章節 12: 12.
The figure's voice echoed through the hall, each word heavy with ancient authority. Viole's breath caught, and his hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword. The figure was shrouded in darkness, its face hidden, but its glowing red eyes were unmistakable—burning with a malice that chilled him to the core. The oppressive weight in the air pressed down on them, thick and suffocating, as if the very shadows were alive and watching.
Toren growled low in his throat, his claws extending as he positioned himself between the figure and the rest of the group. "Who the hell are you?" he snarled, his voice a mix of anger and fear.
Seris didn't move, her eyes narrowed as she studied the figure, her dagger gleaming faintly in the dim light. "We don't have time for this," she muttered under her breath, but there was a tension in her posture that betrayed her uncertainty.
Viole stood frozen, his mind racing as the figure's presence loomed over them. There was something familiar about the way it moved, the way its voice seemed to ripple through the air, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. It was the same presence he had felt in the void, the same entity that had tested him in the depths of the cavern. It had returned.
Aamon stirred within him, his voice cold and calculating. "It knows what you are, Viole. Be careful. This isn't just a test anymore."
Viole swallowed hard, his throat dry. The personalities were right. This wasn't part of the trial—this was something else. Something far more dangerous.
The figure took a step forward, its form shifting and flickering like smoke, the darkness around it pulsing with power. The torches along the walls continued to sputter out, one by one, until the hall was almost completely dark, save for the faint glow of the figure's eyes.
"You were warned," the figure said, its voice a low growl that seemed to reverberate through Viole's chest. "You are not ready for this power. You should have stayed away."
Seris glanced at Viole, her eyes sharp. "What's it talking about? What does it mean?"
Viole opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He didn't know. He had no idea why this thing had come for him, or what it wanted. But he could feel the pull of the shard's power still lingering inside him, a faint echo of the energy he had unleashed in the cavern below.
The figure's gaze locked onto Viole, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them. The air grew colder, and Viole could feel the mark on his palm burning with a faint heat, as if responding to the figure's presence.
"This mark…" Viole thought, his mind spinning. "It's connected to the shard. That's why it's here. It's after the power I took."
The figure moved again, faster this time, its form shifting as it glided toward them with an eerie, unnatural grace. The darkness around it seemed to bend and twist in its wake, like a storm building in the air.
Toren snarled, launching himself at the figure with a feral roar. His claws slashed through the air, aiming for the figure's throat, but his attack passed through it as if it were made of smoke. Toren stumbled, his momentum carrying him forward as the figure's form reassembled behind him.
"Toren, no!" Seris shouted, her voice sharp with alarm.
Before Toren could recover, the figure lashed out. A shadowy tendril shot from its body, wrapping around Toren's arm with a sickening snap. The werewolf howled in pain as the tendril tightened, pulling him to the ground with a brutal force.
Viole's heart pounded in his chest, the sound of Toren's agonized growl filling the hall. His instincts screamed at him to move, to fight, but he was rooted to the spot, his mind racing with fear and uncertainty.
"Do something," Clark hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. "You can't just stand there and watch him die."
But Viole couldn't move. The weight of the figure's presence was suffocating, pressing down on him like a heavy blanket, sapping his strength.
Seris, quick and deadly, darted toward the figure, her dagger gleaming as she slashed at the tendril holding Toren. Her blade cut through the shadowy substance, and the tendril recoiled with a hiss, releasing Toren's arm.
The werewolf staggered to his feet, his chest heaving with labored breaths. His arm hung limply at his side, blood dripping from the deep wound where the tendril had wrapped around him. But he was still standing. Barely.
The figure, unfazed by Seris's attack, turned its attention back to Viole. Its red eyes blazed with intensity, locking onto him as if seeing straight through his defenses. Viole felt the pressure in his mind intensify, the figure's presence pushing against the walls of his consciousness.
"This power does not belong to you," the figure said, its voice low and dangerous. "You are not worthy of it."
The mark on Viole's palm pulsed again, a sharp, burning pain shooting through his hand. He gasped, his knees buckling as the energy surged through him, overwhelming and relentless. He could feel the personalities stirring inside him, their voices rising in unison, but he pushed them back. He couldn't lose control now. Not here.
"Let me in," Aamon whispered, his voice smooth and commanding. "You need my strength, Viole. You can't win this on your own."
But Viole shook his head, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He couldn't. If he let Aamon in, if he let any of the personalities take over, he might never regain control. The mark on his palm was already pushing him toward the abyss, and he couldn't risk falling any deeper.
The figure moved again, its form flickering as it closed the distance between them. Viole could feel its presence looming over him, cold and merciless.
And then, just as the figure reached for him, something shifted.
The darkness that surrounded the figure rippled, and for a brief moment, the oppressive weight lifted. Viole's mind cleared, his senses sharpening as a strange energy surged through him. It wasn't Aamon, or Desmond, or Clark. It was something else—something deeper, something that had been buried within him for a long time.
The mark on his palm flared with light, bright and searing, and the figure recoiled, its form flickering as it staggered back. The red glow in its eyes dimmed, and for the first time, Viole saw hesitation in its movements.
He didn't know what had happened, or where the power had come from, but he wasn't about to waste the opportunity.
Viole pushed himself to his feet, his sword raised, the mark on his palm still glowing faintly. The figure seemed to waver, its form unstable as it tried to regain its composure.
Viole didn't give it the chance. With a surge of adrenaline, he lunged forward, his sword slicing through the air. The blade cut through the figure's form, and the shadows around it seemed to unravel, dissolving into the darkness.
The figure let out a low, guttural growl as it staggered back, its form flickering and fading. Its red eyes locked onto Viole one last time, filled with rage and something else—something like recognition.
"This is not over," the figure said, its voice a whisper now, barely audible. "You cannot escape what you are."
And then, with a final flicker of light, the figure vanished, leaving the hall in silence.
Viole stood frozen, his chest heaving with exhaustion. The mark on his palm dimmed, the faint glow fading until it was nothing more than a faint outline on his skin. Whatever had happened, whatever that figure had been, it was gone.
But the words lingered in his mind, like a dark shadow creeping at the edges of his thoughts.
"You cannot escape what you are."
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
榜單 
-- 推薦票