I Awakened A Divine Curse

Auren didn't know how Devourer truly worked. It consumed everything—matter, memory, even death itself. So who was to say it couldn't devour swords? Or a throne?

More importantly, those two things hadn't felt inanimate. They had presence, like sentient remnants clinging to form.

Maybe Devourer had marked them the moment he read their memories. Maybe it had found them appetizing. Familiar. Delicious.

'What am I even saying? I don't know if this is even Devourer's work.'

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face and casting one last glance around the hollow, now eerily sterile hall.

'Back to the real question… how do I leave this place?'

Suddenly, a flicker danced across his vision—new runes pulsing softly in the darkness.

[Congratulations!]

Auren raised a brow. Warily.

'What now?'

[Devourer has successfully devoured the Home of Rage.]

'What?!'

He was right, then. Devourer had done it. Unbelievable!

'How hungry are you…?'

[The Home of Rage has become a fundamental part of your cursed soul.]

[You have gained several marks imbued into your soul, waiting to bloom the moment you bloom.]

That last part caught his attention.

"...the moment you bloom."

Auren understood what that meant. It referred to Devout—the moment a Nascent passed the first major trial and became a Blessed. It was a term many used with reverence.

So the Citadel itself had been devoured... and folded into his very soul?

Before he could digest that thought, the world around him began to ripple.

The citadel darkened, its structures unraveling like threads from a tapestry. It didn't shatter violently—it melted, softly, silently. Peaceful. Like dusk washing over glass.

Auren stood frozen as everything dissolved into a velvet void. He tried to run, instincts flaring—but the collapse caught up to him with surreal grace, and in an instant, the floor vanished beneath him.

He fell.

Deep.

Into eternal black.

A scream ripped from his throat, but the moment it formed, it locked—choked, caught, and crushed into silence.

Then came the sensation.

A familiar one.

Drowning.

His body tensed. Skin paled. He remembered this feeling far too well.

But this time... something was different.

He wasn't drifting—he was soaring. Pulled through dark waters at blistering speed.

To Auren, it felt like the darkness itself was rejecting him. Like the realm of the night was spitting him out—desperate to cast him beyond its edge.

'In a hurry to be rid of me…'

Maybe it had something to do with Devourer consuming the Home of Rage.

'That was never intentional! I am so sorry!'

The words rang loud in his mind—an apology flung into the abyss.

But the abyss didn't seem interested in forgiveness.

At once, Auren felt his head breach a surface.

Air—fresh, clear, and alive—rushed into his lungs as he emerged, gasping. His face and hair dripped with the remnants of some dark, indescribable water. He blinked rapidly, vision blurred, then reached out instinctively.

His hands found the cold, rounded edge of a stone rim, and he pulled himself out with ragged determination.

He couldn't put into words how deeply he had missed this. The sensation of real air—of life swirling in his lungs—was overwhelming. It was only after leaving the Realm of the Night that he truly understood what fresh air meant.

There, the air was corrupted—dark, dense, and motionless. The weight of stillness made even the idea of wind seem foreign.

He collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving as he lay sprawled beside the well. His vision began to clear.

The hall around him was as ruinous as he remembered—strewn with fractured stone, broken tiles, and timeworn walls. Darkness still clung to the air like a heavy fog, curling around every edge, but it no longer pressed against him with the same smothering dread.

Something had changed.

He could feel it.

His perception—his connection to the dark—had sharpened. It wasn't just stronger. It was crisper, as if someone had adjusted a lens. The clarity was tenfold compared to before he had fallen into the well.

And that was why he could tell wirh certainty that the old hag was no longer in the hall.

Auren remained on the ground a little longer, relishing the bliss of breathable air. His throat practically sang its gratitude.

But now, his body reminded him of a more immediate need.

Water.

He sat up abruptly, eyes scanning the chamber. Then he saw it—a colorful, flower-patterned jar resting beside a set of small cups on a black, archaic table tucked near the far wall.

Without delay, he moved.

His steps were swift, but not reckless. The kind of movement born from practiced urgency.

He reached the table, gently lifted the jar, and poured the liquid straight into his mouth.

It hit him instantly.

A bitter, fiery rush seared down his throat and bloomed in his stomach, bringing a subtle glow to his eyes.

He froze.

Then frowned.

He brought the jar to his nose and sniffed carefully.

'Alcohol?'

Auren had never actually drunk alcohol before. He'd visited taverns, sure—but for his own quiet reasons, never for drinking.

Still, the smell was unmistakable. All alcohols had their own notes, but a fundamental bitterness unified them. This one carried a deeper, more refined scent—like the expensive vintages his father used to collect and obsessively polish with velvet cloths, but never drink.

'What is an old hag like her doing with something like this?'

Auren lifted the jar with a look of quiet disdain, inspecting it as though it had betrayed his expectations. Then, with a small sigh, he gently placed it back on the table.

He stared at it a moment longer.

Then lifted it again.

His lips curled in reluctant disgust, but he brought the jar to his mouth and took another gulp—this time with a surprising measure of satisfaction.

'Strangely satisfying... for burning water.'

He set it down once more.

But I still need real water. Dang it!

As he turned away to resume his search, he suddenly froze.

His gaze locked on the entrance of the hall.

Footsteps. Quick. Unmistakable.

His brows knitted together.

The old hag—Asenya—was coming.

And she wasn't strolling.

She was rushing.