I Awakened A Divine Curse

In essence, Auren could not see what lay ahead, yet he propelled himself forward, sword slashing through the air. He simply couldn't stop.

This wasn't the first time he'd been forced to navigate without sight. In fact, he found himself in a better position than the last time he tried—mere hours ago.

Still, nothing compared to the clarity of vision. Regardless, he maintained his momentum, limbs churning with relentless determination while his mind raced, troubled by his sudden blindness.

His sword transformed into a cyclonic force in his grip. He tore through the forest with unfaltering speed—a feat both appalling and magnificent. For someone his age, such endurance defied possibility.

Hundreds of forest spears battered his body, yet Auren refused to yield. He staggered at several points but recovered with an uncanny shift of his legs and perfect redirection of force.

It seemed as though he had rehearsed precisely for this moment, though in truth, every movement arose in the spur of action—clumsy at first but increasingly refined with each trial his circumstances forced upon him.

The clash of his blade against branches provided a sense of direction. Like countless ocean waves crashing against a titanic pillar of steel, the sound rang hollow, strong, and powerful.

Each strike felt purposeful. His body rippled with satisfaction as he cleaved through every spear that lunged toward him.

Even the sheath, which he wielded for deflection, never missed its mark. The sword's very action pumped his veins with exquisite exhilaration.

But then the sounds began to fade. Auren faltered. The strikes intensified as his metallic skin seemed to tire, forming mere parchment in places and spreading too weakly, too slowly to shield him from the brutal impacts.

Spears pierced his flesh, sending crimson droplets dancing through the still air—unseen by Auren but felt with searing clarity. Though the pain became mentally unbearable, he pressed on. He had to.

The resonance of sword against forest diminished further, growing distant with each passing heartbeat until Auren could hear nothing at all.

He had no idea what was happening. Why was he being stripped of his senses? Was it the forest's doing? Its method of halting his progress?

Yet it seemed implausible that the Garden of Grief could wield such influence over him. Auren's understanding was limited, but logically, this seemed impossible. The most this place should manage was to impress its emotions upon him, creating a burdensome weight that hindered movement.

Directly manipulating his senses like this should be beyond its power.

Auren's comprehension of what existed on the other side of the Night gave him a fundamental understanding of this realm.

The Night was created to reflect upon the world. Its reflection manifested as touch, while in its truest form, what should be perceived as touch was merely reflection. This explained why emotions flourished with such intensity in this place.

So, if he were outside in the Night, he would accept the possibility of this—being touched by the Night's reflection. But in here, the touch was busy reflecting outward. It shouldn't be able to touch.

So, what exactly was happening?

Even with these maddening questions swirling in his mind, Auren kept propelling himself forward on swift legs. Albeit soundlessly.

He felt as though he had been plunged into an ocean and commanded to run through its depths. He did anyway, but each movement, each step became incredibly grueling in ways he'd never imagined.

It was another suffering of a kind he never knew could exist. But he kept running anyway.

He bled.

From his nose, his face, his forehead, his shoulder, abdomen, torso, legs.

But he kept running anyway.

Pain lashed through his entire body as more spears pierced his back. Though he couldn't see it, each footstep left a crimson signature across the surface of the night sky.

Auren, despite these insufferable ordeals and his determination to reach the forest's edge—the fog—felt something small that sustained his sword arm.

It was his connection with the blade itself. That point of contact between his palm and the sword's hilt served as a note of consciousness—just as it had while he plummeted through the well of the night.

His legs continued their relentless motion, striving desperately to claim another step after each one taken, never pausing for breath.

Until his hands began to grow numb. His shoulders throbbed with searing pain, and his legs trembled despite their forward momentum. His body had absorbed more punishment than any mortal should endure. He was practically baptized in bruises and blood.

His speed had diminished considerably, but he could still sense that he was running. The grieving branches showed him no mercy.

And why?

Because he refused to grieve. He refused to mourn the one person most significant to him.

Was it wrong to resist letting go?

His father was the cruelest man he had ever encountered, a man who embodied the darkest evil Auren had witnessed—and what was his justification?

Faith. Belief. Loyalty to Hope.

Because of his faith, he would abandon his own blood? Auren couldn't comprehend what monster his father was, how he could claim to uphold such divine values while committing such atrocities.

In truth, Auren saw his father as a monster precisely because of those values he held in such esteem. This was why he despised the religious.

All who worshipped the archons blindly—he deemed them fools. Yet ultimately, he couldn't blame them. Human nature compels us to seek completion in something beyond ourselves.

Was he any different? No. He simply possessed enough intelligence to recognize that relying blindly on anything with will was the most foolish mistake any human could make.

This awareness distinguished him from his peers and everyone else.

He filled his own void with his love for swordsmanship and the living memory of his mother. Residual emotions refused to release her, forming an image more vivid than reality itself, crafting a philosophy from her words.

It was a far more fulfilling existence compared to the twisted, unreasonable ways of his religious world.

So no, Auren would not grieve his mother. Never.

In that instant, Auren lost something else—the very connection with the ocean steel that had sustained him all this time.

A revelation dawned on him as he felt something crude yet beautiful consume him from within.

'...ah...'

The world tumbled around him. His legs no longer trapped in perpetual motion, yet the pain intensified—a universe of agony assaulted him as his consciousness dimmed and his soul faded.

'...it was the sword all along.'

[You have been killed by the Blade of Withering Fate]

[Devourer is devouring your death]

[Your body grows stronger]

[You have gained an ability]