The trial was finally over.
So was the fight with those magical beasts.
I stood amid the silence of aftermath, the Broken Sword of Caesar clutched in my trembling hand. Each breath was sharp, ragged. The blade still shimred faintly, slick with remnants of black ichor. The last spirit beast had fallen with a perfect sagittal cut cleaving its head—straight through the center, from forehead to spine.
Around , the corpses of ghost-type creatures lay in still, twisted piles. Limbs contorted. Faces frozen in screams. The entire floor of the ancient chamber was painted in splashes of dark crimson. So blood was mine, most wasn’t.
I flexed my fingers. My palms pulsed, not in pain—but in sothing close to ecstasy. A strange energy trembled in my grip. The sword felt... pleased.
That sensation... it wasn’t just from victory.
This weapon was designed for this.
Crafted in a forgotten age, the Broken Sword of Caesar was never truly broken—only sealed. Its real strength awakened when fighting the unholy, the cursed, the spectral. The sword thrived on their essence. It sang when it cut them down.
My training had paid off. Every strike, every evasive step, every mory drawn from past tilines—it all converged into this brutal symphony of precision and instinct.
It was another confirmation. Another reason to continue forward.
Behind , Dulhard crouched behind a moss-covered boulder, breathing heavily. His wide eyes didn’t leave . Not once.
He looked at the battlefield as if trying to understand sothing terrible. Perhaps, he had.
We had made far too much noise. Ghost-type beasts often traveled in packs. They were opportunistic, vengeful. If any of them had sensed what happened here, we might not survive another wave.
Escape was now our top priority.
I glanced down at my wrist. The three symbols—the Lotus, the Broken Scale, and the Burnt Eye—had begun to shimr, slowly converging. They rged like lting gold, swirling into a single radiant crest: the Sigil of the Broken Sword.
A mark of triumph.
But not of completion.
The sword remained sealed.
The promise made to Aemar, the water god, still bound it. Until the rmaid kingdom of Alune was saved, it would not reach its true state.
So be it.
I waved a hand toward Dulhard, signaling it was safe to move. He stumbled forward, still keeping so distance. His gaze flicked between the corpses and my blood-soaked form.
Honestly, for soone who used to be a thug, his combat skill was... lacking.
"Being a street enforcer and not knowing how to fight," I muttered, "is plain embarrassing, brother."
Dulhard grunted softly, still too shaken to offer a coback.
I stepped outside the crumbling temple, the chill of the forest air washing over .
It was still night.
Above, the stars blinked with quiet indifference. I found the North Star, and with it, my way back to the makeshift hut—the small camp I had carved out for myself in the wilderness.
It wasn’t just shelter. It was my ho. My base. My domain.
And we needed to return before sothing else found us.
---
Elsewhere – Beneath the Capital, Inside the Forgotten Ruins
A room that once knew only silence now echoed with rage.
"That brat dares humiliate ?!"
The voice rang sharp and furious, bouncing off ancient stone.
Valerys sat atop a throne of obsidian, her slender figure draped in ceremonial robes of midnight blue and gold.
Except...
She was no longer Valerys.
Her fingers gripped the stone arms of the throne with unnatural force, hair splayed wildly behind her. A black crown rested on her head—ornate and heavy—etched with markings too ancient for any modern tongue.
The ritual had succeeded.
The soul of the Night King, Varkhazel Noctis, had been resurrected.
Though his body had been annihilated by Cedric Rowan, death was not the end for soone like him.
And now...
He had returned.
Reborn within the vessel of a noble girl.
Reborn stronger.
Around her, dozens of cloaked followers knelt, heads bowed low. Their voices murmured in unison, like a cursed hymn.
"All hail the Night King..."
Over and over.
One of the cultists dared to raise his head. "My King, shall we begin preparations for the incursion?"
Valerys—no, Varkhazel—smiled. A cruel, knowing smile.
"Not yet," she said. Her voice no longer matched her form. It was deeper, older. Like echoes from a ruined hall.
"Let them feel safe. Let them sleep under the illusion of order. The real storm... has not even begun."
She closed her crimson eyes and saw visions only immortals could see—of thrones burning, of cities drowned, of nas erased from history.
Her ti was coming.
And this ti, there would be no Cedric Rowan.
No hero.
Only ashes.
***
"It’s for the best if you move a little faster," I said, brushing aside a hanging branch as we pushed through the dense trees.
"Sorry," Dulhard muttered, still half-glancing over his shoulder at the path behind.
We were too exposed. The ruins had already echoed with too many sounds—blades clashing, creatures howling, corpses falling. We couldn’t afford to linger. Especially not with the sword still sealed, just a fraction of its true power available to .
My grip tightened on the hilt.
The trees around us began to thin out. A pale light filtered in through the leaves. The edge of the forest was near.
I exhaled softly.
Then stopped.
Dulhard bumped into my back.
"What is it?"
I didn’t reply. My eyes were locked on the man standing just beyond the treeline.
He wore a black coat, high-collared and clean despite the dust of the forest.
His hair was pale—silver, almost white—and swept back, revealing a calm, unreadable face.
His hand rested on a cane that didn’t seem necessary for walking.
Cedric Rowan.
Why was he here?
From his deanor, he doesn’t seem to be an enemy.
At least for now.
Or I should have said that, if hadn’t been here at all.
But, him being here is itself a very bad thing for .
Because he is one of the main villains of this story.
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Next : The Immortals [2]
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