I Awakened A Divine Curse

[You have been slain by a Catastrophic Wretched: Polypheme of the Dark Times]

[Devourer has devoured your death]

[You have resurrected]

[Your body grows stronger]

[Fragmented ability: Midas Touch has been strengthened]

Auren groaned as he pushed himself up, not in present agony but instead in the appalling remembrance of the agony he suffered moments before his death. This was his second death in less than a minute—and it hurt worse than the first.

His world shattered, fragmented like broken glass, only to mend itself as he struggled to his feet. Each movement of his threatened to splinter reality again.

His eyes snapped forward, blazing with renewed life. He raised his head, meeting the Sentinel's glowing orb-like gaze.

The creature stood motionless after its devastating kick, watching Auren rise from death with an expression of cruel indifference.

A smile crept across Auren's face—hearty, defiant. He carefully laid the Withering Fate across his palm, feigning distraction while his eyes darted to inspect something crucial.

[Midas Touch]

Description: When you activate this ability, a subtle red glow emanates from your hand. Any shard that you touch loses its connection to its owner and submits to your will as long as you're touching it. You can access the memory of this Shard while touching it.

He hadn't had time to check this ability when he first gained it, but now that he had, he almost felt grateful the Polypheme of Dark Times had killed him.

Where else could he have acquired such power?

'Ah... I am definitely not grateful!'

Auren exhaled, studying the ocean-blue steel in his hands. Perhaps Withering Fate would truly become his if he used this ability—no longer would he fear being murdered by a blade that should serve him.

He closed his eyes and reached deep within. When they opened, his crimson irises flared with brilliant light, a tiny black spark dancing from them. From fingertip to wrist, black and crimson veins spread like molten cracks across his alabaster skin.

A tender crimson glow pulsed beneath his palm. The ocean-blue blade began to transform, its color shifting to blood-stained red. Corruption spread across the steel like wildfire, reshaping it into a bloodthirsty crimson sword veined with black.

What had been a thing of beauty mere seconds ago now resembled something wicked—a tool forged for madness.

Auren locked his gaze on the creature still observing him with cold detachment. Something felt wrong—the Sentinel had allowed him to complete his transformation, taking several precious seconds without intervening.

A chill crawled down his spine. The Sentinel's stillness felt deliberate, as if studying him for some twisted purpose that coiled tighter in his mind the more he tried to understand it.

He shoved the unease aside. Right now, surviving beyond a single minute mattered more than unraveling mysteries. The forest of swords beckoned in the distance—if he could just reach it.

Auren swallowed hard, then exploded forward, his feet pounding the glass floor. From his sprint, he twisted and launched himself airborne, executing a flawless 540-spin with an improvised sword slash.

Metal screamed against metal as the blades collided. The shockwave sent him hurtling backward, but his fingers snagged one of the massive chains, halting his helpless trajectory toward the wall. The chain groaned and swayed as it absorbed his momentum.

He released his grip and landed like a cat, despite the drop being twice the Sentinel's height.

Without pause, Auren charged again. The Sentinel remained statue-still, its indifference unchanged since Auren moved—not even tilting its head.

Auren roared as he thrust the sword from behind, jamming the blade into the knee gap of the Sentinel's armor. A hollow metallic ring exploded through the air, followed by a shower of sparks. The Sentinel's frame shuddered for a heartbeat.

Dread knotted in Auren's stomach. His instincts screamed of another death approaching.

He couldn't remember when his gut had started whispering such warnings—he hadn't died that many times. Yet somehow, his senses were adapting faster than he himself could process.

He pivoted sharply and bolted past the Sentinel, racing toward the forest of swords.

As he sprinted, the shadows pooling in the Citadel's corners trembled, then surged to life. Darkness flowed from all directions like a raging tempest, converging on him with terrible purpose.

Auren had no idea what was unfolding. Only one thought blazed in his mind: reach the forest of swords.

Auren's mind reeled, drowning in a tidal wave of stress as everything unfolded at breakneck speed. His legs moved on pure instinct, propelling him forward while thoughts eluded him.

The darkness surged closer, while the dais remained frustratingly distant. The Sentinel—he didn't dare waste precious seconds checking its position. A backward glance now would be like agreeing that he indeed enjoyed his new relationship development with death.

Perhaps he did…

But he was not going to look back.

With a desperate leap, Auren rolled and crashed onto the dais. The pursuing darkness coalesced, each tendril morphing into razor-sharp javelins that rained down upon him the instant he landed.

His muscles screamed in protest, but there was no time to voice his agony. The towering swords now served as makeshift shields, and Auren scrambled frantically for cover.

Still, several dark javelins found their mark—one plunged into his leg, another pierced his shoulder, and a third tore a burning path across his side before the bombardment finally ceased.

Auren neither knew nor cared why the barrage had stopped. The instant it ceased, he lunged forward and seized the blade nearest to him.

As his fingers closed around the long, slender sword, crimson veins fractured across its charred surface. A resonance thrummed between them, blade and wielder becoming one.

His consciousness plunged into darkness, tearing through countless veils of shadow in a heartbeat. Then a vision blazed before his eyes.

A glass floor sparkled with celestial radiance, as if the warmest stars had been captured and imprisoned beneath to serve as endless adornment. Silver chains descended from above, their origins lost in wreaths of white fog that concealed the ceiling. Each chain ended in a massive collection of crystals that blazed with light, casting such brilliant illumination that no shadow dared linger.

Upon the throne sat a man whose face remained obscured, though his black hair framed an expression devoid of joy. He emanated the profound emptiness of one who had lost everything.

Below the dais stood a silver knight, his blood-red cloak flowing like liquid crimson. The knight's height was unnaturally imposing, just like—

Reality shattered Auren's vision as something smashed into him. His body hurtled through the air, slamming against the throne's edge before sliding down, leaving a crimson trail across the wall and throne alike.

[You have been slain by a Blighted Catastrophe: Polypheme of the Dark Times]