"Charles…"
Charles seemed to hear a moan from hell. He turned around. Jerome’s withered face was in a puddle of blood with its mouth open. The man had withered and dried out under the erosion of the abyss’s breath. He looked like a weathered skeleton but the glow of his soul still remained in his body.
"Pick up…" He used the last of his strength to grasp Charles’s hand. Ghostly fire burned in his eyes. "Pick it up, Charles! Pick it up! Only you…"
Only you can stop him!
"Me?" Charles froze. He looked down blankly at the spear in the pool of blood. This was the replica of St. George’s spear, a powerful ancient artifact. "You w-want me to go?" he muttered.