章節 2: Fate is indecipherable
Benedict's thoughts hastened as the imminent threat of mystical beings beyond his imagination were suddenly cast into the realm of possibility. His heartbeat quickened, and his palms became sweaty as the weight of the unknown pressed upon him.
The air thickened with an unseen weight as Lucius, his weary form leaning upon his sword, spoke with an unwavering voice. "That is quite a relief," Benedict declared, his face lightening, though the gravity of the moment lingered. The oppressive gloom around them seemed almost reluctant to recede, the contrast between Benedict's sudden shift in expression and the somber atmosphere jarring.
Lucius's solemnity remained unbroken. His gaze turned to the horizon, distant and haunted, as though peering into a chasm that none but he could perceive. The faint glimmer of fading light traced his silhouette, accentuating the deep furrows of his brow, etched by the scars of centuries lost. "I must hasten," he muttered, his tone edged with both urgency and resignation. "I have no qualms about losing to that beast, but I now see I must gather an even greater force. If I fall, another must rise. A successor is no longer an option—it is a necessity."
His declaration hung in the heavy air, a tension that rippled through the group like the ominous silence before a storm. Benedict's companions exchanged uneasy glances, their silence speaking of shared dread. Then Lucius, his voice sharper than a drawn blade, called out. "Boy."
Benedict straightened instinctively, meeting the elder swordsman's piercing gaze. Lucius's eyes bore into him, unwavering and cold, like the gaze of a predator measuring its prey. "Thou seemst capable enough to continue this war," he said, his tone as much an appraisal as it was a command. "I shall awaken thy mana core, but I have insufficient time to teach thee my sword techniques. They are unparalleled, yet the world hath changed in my absence; newer ways may serve thee better. My techniques are not lacking; it is the weight of time itself that denies thee their mastery. Thy path must be thine own."
The enormity of Lucius's words stirred something within Benedict. A mixture of fear and determination bloomed in his chest, each vying for dominance. Before he could reply, one of his companions stepped forward, her sharp eyes studying Lucius as though peeling away the centuries. Her voice, edged with both curiosity and unease, broke the silence.
"Thou hast said thy name is Lucius Goldsmith, hath thou not?" she asked, her words measured and deliberate.
Lucius turned to her, his brow lifting slightly. "Aye, that is my name. Why dost thou inquire?"
The woman hesitated, her fingers tracing her cloak's edge absently. The delicate motion was like the ticking of a clock, each moment brimming with the weight of unspoken revelation. "Tell me," she began cautiously, "who dost thou believe to rule the central continent?"
Lucius's lips curled faintly, a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Zurich Zumerato," he replied. "Unless… perhaps his son, Darius?" His voice carried an air of confidence, though doubt flickered within his eyes, a shadow that belied the certainty of his words.
The woman's face paled. For a moment, her words faltered, as if the revelation she bore might shatter her. "Thou art from a kingdom long perished," she finally said, her voice trembling like a leaf caught in an unforgiving gale. "Thou hast not been missing for nine years, Lucius Goldsmith. Nay, thou hast been lost for nine hundred! Zurich, Darius, their empire… all hath turned to ash three centuries past."
Her words struck the group like a thunderclap. Benedict's heart raced, his mind reeling as the foundations of his understanding crumbled. The very air seemed to still, laden with the weight of time's inexorable march. Lucius stood silent, his gaze falling to the ground as if seeking answers in the dust. Time itself seemed to slow as he grappled with the truth.
"Nine centuries," Lucius whispered, his voice brittle. "The void hath stolen my time, my comrades, my world." His shoulders sagged under the weight of the revelation, the proud lines of his form bending beneath the crushing truth. "I was cast into the abyss amidst war against the Lord and His Venerables… and I return to find only ruins."
Benedict's voice, though soft, cut through the silence like a flicker of light in a shadowed corridor. "What of the others who fought with thee? Did any survive?"
Lucius's eyes glimmered with faint hope before despair overtook them, a wave that extinguished the fragile spark. "They are gone. Some lost to the void, others slain by the Draconian Lord. I am but a shadow, lingering where none remain."
The wind shifted, carrying the whispers of a world long lost. The mournful sigh of the breeze seemed to echo Lucius's sadness. He sighed, his sorrow evident, but then his posture straightened. Resolve tempered his despair as he turned to Benedict, his voice hardening like tempered steel. "Come," he said. "It falls upon me to teach thee. I shall awaken thy mana core."
Benedict nodded, his hesitation vanquished by a growing determination. Lucius stepped forward, placing a steady hand upon the young man's chest. "Steel thyself," he warned. "Once begun, this path permits no retreat."
The connection was instant, a seamless bond that bridged the gap between master and apprentice. A torrent of mana surged from Lucius, its raw, untamed force crashing into Benedict like a tidal wave, searing his very soul with its alien intensity. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced, a fire that burned through his veins, yet left him feeling cold at his core. The sheer power of it was beyond comprehension, vast and immeasurable, like the roar of a thousand storms colliding in an endless, unrelenting crescendo.
