Rebellion Rising from the Depths: Mocked by the Hero Who Impregnated My Childhood Friend Before My Very Eyes. - Chapter 7: Vessel of Atonement.

Vessel of Atonement.

At first, the red light looked like nothing more than seeping blood.

But in the next heartbeat, it began to crawl deep into the thin grooves carved into the stone floor, moving with a distinct, haunting will. The blood dripping from Noah’s fingertips formed a single line upon the black stone, swirling into a circle before branching out into a complex, sprawling crest. One by one, the ancient, desiccated engravings flickered to life. The entire hall, buried at the very bottom of the abyss, began to pulse with a slow, rhythmic crimson glow.

The stone was crying out.

It wasn’t a sound so much as a low-frequency vibration—an ancient, heavy groan that resonated not in the ears, but deep within the marrow of the bone. The pedestal at the center of the hall creaked faintly, and the crest embedded in its surface rose upward, pushing through the thin veil of miasma.

Noah watched it all with a hollow gaze, slumped against the stone floor.

He had almost no strength left to move. His arms, shredded by torture; his broken ribs; his legs, mangled from the fall—every inch of him throbbed with a lingering heat. The torrent of pain that had erupted moments ago—the dregs of every curse, wound, and ounce of fatigue he had ever brokered for others—hadn’t fully receded. It felt as though countless needles were still turning slowly deep inside his body.

Even so, he could tell the atmosphere of the hall had shifted.

Something different from the stench of death and miasma filling the abyss—a coldness, older and purer—began to seep from the cracks in the stone. It was as if something, awakened from a long, long slumber, was watching him.

A faint light drifted up from the pedestal.

It was like mist, or perhaps a flame; it looked as if someone’s memories had been distilled into radiance. The shimmer slowly coalesced into a human shape. It looked like a tall woman, then a gaunt old man. The outline was hazy, the features indistinguishable. There was only the lingering vestige of “something that used to be human.”

Noah tried to grip his dagger, but his fingers only spasmed. He couldn’t muster the strength.

“…Who… are you?”

His throat was ruined; only a hoarse, ragged rasp came out.

The silhouette of light did not answer.

It simply descended quietly, hovering before him. Then, the vague area where a face should be tilted, as if peering into him.

‘…Not yet broken, I see.’

The voice rang inside his head.

It wasn’t a sound heard with the ears. Rather, ripples spread through the depths of his consciousness, like a stone dropped into still water. It was a voice that could have been either a woman’s or a man’s—dry, yet strangely soft.

‘To bear this much… and yet maintain your form.’

Noah tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was parched, refusing to move.

“…What are you… talking about?”

The silhouette did not answer directly. It reached out with a slender, hand-like limb. Though it didn’t touch him, a chill ran through the back of his forehead. In that instant, his vision inverted.

The hall vanished.

In its place, he saw countless lights.

In a space resembling the bottom of dark water, thin threads of red, black, blue, and white floated in the void. Every single one of them was pierced into Noah’s body, connecting him to the dark. They were tangled, biting into, and soaking into his shoulders, chest, stomach, back, throat, arms, and legs.

He recognized every single one.

The black thread on his left shoulder was the Sacred Dragon’s Malice. The murky blue in his right flank was the Demon Wolf’s Fang. The thin white line on his neck was the backlash from the Lightning Magic Milena had let go out of control. The heavy gray tangling behind his knees was the Crushing Impact meant for Gareth. The reddish-black mass burrowing into the center of his chest was the Poison Erosion he had dragged along for days.

And that wasn’t all.

There were countless other thinner threads—wounds without names. Fatigue. Sleepiness. Nausea. Lassitude. Chills. Burns. Mana depletion. The jagged edges of minor hexes. Innumerable fragments of malaise he had taken on for others were layered inside him like the pages of a ledger.

The sheer volume of it took his breath away.

‘Did you believe these to be your own?’

The voice returned.

The silhouette stood in the same space—or rather, it simply drifted there.

‘You were wrong,’ the voice said quietly. ‘These do not belong to you.’

In the next moment, several threads snapped taut and lengthened.

They extended outward from Noah’s body, stretching toward somewhere far away. Amidst the darkness, several hazy figures appeared. Among them, one shadow stood out—the thickest, most numerous threads were connected to it.

It was Leon.

Noah knew him by the silhouette alone.

The tall, commanding stature. The stance of a swordsman always stepping forward. The form of a man accustomed to standing in the spotlight. But around that shadow, the countless wounds that should have been there were missing, like empty voids. The black gashes of curses. The red, scorched marks of erosion. The white lines of fractures. The dull mud of exhaustion. All of it had been stripped from that shadow and was flowing into Noah.

