My Charity System made me too OP

Roselia trained beside him most often, her bladeplay synchronizing effortlessly with his now-elevated Shell Pulse tempo. Sometimes, they didn't speak for hours—just moved, sweat, adapted. Trust built not through words but through rhythm.

Naval, reserved as ever, helped tune Leon's senses with silent sparring—focusing on the unseen, the subtle motions, the slight tells. His style, all faint breath and displacement, proved the perfect foil to Leon's explosiveness.

Roman ran simulations, clashing golems made from volcanic ore to test Leon's endurance and counter-strategy. And Liliana? She took a scholarly role, helping Leon theorize what might lie in the next tiers above—even scrying echoes of distant domains, collecting scattered pages of Ascender lore.

But Milim—wild, wonderful Milim—she was the one who never let Leon sit still too long.

"Hey, lazybones!" she called, diving into the training yard one morning and nearly breaking the shock wards with her arrival. "The ants are calling you something new now."

Leon looked up mid-swing, sweat flicking from his brow. "What?"

"The Walking Quake. Apparently you broke the south arena's foundation when you countered that last Shell Reverb pulse."

He blinked, then chuckled. "Fitting."

A few Obsidian Ant apprentices watched from the higher balconies. Some took notes. Others simply stared in silent awe. One bold youngling had even crafted a miniature replica of Leon's staff and carried it everywhere.

In the following evenings, more honors followed. A mural began forming on the side of the arena—etched not in paint but by mana-burning crystal, slowly drawing the key moments of Leon's climb from Rank 100 to 1. The final panel remained incomplete, waiting for what would come next.

And something was coming.

Because three days after his victory, Elder Vurr'Zhen returned—not with another lesson, but a sealed scroll.

Leon met him alone in the amphitheater, just as the twilight spores began to drift in through the vents.

The elder handed over the scroll without ceremony.

"This is not instruction," he said. "It is invitation. And warning."

Leon unrolled it.

The glyphs were ancient—older than the Ant race itself. They pulsed faintly with primal force.

A single phrase dominated the center:

"Descend to the Rift's Vein."

Leon's eyes narrowed.

Vurr'Zhen continued, "There are levels below even this one. Forbidden floors. Hidden behind trials and veils. Few Ascenders know of them. Fewer still return."

Leon met his gaze. "You're saying… the true purpose of the Shellfire wasn't to test me?"

The elder shook his head slowly. "It was to prepare you."

A silence followed.

Then Leon grinned.

"Then I better get even stronger."

Leon stood beneath the obsidian archway that marked the threshold to the Rift's Vein—an ancient entrance sealed by layered glyphs of power, guarded by time and silence rather than warriors. Behind him, the city still echoed with celebration. Songs were being sung about his victory, apprentices sparring in imitation of his techniques, elders offering rare blessings to his team. But Leon's mind had already moved on.

The mural of his battles remained unfinished for a reason. His fight wasn't over.

The scroll Vurr'Zhen had given him now shimmered faintly in his hand, its runes responding to the proximity of the sealed door. As he stepped forward, the glyphs on the arch activated, flaring like solar veins. One by one, they unwound with soundless cracks, ancient locks falling away.

Roselia, standing beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Are you really doing this now? We just made it to the top."

Leon looked at her, then beyond her—at Roman, Liliana, Milim, and Naval, all standing quietly in the shadow of the monument they had helped him build.

"This isn't the end," he said. "Not yet. I can feel it. This… was the first summit. But there's something underneath. Something connected to my Origin Pulse. To the Abyss Mana. Even to my Destiny Berserker core."

Liliana stepped forward, adjusting her monocle. "If the glyphs on that scroll are accurate, the Rift's Vein is a sealed proto-dimension. A convergence point between all subterranean pulse lines. It predates the Obsidian Ants. Predates even the Ascension Spires."

Roman crossed his arms. "Which means whatever's down there isn't going to follow normal rules. Might not even follow time."

Naval nodded slowly. "We'll come with you."

Leon shook his head.

"I have to go alone. At least through the first descent. This isn't about challenge rankings anymore. This is… personal. It's about understanding everything that's changing inside me."

Milim, uncharacteristically serious, sighed. "Fine. But you'd better come back with a new transformation or something. I've already trademarked 'Tier X Pummel King' for your future title."

Leon gave her a wry grin, then stepped through the archway.

The glyphs closed behind him, sealing the passage once more.

Darkness swallowed him whole—but it wasn't empty.

The Rift's Vein wasn't a place. It was a wound in the world. A break where the raw chaos of magic, time, and law had bled for millennia without healing. Here, echoes didn't just linger—they lived. Every step forward pulled at his soul. Every breath tasted like forgotten fates.

At the base of the obsidian spiral path, he found the first marker—a floating core of pure Echo, shaped like a cracked heart. It pulsed, and with each beat, a memory surged into his mind. Not his own. Others'. Lives lost here. Battles never recorded.

Then the voice came.

Old. Layered. Not hostile… but testing.

"You are not the first to walk this wound. But you may be the first to understand it. Speak your name, and offer your pain."

Leon stood still for a moment, then raised his head.

"Leon," he said. "Ascender. Tier VIII. Rank 1 of Floor 3000. Bearer of Shell Pulse, Reverb, Absolute Return, and Origin Flame."

He opened his arms, revealing the scars left from every battle. His flesh shimmered with the traces of Abyss mana, Destruction script, and the fractal marks of Gold Magic.

"I offer every wound I've survived. Every battle I thought would be my last. Every comrade I've bled beside. If that's not enough…"

He extended his hand—and called his Staff.

"…then I'll carve the answer from this place myself."

The core responded.

It broke apart—not in destruction, but in transformation.

And from the fragments, a path of radiant, whispering crystal formed—leading deeper into the Rift's Vein.

The real challenge had begun. Not against another champion.

But against the truth of what Leon was becoming.