Benedict's breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as the energy flowed through him, a current so strong that it threatened to snap him in two. It was foreign, alien to his very being, yet it resonated with something primal deep within him—something ancient and instinctual that he had never known existed. It was as though the very air around him had thickened, charged with an unseen force that gripped him by the soul. His body trembled, his heart hammering within his ribs, struggling to keep pace with the power now running rampant through his veins.
At first, it felt like fire—raw, untamed, and searing. The mana twisted within him, a chaotic storm that threatened to tear him apart from the inside out. Yet, as the seconds passed, it began to change, becoming something more intricate, more precise. The heat of the fire turned into an overwhelming flood, a deluge of liquid energy that filled every corner of his body, his senses consumed by it. He felt as though he were drowning, the mana pressing in on him from all sides, suffocating him, yet paradoxically, he could not help but crave more.
His mind reeled as the mana surged, flooding his thoughts with a thousand impressions, a thousand sensations. It was as though his very essence had been stretched thin, his boundaries blurred, his identity fading into the void of Lucius's influence. His vision swam with radiant light, brilliant flashes that painted the world in hues he had never known. The mana filled him, not just physically, but in a way that transcended mere sensation—he felt it in his very being, every fiber of his body vibrating with its presence.
"Dost thou feel it?" Lucius's voice pierced through the tumult, sharp with restrained excitement, yet beneath it lay a deep, unspoken sense of urgency. The question hung in the air like an ethereal challenge, yet Benedict was too consumed by the raw flood of power to answer immediately. His eyes widened, pupils dilated as he tried desperately to hold on to some semblance of control. "My mana mingles with thine. Canst thou sense its vastness?"
His body felt as though it were both expanding and contracting simultaneously, as if the world itself had grown infinitely larger, yet more suffocating at the same time. He could feel Lucius within him, his master's presence like a guiding hand through the storm, yet it was not a comfort—it was a reminder of the gap between them, the vast chasm of experience that Benedict could not yet bridge.
The feeling was overwhelming, and his thoughts became a cacophony of distant echoes, each fragment of his awareness struggling to maintain its sense of self. He could feel his heartbeat, each thump a drum in his chest, and yet, it was no longer his own. The mana had merged with him, and in that fusion, the boundaries between who he was and the force he now wielded had become indistinguishable. It was as though he were both part of the mana and its vessel, the flow of energy as much a part of him as his own breath.
In the tumult of sensations, he could not help but reflect on the enormity of what Lucius had entrusted him with. This was more than just raw power—it was an embodiment of the arcane, an ancient force that transcended the mundane. Was this what it meant to be a true wielder of mana? To merge with something so vast, so boundless, that one's very soul would tremble in its presence? Benedict could not even fathom it fully, but he felt it, deep within him, a truth so overwhelming it made his chest tighten in awe—and fear.
For a moment, everything faded, the world becoming a blur of sensations. Time stretched and warped, each passing second felt like an eternity. His hands, trembling as they rested upon the hilt of his sword, seemed distant, as though they were not his own. The ground beneath him, the very air around him—all of it became insignificant in the wake of the storm of mana that ravaged his body. He was alive with power, but it was a power that came with a cost, a cost he could not yet comprehend.
But as the chaos inside him began to settle, a strange clarity washed over him. It was fleeting, a brief moment of lucidity amidst the torrent, but it was enough for Benedict to realize one undeniable truth: he had barely scratched the surface of this power. Lucius's words, though spoken with excitement, now felt like a distant echo, for Benedict was consumed by the feeling of being more than he had ever been—a vessel for something far greater than himself.
Just as the storm within him began to settle, like the eye of a hurricane before the inevitable return of its fury, the world around them shifted again, drawing Benedict's attention. The air crackled with an unnatural tension, the light around them dimming, replaced by a shadow that seemed to grow and stretch with every passing moment.
Then, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, a presence made itself known. The very air began to thicken with dread, as though something ancient and malevolent was stirring. Benedict's heart skipped a beat, his senses heightening as the first tremors of something terrifying washed over him. He could feel it before he saw it—the dark, oppressive weight of an entity that was not of this world, an imposition upon reality itself.
His mind screamed for him to turn, to flee, but his body was rooted to the spot, the connection to Lucius's mana still pulsing within him. The rift in the sky widened, and with it, the overwhelming sense that something far darker was about to emerge.
Before Benedict could answer, the air around them seemed to quiver with an unnatural energy. The light, once gentle and familiar, now twisted and writhed, growing unnervingly bright. It was as though the heavens themselves had faltered, bending to a force far beyond comprehension. Benedict squinted, his brow furrowed, confusion quickly shifting into a gnawing dread. "Why is it… brighter?" His voice, though soft, seemed to tremble, as if his very words might be swallowed by the eerie luminescence that bathed them.
