I Awakened A Divine Curse

Auren wasn't sure what had just happened.

What he'd heard—or if he'd even heard anything at all.

It was like a thousand storms collided and detonated inside his skull, crashing and howling with relentless fury. Somewhere within that chaos, buried deep in the heart of the storm, was a voice—cold, distant, and terrifyingly composed.

It wasn't a voice that spoke. It was a presence that declared.

The storm itself was made of darkness. Cold. Hollow. A wind of catastrophic change that clawed at his soul with unseen talons. Fear didn't rise—it sank. Curled deep into the marrow of his bones and made its home there.

This wasn't the kind of fear that could be explained, not one that feelings could properly describe. It wasn't human.

It was domain.

A domain that assaulted his very being—merciless, wicked, lifeless. A force that didn't observe or judge. It simply was. And it crushed.

Auren found himself slumped in the throne, breath hitching in gasps. His chest rose and fell like a storm-tossed tide, his skin pale, slick with cold sweat. His eyes widened—unblinking—as if seeing through layers of reality.

Then there was movement.

Fast. Black.

The dark Polypheme—the very sentinel he'd seen broken—was charging toward him, wreathed in a whirlwind of shadow.

Before Auren could tear himself away from the throne, the creature struck.

It moved like an obsidian arrow—blurring through the air—and drove a foot straight into his gut, burying it deep with a soundless impact that sent a sickening tremor through the air.

Auren's vision scattered.

Shapes bled into each other. The Sentinel's form doubled, tripled. His senses betrayed him in a swirl of pain and distortion.

Then it hit.

Agony.

A tidal wave of it surged from the wound in his stomach, crashing through every nerve ending. Blood splattered violently from his lips, his nostrils, cascading down his chin in thick, red trails. It gushed from him like a broken pipe beneath unbearable pressure.

His own body became a prison of torment, turning against him in revolt.

And then his consciousness… began to dim.

He could feel it—like water draining from a broken vessel.

His head lolled forward. The Sentinel's hand closed over his skull.

With one smooth, casual motion, it hurled him through the air.

Auren's body slammed into the center of the hall, skidding across the floor like a discarded relic.

The Sentinel followed.

It moved with eerie grace, each step deliberate, sovereign. It entered the forest of blades—tall, ancient swords rising from the glass floor like monuments to forgotten wars—and walked into their midst without hesitation.

There, it stopped.

With the ease of habit, the Sentinel rested the tip of its enormous greatsword on the glass floor before it, the blade gleaming with dormant ruin.

And then it stood still.

Watching.

Waiting.

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

[Devourer has devoured your death]

[You have resurrected]

[Your body grows stronger]

[You have gained a new ability]

Auren slowly pushed himself up from the floor, limbs trembling as he rose to his feet. Blood still painted the edges of his lips. But his eyes—

They were cold now.

Lifeless.

There was a truth settling in his mind. A quiet, bitter acceptance of death. He no longer recoiled from it—he welcomed it with a grim clarity.

He was beginning to understand the nature of this place.

The Citadel wasn't just ancient. It was broken. Something had attacked it—or worse, claimed it.

That strange man, cloaked in storm-born darkness… he hadn't simply passed through. He had taken this place. Consumed it with his presence.

And the knight Auren had standing in front of the throne in the memory was long dead. Slain by that living darkness.

Whatever remained now wasn't a man. It wasn't even a soul. It was that primal, hollow existence—raw darkness, unchained and cruel. Something wicked beyond words.

Still…

'The knight is alive.'

The thought echoed sharply.

It had to be.

Something about the Sentinel's actions told him more than any logic could. The moment he landed on the throne, the sentinel's reaction had seemed personal which further reflected in how it threw him off the throne.

The throne it once protected.

The throne it once served.

And in one of the sword's memory, Auren had seen someone else seated there. Someone long vanished by the time the man of darkness arrived. But the knight—that towering sentinel—had remained. Guarding. Defending. Until the bitter end.

There was sentiment tied to that seat. A bond that ran deeper than steel. Something in the throne had stirred the Sentinel's dying will.

Which could only mean one thing.

'Somewhere, buried beneath the darkness… the Polypheme is still alive.

Still imprisoned.'

That was the weak link.

The one thread of hope.

It didn't change much now. Not immediately. But it was something. And with each death, Auren was changing. He wasn't the same boy who'd walked into this place. His soul evolved, his strength built brick by brutal brick. Every resurrection left something behind—but it also added something new.

It came at a cost. A wretched one.

The pain… the torture… none of it lessened, even with the knowledge that he was growing from it. The agony didn't grow kinder. It never did.

'Maybe after dying like… three hundred times… it'll get better.'

His expression froze mid-thought.

Then he scoffed, dry and deadpan.

"What high expectations of death I have for myself. Sucks to be weak."

'That's right… I gained a new ability.'

Auren exhaled and brought up the runes.

Soft, glowing glyphs shimmered into existence before him, forming a panel of pale light in the air. The Sentinel remained unmoving, still rooted before the throne like a statue of wrath yet to awaken. As long as Auren didn't strike, the knight seemed content to stand in eternal vigil.

That was fine by him.

This silence was a gift.

It gave him room. Room to breathe. To think. To understand.

He could leave right now.

The thought flitted through his mind with cruel ease. The Citadel wasn't a prison. He could walk out. The Polypheme wouldn't pursue. Wouldn't flinch.

But Auren didn't even entertain the idea long.

'Nah… I'd rather die than do that.'

Victory wasn't defined by whether he lived through the battle.

It was sealed the moment he chose to face it.

His true death—his real failure—was not in falling, not even in falling hundreds of times.

It was in turning away.

And he wasn't built for that.

Not anymore.

Auren's gaze sharpened. He shifted his focus to the glyphs and zeroed in on the newest addition, letting the strange sigil glow brighter as system runes formed lines of text.