrow chamber. At its center stood a pedestal — not ornate, not gilded or glowing, just a simple block of rough-cut stone. Upon it rested a wide, cracked tablet, lines of ancient script etched deep into its surface.

June approached slowly, cautious, his sharp grin subdued now under the weight of something heavier.

As he drew near, the faintest shimmer of light pulsed across the tablet’s face —

and the words rearranged themselves.

They shaped into something readable, something clear:

The Story of the Slave King.

June felt his pulse tick up faintly.

> He was born nameless, faceless — one of hundreds, one of thousands,

a body pressed into the endless churn of labor, a voice drowned beneath the lash.

His masters called him nothing. His peers called him less.

He had no place.

No future.

No right to raise his eyes to the sun.

June’s eyes narrowed slightly as the script continued, pulsing faintly.

> And yet, beneath the weight of silence, he waited.

He shaped stone with his bleeding hands.

He buried his anger beneath cracked nails and shattered bones.

And when the day came — when his masters weakened,

when the chains loosened —

he did not run.

June could almost feel the shift in the air, like the faintest echo of old violence.

> He killed them.

Every last one.

He took the broken whip and fashioned a crown.

He leached their power, stole their magic, fed on their fear.

The nameless slave rose — not as a man,

but as a king.

The Slave King.

June’s heart thumped harder.

> His name was Regarded.

Not his birth name — no one knew that, not even him —

but the title given by those who knelt,

by those who followed,

by those who feared.

> He conquered fields, forests, mountains.

He fought demons and beasts, lords and queens.

He struck treaties with dark elves,

carved strongholds near the demon continent,

and ruled from a blackened throne

built on the backs of those who once spat on his name.

> Regar

The Slave King.

The one who clawed power from nothing

and reshaped the map.

June stood still, his breath faint in the quiet chamber.

But the tablet wasn’t done.

> Yet all things come with price.

For the Slave King’s hunger was endless.

His crown was cursed.

And when the dragon rose —

when Veldax, the golden calamity,

looked down upon the lands Regar had claimed

the Slave King bowed.

> He became a general,

a servant,

a vessel for the dragon’s will.

> Together they conquered the world.

Together they spread the banners of flame and shadow.

> But ambition is a double-edged sword.

> And the Slave King —

the man once known as Regar

was the one who bore the final burden.

He who carried the rot.

He who wore the crown that leached not just power,

but lifespan.

> In the end,

it was not his strength that saved the world from decay.

It was his sacrifice.

> For a slave born nameless,

to a king known only by title,

it was a fitting end:

to die unnamed,

so that others might live.

The words faded, the stone tablet dimming to stillness.

June stood there a long moment, one hand tightening faintly at his side.

"...Regar," he murmured softly.

A name not his.

A life not his.

But a story he’d been forced to wear, if only for a moment.

June let out a slow breath, his sharp grin twitching faintly back onto his face.

"Well, old king," he said quietly, "you’re one hell of a shadow to walk through."

He gave the tablet one last glance, then turned, his eyes narrowing toward the next path.

The Prism was still waiting.

The stories weren’t done yet.

And June

despite the weight in his chest, despite the flickers of memory he couldn’t shake

walked forward, ready to face whatever came next.

June moved forward, his boots crunching softly over the uneven floor of the Prism’s inner halls.

The tablet room had gone still behind him, its carved stories fading back into the deep hush of the Prism, as if satisfied it had delivered its message. But June didn’t linger. His sharp golden eyes stayed locked ahead, scanning every curve of the corridor, every faint shimmer along the cracked stone walls.

The path narrowed, winding left, then right, then dipping sharply downward. The deeper he went, the more the walls changed.

The smooth, rune-marked stone gave way to something darker.

Scorch marks.

Ash streaks.

Long gouges torn into the surface, as if some great claw had raked across the stone.

June’s brow furrowed. His usual cocky grin slipped slightly, his fingers twitching once at his side.

He didn’t like the feel of this.

Another sharp turn, another narrow corridor — and then the hallway opened.

Suddenly.

Abruptly.

June stepped out into a wide, ruined space.

And the first thing that hit him was the smell.

Ash.

Burnt wood.

A faint, old, metallic tang of scorched blood.

He stiffened, his eyes darting left, then right.

He was standing on the edge of a massive, burned-out village.

Charred houses leaned drunkenly against one another, half their walls collapsed, their roofs caved in. Stone wells sat cracked and crumbling, their rims blackened. Scattered tools — shattered plows, broken carts, rusted iron spears — lay half-buried in the scorched dirt.

Everywhere, the air hung heavy with the echo of old flame.

June’s grin faded fully now.

"...What the hell happened here?" he murmured under his breath.

He stepped cautiously forward, his boots sinking slightly into the ash-softened earth.

The Prism wasn’t showing him illusions. This wasn’t a memory echo, not like the last.

This was here.

This was now.

And something had torn this place apart.

June crouched briefly by a collapsed wall, running his fingers lightly over the charred stone.

Still faintly warm.

Not recent but not ancient, either.

He rose again, his lean frame tense, every sense stretched sharp.

A narrow path led deeper through the village, winding between collapsed homes and burned-out wells. At the far end, he could just barely make out the rise of another building — larger, its roof half gone, its beams scorched but still standing.

June narrowed his eyes.

No lights.

No movement.

But his gut twisted faintly, warning him.

He wasn’t alone.

Without a sound, June slipped forward, weaving lightly between the burned structures. His shadow flicked faintly across the scorched ground, the ash whispering under his steps.

And as he approached the far building —

the wind shifted.

Or no.

Not the wind.

A presence.

June’s chest tightened faintly. He clenched his fists, feeling the faint thrum of his magic flicker in his veins.

Whatever waited in that ruined hall

whatever had turned this village into a graveyard

he was about to meet it head-on.

He gave one last sharp breath, his grin twitching faintly back into place, his eyes gleaming gold in the dim light.

"Alright," June murmured softly to himself.

"Let’s see what you’ve got."

And without waiting another beat, he stepped fully into the burned hall.