Lucius's eyes, once calm and unyielding, now snapped upward with a suddenness that took even Benedict by surprise. His weathered face twisted with a raw, unmasked horror, an expression Benedict had never before witnessed upon the elder swordsman. The sky itself above them fractured like fragile glass, a delicate web of cracks spidering outward across the heavens, as though reality itself was coming undone. With a deafening roar, a jagged rift split open, as though the fabric of existence had been torn asunder. From the very depths of this gaping wound in the world spilled an oppressive, searing light mingled with ink-black shadows, a grotesque blend of the divine and the damning.
From within this chaos emerged a colossal figure, its form looming like a dark omen from the abyss. The being stood a full nine feet tall, its presence suffocating and unnatural, an amalgamation of nightmare and legend come to life. Its skin shimmered with an eerie sheen, not of this world, as though woven from the very void itself, a darkness more profound than the deepest cavern. Horns, twisted and jagged as obsidian, curled from its brow, casting long shadows upon the ground below. Its wings unfurled with an earth-shattering sound, the very air trembling as though the world could not bear the weight of their vastness. The wings, black as the void from which it had emerged, stretched wide, each beat like the strike of thunder, casting a shadow so immense that it seemed to swallow the very light of the day.
"Lucius!" The creature's voice roared, a tempestuous roar that raked across the soul, sending tremors through the air itself. Its words, sharp and cruel, cut through the heavy silence, their very essence slicing through the fragile veil of hope. "Thou art but a fleeting spark before my inferno. Thy death is assured, and with it, thy legacy shall burn to ash."
Lucius staggered back, his breath ragged as he instinctively flared his mana in a desperate, defensive wave. His sword shimmered with an ethereal glow, yet even the might of his power seemed insignificant before the oncoming storm. "Issamith," he hissed, the name dripping from his tongue like venom. "The Twelfth Venerable."
Issamith's laughter rang out like the screech of metal upon stone, a jagged, mocking sound that tore through the fragile threads of the group's resolve. "Thou dost flatter thyself, Lucius," he sneered, his voice laced with malice. His eyes, gleaming with an ancient malevolence, narrowed upon the swordsman. "I do not rend the very fabric of space for my own whimsy. The Draconian Lord commands, and I, the servant of His will, obey. It is His decree that thy precious legacy shall be undone. Thy reckoning is nigh, old fool."
The very air thickened with an unbearable weight, a palpable oppression that seemed to press upon the chest like the crushing weight of a thousand iron chains. Benedict's breath caught in his throat, his lungs burning as if the very oxygen was being stolen from him. The pressure was too much to bear. His knees buckled beneath him, his legs no longer able to support his trembling form. He collapsed to the ground, choking, gasping for air as Issamith's suffocating aura seemed to steal the very breath from his lungs. Around him, his companions, once filled with defiance, now crumpled to the earth, their lifeless forms succumbing one by one to the overwhelming force of the Draconian's power.
Lucius turned then, his face a mask of fury and despair, and his voice, though strained, rang out with a sense of urgency that cut through the oppressive dread. "Run, Benedict!" The words lashed through the suffocating silence like a whip, each syllable a command, a plea, a final directive. A barrier of shimmering light, radiant and blinding, erupted from Lucius's outstretched hand, a desperate shield that encased the survivors in a fragile cocoon of protection. The light flared as if in defiance of the darkness, a flickering flame in the face of an unrelenting storm. "Thou must live! The threads of fate depend on thee, boy!"
Benedict hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest like the relentless beating of a war drum. His body trembled, both from fear and exhaustion. Every instinct screamed at him to remain, to stand by Lucius and face the impossible odds. But as he turned his gaze to the elder swordsman, his resolve unshakable, the weight of his decision bore down upon him like a thousand suns. Lucius's eyes, darkened with centuries of battle, locked onto his with a final, unspoken understanding. In that fleeting moment, Benedict knew what he must do. With a final, reluctant glance at the battle unfolding behind him, he turned and fled into the unknown, his legs carrying him away from the terrible sight.
His companion, ever faithful, stayed close behind, her footsteps barely audible in the chaos. The sound of battle, of clashing powers and torn earth, raged behind them, but Benedict did not dare look back. His mind was consumed with the terrible image of Lucius facing Issamith, the overwhelming force of their struggle cracking the very air with the might of their powers. The ground beneath him trembled, the earth groaning as the titanic clash of wills continued, each blow between the two seemingly shifting the very fabric of reality itself.
As Benedict ran, his chest heaving with exhaustion and dread, the weight of the situation crushed him further. Hours ago, his life had been simple—a life of fleeting simplicity and quiet days. Now, it had been irrevocably torn asunder, cast into a war that reached beyond his comprehension, bound to a fate far greater and far darker than he could have ever imagined. The echoes of Lucius's final battle rang in his ears, each step forward now a step into the abyss, a descent into a world forever changed.
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