I Awakened A Divine Curse

Of course, such a vague answer was never going to give them the clarity they sought. But it was enough to keep them from hesitating to ask more.

Not that Auren didn't want to share the details—but he remained guarded. Deeply so. First of all, he didn't even know if he would wake up after passing the Trial like the others. In fact, as far as that notion went, Auren wasn't entirely convinced this was a Trial at all—not in the way others believed.

What he had seen felt more like entering a Fester.

And yet, his real concern wasn't just what this place was—but whether he would ever wake up again.

Auren had mulled over the possibility more times than he could count. But every time, the conclusion seemed just as reckless. It was like living a decent life only for some overzealous preacher to show up at your doorstep, rambling about the afterlife.

You shall be raised to the higher echelons, made to dwell in the bountiful paradise that the Archons are preparing with joint hands. The streets and pillars shall be of gold…

While it all sounded appealing enough, it was still utter foolishness to throw away the tangible for a promise wrapped in divinity. No matter how glorified they made it sound—it was greed, plain and simple.

And that was yet another reason Auren despised the believers of Hope: their hypocrisy. They condemned the unbelievers and followers of other Archons for chasing dreams they themselves were obsessed with. They wore righteousness like a mask but acted with the same grasping hunger.

'…I'm digressing.'

Either way, the point was clear—he wasn't going to leap headfirst into the unknown. If this was his only chance at survival, then so be it. Everyone else would just have to deal with it.

The real challenge now was figuring out how to see this through—while still preparing to help them end the Trial, of course.

Second of all, what if—by the end of the day—he was forced to end the Trial, and he did wake up… what then? What was to say they wouldn't turn on him? Wouldn't knowing everything about his abilities make him an easy target?

Until those questions were laid to rest, he wasn't about to reveal anything to anyone.

The three of them had spread out across the Temple, each busy with their own task.

Auren sat cross-legged, his focus locked onto the swords Devourer had absorbed—now transformed into his soul weapons.

There was the elegant blade he had used earlier, refined and graceful, its hilt and crossguard etched with a flowing golden design. Auren had glimpsed the memory stored within that sword—it had been the very first one to reveal itself.

It had once belonged to the 8th Polypheme, a Sentinel known as the Radiant Dancer. His Sword Art was strange—utterly strange—but stunning in its own right. It weaved and twisted like a sea of stars in motion, flowing with impossible grace. Even with his metallic body and towering, tyrannical frame, the Radiant Dancer moved like a shadow—fluid, elusive, and devastating.

If Auren ever wanted to master a Sword Art rooted in stealth and unpredictability, this would be the one.

But there were many reasons it wouldn't work for him. At least, not yet.

The first reason was simple: his level. He was too weak to comprehend the swordsmanship. He had seen it—but didn't understand a single fragment.

And it wasn't just the Radiant Dancer's sword.

All twenty-nine swords Auren had glimpsed while sitting cross-legged, each with its own mystery and rhythm—not one of them was something he could wield right now.

It simply wasn't possible.

Maybe when he became a Devout, when his body had been reforged with strength, he'd finally be able to attempt it. But at this stage, he was certain—trying would only shatter him.

The most he could do now was imitate a fragment of the last Polypheme's Sword Art. Even then, he'd have to blend it with his family's style—forge something new, something authentic. Not a crude imitation, and definitely not a stitched-up mess.

This was the part Auren loved most—refining and creating. But that didn't make it easy.

And right now, he was only at the stage where he had to start unlearning.

Sadly, unlearning only happened in battle.

He cast his gaze toward the wandering mass of Cursed Creatures roaming the Black Desert's windswept sand, his expression tinged with yearning.

'…So sad… really.'

He eventually exhaled and turned away, watching as all the swords dissolved into tendrils of cold, dark smoke before he rose to his feet and walked back into the hall of the Sundered Spire.

The moment he stepped inside, a powerful tremor rippled through the structure. The entire Spire groaned under its own weight, trembling as though it might tear itself free from the air and come crashing down.

It jolted Auren into alertness—and it clearly startled the other two, who were mid-conversation in the hall. Without wasting a second, they all bolted forward, racing through the twisting corridors until they reached the passageway that led to the chamber where Asenya resided.

What they saw made them pause.

Lining the passageway were statues of varying shapes and frames, each one frozen in a stance of solemn vigilance, their expressions cold and impassive.

Auren stared blankly at them and sighed, shaking his head.

'It's amusing, no matter how many times I see it.'

Asenya, through and through, was a fortress. If she ever needed an army, all she had to do was forge one.

The statues stood still—lifeless on the surface, but unmistakably charged with the weight of potential. There was no visible spark in their eyes, no pulse, no motion. But knowing they could spring to life at any moment only made them more unnerving.

Silently, carefully, the three of them passed between the stone sentinels, their presence like ancient guardians watching without breath, until they finally reached the room where their enigmatic Sculptor awaited.

Asenya was just finishing the last statue. There were four of them, and it wasn't hard to guess—they were the likenesses of the four strongest Cursed Creatures they had fought since arriving at the Sundered Spire.

However, the statues Auren was staring at looked nothing like those grotesque abominations.

If anything, they looked…

Jasper was the first to step forward, eyeing the humanoid statue that returned his gaze with an eerily blank stillness.

He scratched the back of his head, chuckling.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say this statue kinda looks like me."

Meredith's voice cut in, flat and clear.

"It does."

She stepped closer to the next statue.

It had long hair cascading over its shoulders, with uneven bangs that settled just above its brow. The features were rough around the edges, yet the resemblance was too strong to ignore.

"It looks like me."

She tilted her head down slowly. Her eyes dropped to the base.

"…But what are these feet?"

Tentacles. Thick and coiling, instead of legs.

Asenya grinned as she scraped the edge of the final statue with her carving knife. She paused, turning her head toward Meredith.

"Even when I tried to make your statue ugly, it came out prettier than planned. So I thought, why not go full circle and just give you ugly legs? You can't be beautiful in real life and beautiful in the fake one too, you know?"

Auren's frown deepened.

"Why the hell do I have fangs… and wings… and claws?!"

Asenya shrugged.

"I thought those would suit you better."

Jasper inspected the statue that bore his features, his smile widening.

"I think mine is flawless, though…"

Flawless was putting it lightly. Compared to Meredith's statue, Jasper's looked like it had been sculpted by an entirely different artisan. The lines were refined and sharp, the craftsmanship seamless. The surface gleamed faintly, and the statue wielded a massive mace across its shoulder like a crowned warrior.

Asenya winked at him.

"It would've been a crime to blemish that handsome face of yours."

Meredith blinked, looking lost for a second.

"…Didn't you just say—"

"I know what I said, girl. What I said is what I said. You got a problem with it?"

Meredith didn't flinch.

"You clearly said it wouldn't—"

"Aigoo, aigoo—would you look at these ungrateful kids? Came crying to me for help, now you wanna nitpick the help I give you?"

The rest of Meredith's words died in her throat. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she sighed and muttered under her breath.

"…Never mind."

Asenya nodded to herself and resumed carving the last statue. Her movements were precise, almost reverent—each stroke of the blade laced with focused intent. She kept glancing back at the original form, studying it one last time before returning to her work, unwilling to leave even the smallest detail unchecked.

When she finally stepped back, satisfied, she slipped her hands behind her back in one fluid motion. The carving knife vanished—no one noticed.

Then she grinned, brushing the dust from her palms with a theatrical flair.

"Now! We're ready to stop a war! Or… fight one? Whatever. I don't care."