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

He didn’t want to see it, but he couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t just Leon. Countless thin threads connected to Gareth, Milena, and Ewan as well. And it wasn’t just his comrades from the subjugation force. A child he had shielded during an escort mission. A fallen old man. Someone injured by the roadside. A nameless soldier. A passing adventurer. Everything Noah had subconsciously taken upon himself was visible now, possessing color and weight.

‘That which is received does not vanish.’

The voice spoke.

‘That which is scattered is engraved.’

‘That which is discarded is recorded within the Vessel.’

Noah bit his lip. There was pain. This wasn’t a dream. If it were a dream, it would have been kinder.

“…Vessel.”

As he repeated the word in a raspy voice, the silhouette of light wavered slightly.

‘This seat exists for the successor of the Vessel of Atonement.’

The words were ancient, yet their meaning flowed into his mind with perfect clarity.

‘Sickness, curses, punishment, and price. A Vessel meant to temporarily hold, record, measure, and settle the weight that ordinary men cannot carry.’

Settle.

At that word, something deep in Noah’s chest trembled.

“My power is… just… taking on the burden…”

He started to say it, but the words felt hollow. What was he saying? It was too late for that. After harboring all of this inside him, he could hardly call it “just” anything.

As if seeing through him, the silhouette continued.

‘That is nothing more than a common name.’

‘”Proxy.” “Scapegoat.” “Pain-eater.” People only give names to the forms they can see.’

‘But the essence is different.’

Slowly, the light’s fingertip pointed toward Noah’s chest.

‘You are not a mere receptacle.’

‘You are a Record.’

‘Everything you have received is engraved within you—including where it came from, and who it was that escaped it.’

In that instant, he saw even finer details within every single thread floating in the darkness. Scenes from battlefields. The time of day. The type of pain. Who was supposed to receive it. What was sacrificed. It was as if the wounds themselves were memories kept in storage.

Noah gasped.

He had always thought that once he took on the pain, it ended there. You suck it in, you endure it, and over time, it fades. Even if old scars or fatigue remained, he believed they eventually wore away and vanished within him.

He was wrong.

They hadn’t vanished.

Not a single one.

They were all still there.

“…Don’t screw with me.”

A voice leaked out, deeper than he expected.

Inside the space of light, Noah’s fists shook.

“Then what am I…?”

His breathing turned ragged.

“Am I just a trash bin? People shove the things they don’t want into me, I let them pile up, and that’s it? That’s the end of it?”

He didn’t know if it was anger or despair. A dark, viscous emotion boiled up from the depths of his heart.

Leon’s smiling face flashed in his mind.

Lydie’s cold eyes.

His father’s empty medicine bottles.

“Then from the very start… I was just a tool.”

‘No.’

For the first time, the voice grew slightly stronger.

The outline of the silhouette became a fraction more distinct.

‘A Vessel does not exist merely to hold.’

‘It exists to measure what it holds, and return it to its rightful place.’

Noah’s breath hitched.

Return it.

That single word echoed with an extraordinary weight.

‘That which is received is recorded.’

‘That which is recorded is not lost.’

‘If it is not lost, then one day, its destination will surely be determined.’

Saying this, the silhouette drew closer to Noah.

He still couldn’t see a face. And yet, he felt as though he was being watched by eyes filled with a strange, intense gravity.

‘But before reaching that point, many Vessels shatter.’

‘Unable to bear the weight. Convincing themselves they are worthless. Forgetting for whose sake they bore the burden.’

‘You, too, were on the verge of breaking.’

Along with those words, the memory of the torrent of pain that had attacked him in the hall returned. The Sacred Dragon’s heat. The Demon Wolf’s fangs. The mountain of fatigue. If that came for him one more time, his very spirit might truly disintegrate.

Noah turned his teeth.

“…Then what do you want me to do?”

The question was almost spat out.

“Are you telling me to believe in my own worth now? I have nothing left. My father is dead. I’ve lost my job. They took everything from me and threw me away here. In a place like this, what am I supposed to use as a pillar?”

As he spoke, he felt his voice sound pathetically miserable. But he couldn’t stop.

“I… my life has no meaning anymore…”

‘It does.’

The answer was immediate.

Noah was struck dumb.

The silhouette continued quietly.

‘The things inside you have not ended yet.’

‘It is those who forced them upon you who have not let them end.’

‘If you sink while still holding them, the records will scatter and mingle with the miasma of the abyss.’

‘But if the Vessel maintains its form, settlement eventually becomes possible.’

Settlement.

There was that word again.

It didn’t sound like a comfort. It wasn’t kindness or salvation. It was a cold sound, like the clinking of scales. But for the Noah of right now, that coldness was easier to believe in.

‘You asked, did you not?’

‘Who you truly were.’

In the next moment, the light exploded.

Scenes from battlefields lined up before Noah.

