The Path of Power (The Emperor Trials)

Chapter 84 : Boiling anger

When Philip finally stirred, the pain was gone—completely gone. His body, once battered and broken, now pulsed with vigor. Every movement felt effortless, like gravity itself had lightened around him. But it wasn't just his body that had changed.

Across the shattered chamber, the god T'zaruun watched him.

Silently.

Unblinking.

The expression on the ancient being's face was not rage, nor pain—but pure disbelief.

For the first time in millennia, a god felt fear.

"How is he alive?" T'zaruun's thoughts echoed in the void.

"He took in my essence. A mortal. That should have turned him to ash or left him cursed and twisted beyond recognition."

Instead, the boy stood—alive. Not only alive… but thriving. His aura rippled with an unfamiliar force. It wasn't divine. It wasn't mortal. It was something in-between.

Philip blinked, turning his head toward the god.

"You're quiet," he said flatly, voice like stone.

He couldn't tell how strong he was now. His mana core had reformed itself after the battle, but it pulsed with something far deeper—denser than anything he'd ever held before. And yet, without the Book, he had no way of knowing his stats, his limits, or even what his body was fully capable of.

"Damn… I really miss that book," he muttered.

It was the only tool that ever gave him an accurate sense of self—his numbers, his affinities, his new powers. Now, he felt like a blade without a hilt.

He wandered briefly through the remains of the prison realm, observing the shattered pillars, blood-stained stones, and echoes of ancient torment. There was nothing left to gain here.

It was time to leave.

He raised a hand to his forehead gem, now glowing steadily with a quiet golden light. Channeling a small stream of essence into it, he felt the gem begin to resonate—searching for pathways, coordinates, even cracks in the fabric of space.

A response came.

The gem linked with the prison's spatial signature—but there was a problem.

This place, this prison, wasn't tied to any fixed point in reality. Crossing the Void from here would send him somewhere random. A forgotten world. A sealed dimension. Maybe even somewhere worse.

He paused.

"I need something more stable. Something safe."

Then an idea struck.

He requested access—not into the temple directly, but into the access view of the temple. The observation layer.

The prison realm was indeed listed.

Restricted, yes.

But still catalogued.

Philip focused. He let his spirit drift across the link, allowing axis ' authority to guide him. A moment later, he sensed a structure within the prison he hadn't noticed before—an ancient altar, pulsing softly with layered runes.

He approached.

It was smaller than he expected, circular, carved into the stone with threads of golden energy running like veins through its surface.

He stepped onto it.

And vanished.

Before Philip returned back to earth, he made a detour to the Training Chamber. Though he had wielded the Lightning Fist against T'zaruun, he knew deep down that he hadn't mastered it.

The lightning he conjured was powerful, yes—but it was chaotic, unfocused, and insufficient against divine-tier beings in full strength. The only reason it had even harmed the dark god was because T'zaruun had been weakened, already bound by the prison, and Philip had struck at the perfect moment, empowered by instinct and a near-death fury.

"If I'd tried that against a full-powered god…"

"No—against a demi-god, even—I'd have died."

So he practiced.

Body and soul.

Hours passed in deep cultivation.

He channeled mana into his tendons and bones, refined the Supreme Body, then focused on shaping the Lightning Fist—not just as a weapon, but as an extension of his will. Slowly, he felt the energy stabilize. Instead of wild arcs, the lightning began to hum in his palm, dense and concentrated, like compressed wrath.

When he was satisfied—for now—he sat, letting his body calm. But a sharp tension lingered in his heart.

"How long have I been gone from Earth?"

Without waiting longer, he activated his gem. Since he had already marked the pyramid in Abakaliki, he used it as his return point. The coordinates were clean. The link was familiar.

In a flash of mana, he vanished.

He emerged beneath the warm Nigerian sky—The sun had already risen.

a sudden unease crept up on him.

Without hesitation, Philip teleported directly to his home.

The moment he appeared in front of the compound, his heart sank.

His barrier was shattered.

Smoke rose from the front lawn, the ground was torn apart, and ominous shadows clung to the walls like hungry beasts. His barrier—engraved with layered protections and mana threads—had been ripped open violently.

Inside, the battle still raged.

He rushed forward—and what he saw made his heart stop.

His younger brother was slumped near the steps, chest bleeding from a deep gash. His breaths were ragged, weak. Near him, his sister stood, her body radiating with pure light energy.

Her form had shifted—her skin gleamed, her eyes glowed like tiny suns, and from her outstretched hands, beams of condensed light tore into the shadowy attackers.

She had created a barrier of light, a shimmering dome that protected the inner house. The attackers—twisted, humanoid monsters with bone armor and elongated limbs—pounded against it.

Gutterborns servants of the church of darkness

They wanted her.

His parents—he scanned. Nothing.

Gone?

A deep rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.

Philip's body lifted slowly into the air, his eyes glowing with cold fury. Lightning danced across his skin. His fists curled.

The first Gutterborn didn't even see it coming.

With a blur of movement and a crack of thunder, Philip appeared in front of it and punched. The impact detonated the creature's entire body—bone, blood, and ash scattered like dust.

The rest froze.He didn't wait.

Philip moved again, this time with control. One by one, he incapacitated the remaining four, capturing them with mana tendrils before they could flee or explode.

He dropped three of them from the sky with such force that their bones splintered across the courtyard.

Only the leader remained.

As the dust settled, the sky above his house had changed—clouds blackened, lightning churned, and the winds howled like they too were angry.

Philip hovered above, face blank, eyes burning.

The Gutterborn leader—barely alive—trembled.

"Who sent you?" Philip asked, his voice like a drumbeat of the storm.

The creature did not answer.

Philip raised his fist.

The storm listened.