Chapter 77
Pushing through dense thickets and overgrown vegetation, they finally arrived at the peculiar sight they had only heard described.
“It’s true… there’s a sword embedded in the rock!” shouted the knight who reached it first.
“Shall I try to pull it out?”
With a nod of permission, the knight grasped the sword’s hilt. He pulled with all his might, but the sword remained stubbornly fixed.
“It won’t budge.”
“Same here!”
“It won’t move at all.”
Other knights tried in turn, even Moritz, but all failed. Their gazes finally settled on Benedict.
He, however, was consumed by a strange sense of déjà vu. The dagger, though unfamiliar, felt somehow known to him. It was odd, considering he’d only encountered the legendary blade in a few scant records.
With a flicker of puzzlement, Benedict strode forward and grasped the hilt. Thump.
A surge of powerful energy coursed through him. It was a strange sensation, as if the sword in his hand had pulsed for a fleeting moment, like something ancient awakening from a long slumber. He barely exerted any force, yet the sword slid free as if drawn to his hand. A scabbard materialized, encasing the blade.
“Your Grace!” Moritz and the knights gasped, astonished. The sword that had resisted their combined strength had yielded to him with such ease.
But Benedict frowned, the uncanny feeling intensifying. This sword… And that wasn’t all. Astonishingly, the sword seemed to evoke emotions within him. What is this? Rage, pain, and hatred—familiar feelings—surfaced first.
Is this truly the holy sword? Benedict frowned, his mind in turmoil, staring at the dagger. Why would a sacred blade meant to vanquish the demonic beasts of the Grey Mountains evoke such emotions?
As he continued to hold it, a torrent of negative emotions washed over him. Some were buried deep within him, forgotten remnants of the past—anguish, resentment, despair, self-reproach, desolation, misery, regret, sorrow… the emotions of a loser, a failure. Emotions he had long ago purged, emotions he no longer understood.
Then, within that abyss of darkness, something flickered—a tiny spark of light. Tenderness.
In that instant, his heart constricted with a sudden, sharp pang. Benedict’s eyes widened, pain gripping him. What is this? He gritted his teeth. The absurdity of the situation aside, what was this reaction his body was having?
Then, a powerful compulsion seized him.
Gouptheriver.Keepgoing,keepgoingup.Ifyougoup… Go up the river. Keep going, keep going up. If you go up… Gouptheriver.Keepgoing,keepgoingup.Ifyougoup…
Benedict looked around, his feet moving involuntarily. He started walking, his pace quickening, his steps growing stronger. Soon, he was running.
“Your Grace!” He heard shouts behind him, but he didn’t look back. He grabbed the reins of his horse and leaped into the saddle. His black steed whinnied, startled, but obeyed its master’s command and began to gallop.
Benedict rode along the river, urging his horse onward as if pursued. His heart pounded in his chest. Faster, faster. As if he couldn’t afford to lose a single moment.
Then, abruptly, he pulled back on the reins. His horse reared, screeching in surprise, but Benedict remained frozen, staring at something in the distance. A sheer cliff face, a towering wall of rock, rose beside the river.
His heart throbbed, a sharp pain piercing his chest. The agonizing sensation returned, as if his heart was being torn apart, shredded, and then pieced back together. Thousands of blades stabbed into his heart and were ripped out in the same instant. The pain spread throughout his body.
“Ugh…”
Arrows flew, flesh was cut, spearheads pierced him, his skin burned and melted. The pain intensified, wave after wave. Heat flooded his vision. His breath grew ragged, his chest tight. Just as his vision began to flicker…
“Because you kept dying!”
“I…”
He heard strange voices.
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