Edward walked through a sea of stunned silence. The remaining factions, their greed and aggression montarily forgotten, parted before him like water before the prow of a ship. They watched him with a mixture of awe, terror, and a dawning, grudging respect. He had just defeated the undefeatable. He had faced the Inquisition’s legendary Champion in single combat and had erged the victor. The path to the Heart of the Abyss, once a chaotic, contested battlefield, was now his alone.
He reached the edge of the pit of roiling, shadowy energy. The Abyssal Core floated a few feet from the edge, its rhythmic, silent pulse a hypnotic, srizing beat. It was beautiful and terrifying, a perfect sphere of captured midnight, veined with the golden, living light of the System’s own code. The raw, untad power that radiated from it was a physical force, a wave of cold, potent energy that washed over him, making the abyssal parts of his own soul sing in response. This was it. The legacy. The key. The source.
The Whispering Blade on his back, which had been a silent, focused partner during the duel, now began to hum with a high-pitched, urgent vibration. Its voice echoed in his mind, no longer the calm, weary ntor, but a sharp, frantic warning.
Be warned, little spark, the Blade’s voice was tight with an ancient, rembered pain. This is the precipice. This is the final step from which there is no return. To absorb this Core is not like devouring the soul of a beast or even a lesser avatar. This is a source, a font of pure, unrefined abyssal power. It will not just grant you strength; it will reforge you. It will corrupt you almost completely.
The Blade’s vision flooded his mind, a final, dire warning. He saw a vision of himself, but changed. His skin was covered in fine, dark blue, scale-like markings that seed to shift and shimr. His eyes glowed with the cold, predatory light of the deep ocean. He saw himself moving with an inhuman grace, his power absolute, but his face was a cold, emotionless mask. He saw himself looking at his own friends, at Fenris and Selene, with the detached, analytical gaze of a being that no longer understood concepts like loyalty or affection.
It will sever the last, most fragile tethers to your humanity, the Blade’s voice concluded, a deep, sorrowful finality in its tone. You will beco a true Abyss Knight, a being of imnse, world-altering power, a weapon capable of finally ending this war. But the man you are now... he may not survive the transformation. You may not be able to return to the light.
The choice was laid bare before him, stark and terrible. It was the ultimate temptation. He could take it. He could take the power he so desperately needed to protect everyone, to fulfill his vow, to end the tyranny of the Oblivion Core once and for all. He could beco the weapon the world needed.
But the price was himself.
He would lose the very thing he had been fighting to preserve. He would beco the monster, not just in form, but in soul. He would be the king on a throne of shadows, powerful, absolute, and utterly, completely alone. What was the point of saving the world if he had to sacrifice his own soul to do it? Would there be anything left of him worth saving?
His gaze drifted across the silent chamber, past the fearful faces of the rcenaries, past the still, unconscious form of Seraphiel. His eyes found his own people, his pack, his Unchained. They were watching him, their expressions a mixture of hope and trepidation. They had placed their faith in him, followed him to the end of the world. They believed in him.
Then, his eyes found Sarah.
She stood near the edge of their small, protective formation, her face pale, her hands clasped tightly before her. She was not looking at him with fear anymore. The terror he had seen after his monstrous transformation had been replaced by a deep, pleading anguish. Her eyes were wide, and they were not the eyes of a subject looking at her king, or a protected citizen looking at her savior. They were the eyes of a woman looking at the man she knew, the man she believed in, begging him, silently, not to lose himself. Don’t beco the monster. Don’t pay the price. Co back.
Her gaze was an anchor, a lifeline thrown to him across a sea of temptation. It was a reminder of the lamplit room, of a gentle, trusting smile. It was a reminder of the man he had been, and the man he was still trying to be.
He hesitated.
His hand, which he had been raising towards the pulsating Core, stopped, hovering in the air a few inches from its surface. The raw, seductive power of the artifact washed over his fingers, a siren song promising him the strength to fix everything, to end all the pain, all the fighting.
One choice. One touch. And it would all be over.
In that mont of profound, agonizing indecision, with the fate of his own soul hanging in the balance, a new sound cut through the silence.
It was not the clash of steel or the crackle of magic. It was the sharp, tallic twang of a high-tension crossbow, followed by the whistle of a volley of bolts slicing through the air.
They were not aid at his back. They were aid at the space just in front of him, a perfectly calculated trajectory to force him to either retreat from the Core or be impaled. The bolts were black, fletched with dark red feathers, and they humd with a vile, chaotic energy.
Edward reacted on pure instinct, pulling his hand back and throwing himself to the side. The cursed bolts slamd into the crystal floor where he had been standing, exploding in small bursts of corrosive, dark magic that ate at the very stone.
He rolled to his feet, his head snapping towards the source of the attack.
From the shadows of one of the entry tunnels, a group of figures erged. They were clad in black, unmarked armor, and they moved with a silent, disciplined lethality. At their head was a figure Edward knew all too well.
He was gaunt, his face pale and drawn, but his eyes burned with a familiar, obsessive, venomous hatred. He was no longer the proud, arrogant noble from the academy. He was sothing harder, colder, and infinitely more dangerous. His swordsmanship was now enhanced by a host of dark, pulsing artifacts that were fused directly to his armor.
It was Chris.
He had been hiding in the shadows the entire ti, waiting, patiently, like a patient, venomous snake, for the perfect mont to strike. He had not been interested in the chaotic brawl. He had not been interested in the duel of champions. He had been waiting for this exact mont.
Edward’s mont of greatest power, and his mont of greatest vulnerability.
"Hello, trash," Chris sneered, his voice a low, hateful rasp. He raised his own, corrupted longsword, its blade weeping a black, oily smoke. "Did you really think I would let you have the prize?"
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