The Northern Canyon. Amidst the wind-blown snow, Leon stepped into a pack of Demon Wolves. The moment a fang swung down, a thread flashed, and the damage to the left flank—which should have been crushed—transferred to Noah in the rear. Leon stood with only a light scratch; Noah knelt in the shadows.

Next. The battle with the Sacred Dragon. Just before the cursed breath could swallow Leon and his sword, a black rift connected to Noah. The hero’s body, which should have been charred, looked as if it were protected by light, while in reality, Noah’s left shoulder broke out in sores.

Next. A subjugation near the Royal Capital. The moment Gareth’s shield cracked and the crushing impact should have pulverized his arm, a gray streak fell upon Noah’s knee. Next. The backlash of Milena’s runaway magic. Next. The rebound of a curse when Ewan’s purification nearly failed. Next. Next. Next.

It wasn’t just one.

Ten wasn’t enough.

An uncountable number of scenes flowed into him ruthlessly.

Noah hadn’t known.

Or perhaps, he had sensed it deep down. The strange synchronization between the pain he received and how they continued to stand unscathed. But seeing it laid out so clearly, there was no longer any room for self-deception.

The reason Leon could remain a Hero.

The reason that man could keep shining on the front lines.

It was because Noah was in the back, in a form no one could see, continuing to take it all upon himself.

A raspy sound, like a laugh, leaked from the back of his throat.

“…Is that right?”

It was an answer that came far too late.

Still on his knees, Noah looked down at his palms. Hands covered in scars, stained with mud and blood. Hands that had never been praised or thanked, treated only as a mark of chores and incompetence.

But in truth, these hands had been the ones catching it all.

This body had been the one recording it.

Behind the Hero’s glory—the mud that should have fallen, the flesh that should have been torn, the curses that should have burned.

All of it.

Noah’s vision blurred.

He didn’t even know if it was tears.

‘At last, you have seen.’

The silhouette’s voice came from somewhere far away.

‘You were not merely trampled upon.’

‘You were the support.’

Those words landed in the same place as his father’s “You aren’t incompetent.”

The very deepest part of his chest.

I was the support.

Even if no one recognized it.

Even if they laughed.

Even if they stole from him.

Even so, it was certain.

Noah slowly raised his head.

“…Then…”

His lips trembled.

“Then, everything I’ve carried until now… all of it…”

‘It is recorded,’ the silhouette replied. ‘Everything, down to who escaped what.’

The moment he heard that voice full of conviction, the black emotion deep in his chest quietly changed shape.

It was no longer just despair.

It was no longer just sadness.

It was still anger, it was still hatred—it was something hopelessly dark. But at the very least, it was no longer a nameless mud. Like a blade with a destination, it began to settle into a thin, sharp point.

The silhouette of light gently touched Noah’s forehead.

It was neither hot nor cold. But in that instant, the crests on the stone floor pulsed even more violently, and he felt something sink deep into his body. It was a sensation akin to a brand. It wasn’t painful. Rather, it felt as though his scattered senses were being bound into one.

‘For now, it is enough just to know.’

‘That the weight you carried was not meaningless.’

‘That you are a Vessel.’

‘And that a Vessel is not merely a grave.’

The light began to fade.

Noah instinctively reached out.

“Wait.”

His hoarse voice echoed.

“What… are you?”

In the end, it seemed as if the silhouette smiled just a little.

‘An ember.’

‘One of the fragments of the Vessels that shattered here long ago.’

‘If you do not shatter… that is enough.’

In the next moment, his vision shook violently.

The hall returned.

The cold stone floor. The glow of the pale blue moss. The central pedestal. His own ragged breathing.

Noah was slumped at the entrance of the hall. It was so quiet he almost thought it had been a dream. But it wasn’t. When he looked at his left palm, a faint crest he didn’t recognize was engraved there. A reddish-black line formed a circle, with a mark like a thin rift at its center. There was no pain. But he knew instinctively that it wouldn’t disappear.

His body felt just a fraction lighter than before.

His wounds weren’t healed. His hunger and thirst were still severe. But the feeling of being swallowed by that torrent of pain had receded. It was a sensation as if the disjointed weights had quietly settled somewhere deep within him.

From outside the hall, a distant, low growl echoed.

Reality.

The abyss was still there. The monsters, the miasma, the death.

But Noah looked at his hand with different eyes than before.

You aren’t incompetent.

His father’s voice was revived.

You were the support.

The ember’s voice overlapped.

Adjusting his ragged breathing, Noah slowly pushed himself up. His ribs ached. His legs were a mess. Even so, he could no longer be a person who was simply crushed.

The reason Leon stood unscathed.

The reason he could laugh while basking in applause.

For the first time, Noah knew what the foundation of it all had been.

The one who supported the Hero… was me.

That single fact burned with startling clarity in the cold air at the bottom of the abyss.