I Awakened A Divine Curse

The Sentinel did not defend.

It merely lowered its sword, letting it sag slightly at its side, and allowed the incoming blade to crash into its body. The impact forced it to stagger back several heavy steps. A clean, searing line tore across its metal armor, as if some fiery hand from within was clawing its way out.

The sword glanced off and spun away into the void of the citadel.

Auren didn't hesitate. He grabbed another sword—and flung it.

Then another. And another.

In seconds, five blades streaked through the air, howling toward the Sentinel like hounds on a scent.

And still—it didn't move.

It stood there, statuesque and unflinching, letting the swords collide with it one after another. Sparks exploded with each impact, raining brilliant showers across the glassy floor. The blades crudely carved into its armor, gouging deep, jagged wounds into its frame before clattering away.

Several fresh openings now marred the Sentinel's once-impenetrable body. From the wounds, dark smoke slithered out, curling and twisting into the air. But Auren saw no blood, no flesh—nothing remotely human hidden within the metal husk.

He exhaled slowly, his breath steady, his grin dark.

In his hands, he now wielded two more blades scavenged from the dais. In the hands of the Polypheme, they would have been little more than crude daggers. But in Auren's grasp, they were so large, they looked like black, brutal scimitars.

The moment he seized them, the transformation began—red veins of light spiderwebbing across the blackened surfaces, peeling away the char and exposing glistening, ravenous steel beneath.

Both blades throbbed with a dark, ominous luster. They didn't reflect light—they drank it, swallowing what little brightness clung to the ground, feeding an eerie, unnatural hunger.

Auren tightened his grip, feeling the strain coil through his arms—but he held firm.

His gaze locked onto the Sentinel, unwavering. His eyes, once vibrant, now burned with a cold, ruthless intent—the unshakable resolve of one who had decided to kill.

And would not be stopped.

The Sentinel, by contrast, seemed sluggish—beaten down, almost dazed—as Auren stood poised with both blades in hand.

Staring deeply into it, Auren could almost swear it looked pale with shock—a strange expression for a towering, metallic knight.

But Auren understood now.

Holding each sword, even for mere seconds, had gifted him fragments—scattered memories stitched together in the bowels of his mind.

One of the boons from dying again and again was that the ability which once offered only glimpses into memory had evolved. Now, when he touched these blades, he didn't just glimpse—he absorbed a fragment of their history.

It wasn't perfect. The memories came at random, like scattered leaves in a storm, and the process strained his mind in ways he hadn't yet fully grasped. He would have to investigate that weakness later. For now, he welcomed the knowledge.

Because the fragments had begun piecing together a truth:

These swords had once belonged to other Polyphemes.

Their massive size made sense now. Auren realized—according to the slivers of memory etched into him—that once, there had been many. Brothers-in-arms. A legion of towering Sentinels who guarded this place.

Countless swords littering the dais... silent gravestones to a fallen brotherhood.

He didn't yet know how they had all died, nor precisely why this lone Polypheme refused to strike. But it didn't take genius to guess.

Sentiment.

The Sentinel, for all its towering menace, had fought to keep him away from the dais—and especially the throne that loomed at its heart. Not out of duty alone. Out of memory. Out of grief.

The throne... that was another mystery still locked away. One Auren would unravel in time. But not yet.

Now was the time for killing.

Auren sprinted forward, his speed a ravenous hunger eating up the distance. The darkness responded violently, recoiling and thrashing like a wounded beast. It coalesced rapidly, forming into black javelins, then launched them in volley after volley.

But Auren weaved through them effortlessly, his body a blur of motion. The javelins tore past him, harmless against the furious rhythm of his sprint.

He lunged, vaulting into the air.

His body twisted—spinning, almost like he intended a brutal 360-degree kick—but instead, he brought the twin blades crashing down in a scything spiral.

The black, crude scimitars tore into the Polypheme's armored flesh with a screech of rending metal.

Darkness—thick and noxious—spilled out from the fresh wounds, writhing into the air like mourning smoke.

He didn't stop there.

His arms wove a desperate, furious pattern through the air, slashing brutal arcs against the creature's towering frame. Golden sparks erupted with every impact, showering the floor in a storm of fury. A wicked, haunting sound reverberated through the entire citadel—two metals weeping against each other, screaming in agony.

The sound filled the dark hall with a cold, unsettling chill that clawed against Auren's mind—but he refused to pay it any attention.

He battered the Sentinel mercilessly.

Both swords flew around him in a whirlwind, spinning tens of times in a single breath. The blur of steel and light formed a hypnotic, almost sickening pattern—mesmerizing, violent, and too rapid to follow with the naked eye.

Behind him, the darkness didn't relent.

It fired javelins at vicious, ear-rending speed, splitting the air like whips.

But Auren didn't falter. He never had—not really. The darkness had been a strange ally from the very beginning, an eerie force that heightened his senses rather than dulled them.

Whether the sentient dark knew it or not, Auren could feel it—its movements, its intentions. He could perceive the javelins before they even lunged, reading the currents in the air.

It had taken so many deaths to sharpen this instinct.

Through that endless cycle of dying and returning, he had also discovered something crucial: the darkness could not breach the dais. Just like the Sentinel did not want him to reach there Auren suspected it didn't want the darkness also.

His hands remained a furious blur, carving countless jagged tears across the Polypheme's dark and crimson armor.

From every wound, the darkness bled out, thick and sluggish, crawling back into the greater mass of shadows behind him—merging with it.

And then, in a final breath, Auren flung one blade backward, inhaled deeply—and thrust it forward in a single, clean motion.

The black blade pierced the Polypheme's chest with a brutal, finality-laced strike.

The great creature staggered.

The light in its eyes flickered, dimming until it blinked sporadically, like a dying star.

With a groaning heave, it crumbled to its knees before Auren—falling to his level.

Auren stood over it, his chest rising and falling, a storm of emotions raging behind his sharp gaze.

In that blinking light, he saw it. Clear as day.

Pain.

Satisfaction.

Regret.

And it struck him—unexpected and hollow—that what he had done was monstrous in its own right.

He had used the remnants of its fallen brothers against it.

Had thrown their memories like weapons.

Wasn't that the same as hurling their corpses at its feet just to gain the upper hand?

And now that he had won—was he satisfied?

Auren exhaled a slow, broken sigh—and smiled, a small, bitter curve of his lips.

'...Very.'

He looked into the fading eyes of the Polypheme and spoke, voice low and steady:

"I'm sorry. I had to live... though, that's a strange thing for someone like me to say. Someone who can never truly die."

He chuckled once, grimly.

"Perhaps it's better said—I have to win. I too... have to win."

The light blinked slower... slower... until finally, it went out.

Silence fell over the hall.

And then, everything happened at once.