I Was Reborn in Another World, But I Awoke Inside a Corpse

Chapter 111: Power Measured in Meaning 

The echoes of Itzpapalotl's voice had long since faded, but the pressure it left behind clung to the mountain air like frost on iron. Conversations had resumed, scattered and disjointed, yet they all orbited a single truth: something ancient had stirred, and the world was no longer the same.

People were moving again—slowly, cautiously. Some checked their weapons. Others huddled near portable wardstones and scribbled down frantic missives. The seal might have disappeared, but the fear hadn't. It had simply evolved—from panic to dread, from dread to strategy.

Yet among all the noise, one question lingered in every mind.

Who among them could stand against a being like that?

The answer, for most, was no one.

Not even their strongest.

Even now, they glanced toward the central figures on the ridge—Sylvalen, Volmyr, Atheon—and for the first time in years, people began to question if the word "S-rank" meant anything anymore.

Sylvalen Thalara, Ninth Princess of Elaraiya, had always stood apart from her peers. Gifted with royal blood and a soul steeped in elven magic, she bore power sharpened across centuries. Her Willpower and Intelligence easily surpassed mortal boundaries, and her Endurance had been tempered through both court and battlefield. She was revered not just for her beauty or grace, but for her terrifying efficiency in battle. Her stats, it was whispered, had long since broken the triple-digit ceiling in multiple categories.

Volmyr, the Dragon Prince, had been born into might. A creature of both heritage and brutality, he had cracked mountains with his claws, burned armies with a breath, and claimed dominion over the shattered skies of the southern frontier. His Strength, Agility, and Endurance were all legends in themselves. Many believed him to be the closest a beastkin could come to divinity.

And then there was Atheon, the golden-haired Demigod.

The son of Zeus.

Born of thunder and human royalty, Atheon was a paradox—divine blood flowing through a mortal heart. From a young age, the sky itself had whispered around him. He commanded storms as a child commands fireflies. His Charisma could bend the will of kings; his Strength could cleave through warded gates. With artifacts granted by Olympus and a lineage few dared even to speak aloud, Atheon had stood as a beacon of power across the continents.

But even he—even the blood of Zeus—had flinched when Itzpapalotl's name was spoken.

Because now they had seen what came after "S-rank."

They had seen what it meant to face a creature of divine hunger.

And for the first time, they all looked toward Isaac.

Not as a curiosity.

Not as a rising anomaly.

But as something else entirely.

Isaac stood near the cliff's edge, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He hadn't said a word since the seal faded. He didn't need to.

The wind coiled around him like a living thing. Not a whisper of magic—just the natural world reacting to his presence. His cloak barely shifted, yet even the frost dared not land on his boots.

He was still.

Utterly still.

But in that stillness, everyone who dared glance at him knew one thing:

He wasn't like them.

His stats, though hidden behind the veil of [False Manifest], had been glimpsed by a few—and it had broken them. Soulpiercer Sight users had collapsed. Diviners saw only a vast emptiness that returned their gaze. One desperate ranker had pushed past inspection limits to peek beneath the mask—and woke up an hour later weeping, unable to remember what he saw.

Strength: 10,799

Agility: 8,660

Endurance: 9,794

Intelligence: 6,784

Willpower: 5,634

Charisma: 4,488

Each number was its own kingdom.

Each value a statement: I have outgrown this world's limits.

Even Itzpapalotl, with her divine origin and monstrous stats, barely broke the 4,800 ceiling. Isaac had surpassed her in every known category.

Yet he wasn't celebrating.

He wasn't gloating.

Because raw power was never his goal.

Later, after the tension had bled into exhaustion and most had drifted back to their camps or command tents, Isaac remained on the ridge with only Sylvalen beside him.

The moon had risen low over the cliffs, casting silver light over the snow-dusted stones. Below them, the valley glittered with distant fires and magical wards. The world continued turning.

And yet, nothing felt the same.

Sylvalen broke the silence first.

"The others… they're shaken."

Isaac said nothing.

She continued. "Volmyr hasn't spoken more than three words since the seal vanished. Atheon tried to make a joke. It didn't land."

Isaac offered a small smile. "Not surprised."

She glanced at him. "But you weren't surprised at all."

"No."

"Not even at the stats?"

"I already expected them."

"You… expected a god to have that much power?"

"No," Isaac said calmly. "I expected them to be weaker than me."

Sylvalen turned fully to face him.

"You're serious."

"I am."

There was no arrogance in his tone.

No bravado.

Just truth.

That, more than anything, startled her.

She lowered her voice. "Then why didn't you challenge it directly? Why not step forward and claim the right to end her?"

Isaac finally looked at her.

His gaze wasn't cold.

It was warm.

Resolute.

"Because I don't want to be the one who kills her."

Sylvalen blinked.

He stepped closer, voice low.

"I want you to be the one who ends Itzpapalotl."

The weight of his words didn't strike her all at once.

They unfolded.

Sank.

Gripped her spine like a binding oath.

"I… I don't understand."

"You're the one who carries the Spiritforge Blade," he said. "You're the one who answered every trial. You're the one who stood beside me even when the gods spoke. And you're the one that blade listens to."

"But you're stronger—"

"That's not what this fight is about."

He smiled faintly. "Power isn't enough to end a god. Meaning is."

She looked down at her hands, fingers flexing unconsciously.

"I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"You will be," Isaac said. "And I'll be there. Every step. I'll fight beside you. Hold the line. Destroy whatever stands between you and her."

He reached out.

Took her hand.

"But you'll strike the final blow."

Sylvalen's breath caught.

And slowly, she nodded.

Not because she was confident.

But because he was.

Because Isaac, who could erase cities, still chose to trust her.