I Awakened A Divine Curse

A pristine glass floor stretched before him, bathed in a warm, radiant glow. Auren wanted to move—to tear himself away from the throne the moment he realized he was seated on it. But his body refused. He wasn't just frozen.

No… frozen was too merciful a word.

It felt as though he'd been sculpted into a statue, his consciousness carved into the stone, fully aware yet trapped—alive inside an unmoving monument.

Before him stood a strange, towering knight clad in sleek silver armor, a red, silky cloak flowing like liquid crimson from its back.

The knight's helmet was streamlined, the armor so close-fitted it made him seem narrow—almost thin. But no one would have dared to think of him as anything less than imposing. Not with that unnatural height. Not with that presence.

He was a Polypheme—a rarity in this age. And from somewhere deep within Auren's awareness, the knowledge surfaced unbidden.

The second to last of his kind.

Auren didn't know how he knew that. He just… did. And it was that strange, inexplicable knowing that made him realize something wasn't right.

He was alive, yet clearly not in the world he remembered. Auren forced his eyes downward. He couldn't move—his limbs might as well have been welded to the throne—but at least his gaze obeyed.

'Could I be reading the memory of the throne…?'

It was absurd. A throne wasn't a shard. It was a seat of grace, crafted from stone or metal or whatever sacred mineral it took to look divine. He didn't care for the specifics. But he knew this wasn't a shard—and it shouldn't be.

Yet… Auren wasn't a man who clung to logic too tightly.

If this wasn't a shard memory, how else could he explain this strange phenomenon, he was only supposed to be able to read memories of shard.

Moreso, how is he here so vividly? Was it supposed to be this clear?

Auren's attention shifted as the sentinel rose, breath steaming faintly in the cold. The knight turned, every movement precise, elegant, unnervingly slow.

Then it came. A massive greatsword, hurtling through the radiant hall like a meteor, its momentum shaking the very light. It hurtled toward the throne.

The knight stepped forward.

The glass beneath his foot didn't crack—it rippled. Pressure rolled outward in concentric waves like a pond disturbed by a falling star.

The sword came screaming through the air, then stopped just short of Auren's face—caught mid-flight by the knight's hand, his grip firm on the hilt.

It vibrated, humming like an angry god silenced by restraint.

The blade began to change. What had once been obsidian black blade with a glowing crimson line in the middle now cracked open—shards flaking off like dry bark. Beneath, a pure silvery gleam emerged, and the crimson line ignited, radiating golden light that pulsed like a living sun.

Then, in one fluid motion, the knight hurled it back.

The swing was almost lazy in its grace, yet it carried the fury of storms.

Wind exploded outward in rings. Shockwaves tore through the air, their roar like thunder crushed under a billion rolling gusts. The sword blasted back through the hall, carving a trail of cataclysmic force. Outside, its impact erupted, rocking the entire Citadel to its bones.

Auren's mouth would've hung open—if thrones had mouths.

He was stunned. Completely, helplessly stunned.

The Polypheme wasn't just strong—he was colossal in presence, an overwhelming force that made Auren feel like a flicker of light before a collapsing star.

So… this was the Catastrophic Wretched he was supposed to battle? This was the creature he had to defeat and rip a heart from?

It was impossible. Utterly and absolutely impossible.

At least for him—as he was now.

Maybe one day, he'd grow enough to face such a being. But how many deaths would it take? How many soul-shattering, mind-breaking resurrections would he endure to get there?

How much of himself would be left by then?

These were the kinds of cursed creatures that only the Consecrated dared challenge. And a Catastrophic one… came with too many unknowns.

It was madness to think he could do this.

No.

It was inconceivable!

Auren was beginning to tremble. A whisper of fear crawled up his spine, and then—

The vision struck again: A guillotine, crashing down toward his head in a blinding flash.

As the vision settled into his mind, a dangerous thought surfaced.

'I've died once. I thought it would be unbearable if I died again. And it was—deadarchons, the pain was unbearable. But I woke up again. I'm still here.

'It hurts. Every time, it hurts like hell. But right now, there's nothing left to do but shift perspective…

'If Hope is sitting high on his throne… and I want to drag him from it—then isn't this necessary? Isn't this what I must overcome to reach him?'

It was an insane thought. He knew it. He was sixteen years old. A Nascent, barely more than a whisper in the annals of the world. No record in history bore the tale of a Nascent Blessed slaying a Catastrophic Wretched.

That was a feat even Consecrated struggled against.

'But… it's also impossible for a Nascent Blessed to come back from death. And yet I did. Every time I die, I gain something. It's not much, and it hurts like damnation, but over time…

'I'll die enough to understand him. I'll gather all the intel I need. He has a weakness—he must. And when I find it…'

His thoughts were interrupted by a crawling shift in the air. Darkness crept into the Citadel like a rising tide, seeping through its walls and sliding along the glass floor like ink spilled across light.

At the heart of the gloom was a man.

He was pale—eerily so. His features held a cold, lifeless beauty, like a statue crafted from sorrow. He wore flowing white garb that shimmered faintly with divinity, an ethereal mimicry of the holy. Auren could only compare it to the presence of the Pontifex herself.

Except this one was no woman. And no saint.

The Polypheme reacted instantly—lunging with explosive force. But he never reached the man.

The darkness surged forward, stretching like a living wall, and struck the sentinel mid-flight. The impact was cataclysmic. He was slammed to the ground, his fall echoing through the hall like the final note of a ruined song.

Tendrils of darkness spilled into the cracks of his armor, snaking into crevices with starved desperation.

The knight convulsed violently, struggling to expel the invading darkness. But it was useless. The darkness clung tighter.

And then the man ascended the dais.

He walked with a silence so deep it suffocated sound. Reaching the throne, he stood just before it, gazing down with a strangely wistful, almost sullen expression.

Auren watched him—watched the silk-black hair that spilled past his shoulders, flowing like midnight. His eyes… they were fathomless. Heavy. Void of light. They weren't just eyes—they were doors. Doors that had seen too much to forget.

They were the origin of darkness itself.

And somehow, Auren felt he knew this being. A flicker of recognition stirred in his chest. Was this… the God of Darkness?

The same entity worshipped by the Kingdom of Heart?

He wasn't certain.

But then—he saw it. Embroidered on the flowing white robe was a single symbol: the sun, the moon… and the night.

Auren's brow furrowed slightly.

And in that same breath, the man shifted. It was a small movement. But it felt like the shifting of the entire world.

His presence was vast, consuming, inevitable. Even though Auren knew this wasn't real—just a memory, just a vision—he felt seen. Truly seen.

And then the man's voice came.

Low. Cold. Certain.

"You should not be here."