Harold's request surprised everyone. No one, not even the elf lord, could guess Harold's intent in that moment. Talion, struggling to suppress his urge to kill, gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. Before stepping out of the cell, he shot Harold a glance over his shoulder.
"Don't think this means you're safe. Your life's still mine to take.!"
Harold picked up his sword sheath and examined the straps. The elf lord, whose attention seemed to have been piqued by the incident, said, "Alright then. When you're ready, come out of the dungeon."
He left the cell, accompanied by Lady Luthien and his guards. One of the elves who had come along handed Harold a wooden box along with an orb of light.
"There's a set of cloth clothing, some food, and medicine in this box. Use them before you come up."
The elf, too, left the cell.
Harold watched the guard leave, appearing like a firefly in the night's darkness. He sighed and sat on the floor.
The box brought by the elves was finely crafted. Its intricate carvings hinted that it was the work of a master elven artisan.
"Even their simplest items are so lavishly made... these elves are really..."
Harold smirked and opened the box. Inside, there was a complete set of clothes along with leather shoes. Beside them were a few vials of potion, some salve, and elven bread with drink.
"At least I won't be fighting on an empty stomach..."
Harold examined the box more closely, hoping to find something else.
"What's this...?"
To his surprise, the rune on the drink bottle indicated it could hold far more than its apparent capacity—potentially dozens or even hundreds of times its volume.
"Hahaha! How amusing!"
Harold stripped off his clothes and cleaned himself. He then applied the salve to his wounds, donned the fresh clothing, ate some bread, and drank the potions in the sequence they were arranged in the box.
"First, the health recovery potion, then the mana potion..."
He slung the leather strap of his silver sword over his shoulder, fastening the iron buckle at his chest. Finally, he ran a hand through his hair, picked up the glowing orb, and prepared to leave the dungeon.
"Time to go. Nothing left for me here..."
He opened the iron door to the cell, facing an almost pitch-black space that seemed ready to swallow him whole. The path upward was visible only a few steps ahead, uneven and narrow. Beneath his feet lay a chasm that appeared to plunge infinitely into the earth's core.
Raising the light orb higher, Harold infused it with more mana. It brightened considerably, revealing more of the path ahead.
The dungeon's exit clung to the cliffside, twisting and turning as it ascended. Unlike the finely crafted box he had left behind, the staircase was crude and worn from years of use.
There were no railings along the way. A single misstep could send anyone plummeting into the abyss. Occasionally, a pebble under Harold's feet would dislodge and tumble down, the sound of its fall echoing endlessly.
"This chasm is so deep I can't even guess its depth. And to think something like this exists beneath the Whispering woods..."
Harold grew curious about what lay at the bottom. The only known route to the depths was through the ruins of Asryndor. Yet those ruins were sealed so tightly that even the elves couldn't return to their fabled city. Many had tried to break the seal, but none had succeeded.
Years ago, a coalition of powerful dwarven, human, and elven mages had attempted to breach the seal to explore the forgotten realm, but they returned empty-handed.
It was said that one of them, a seventh-tier dwarven mage, had gone mad after attempting to manipulate the seal. That had been the last known effort to open the entrance to Asryndor's halls.
"So there was a key, but the elves couldn't use it. Now, they use it as a trial to test the endurance of warrior candidates. Fascinating! Apparently, the item drains stamina and destabilizes one's mental state."
"Sounds more like the traits of a cursed weapon..."
Suddenly, Harold slipped, nearly falling from a wooden bridge.
"Damn it! I'd better focus on getting out of this hellhole first!"
---
In the Whispering woods,
A group of armored elves escorted a man who was said to be undergoing the Trial of Death's Scythe across hanging bridges.
The Whispering woods elves built their homes atop tree trunks, drawing architectural inspiration from forest mushrooms and honeycombs. Their connection to nature's spirit ran deep.
The man, in stark contrast to the elves, appeared far older. His gray hair and wrinkled face marked his age, but his piercing eyes betrayed no weakness. His body was as solid as stone, and his muscles showed little sign of aging.
They crossed several bridges and passed countless treehouses until they reached a massive tree with an enormous trunk. Two spear-wielding elven guards stood before it.
The guards gave a brief bow and directed the group to the other side of the trunk, where an entrance lay.
Inside, the tree was hollow, its dim interior illuminated by clusters of fireflies encased in bubble-like structures. A spiral staircase led downward, eventually opening into another underground path.
Unlike the dungeon, this underground passage was polished, clean, and orderly.
Harold could hear numerous shouts echoing from behind the stone walls. One of the elves accompanying him gestured toward a dark corridor.
"This way, human."
As they moved further, the noise faded. Harold was no longer certain whether they were descending or ascending.
Eventually, the elf turned into another corridor and opened a wooden door. Inside, a group of elder elves awaited Harold.
"Step forward, human child. Kneel and accept your fate!"
In a dimly lit room illuminated by a single column of light, cold and stoic faces resembling lifeless statues stood before Harold.
Obeying their command, Harold knelt.
"Human, it is your greatest honor to wield the weapon of the Elven King—a weapon that has brought countless demons to their doom."
"Beware of the lust for power, for this weapon has consumed the blood of many greedy souls..."
One of the elders raised Harold's right hand, wrapping a long chain around it.
"Courage is not destruction. True bravery lies in knowing when to sheathe your weapon and when to shed blood without hesitation."
The elder then lifted Harold's left hand, binding it with another chain.
"These chains shall serve as your oath before the Elven King..."
"Human, do you swear to vanquish demons and walk only the path of truth?"
Harold's expression turned serious as he loudly declared, "I swear!"
The elder elves nodded solemnly, signaling the continuation of the trial.
A tray was brought forward, holding two large, dark scythes. Harold immediately recognized their age and the ominous black aura emanating from them.
[Those weapons... are they truly cursed?]
"Now, prove your resolve by taking up these weapons!"
Bowing, Harold slowly extended his hand toward the scythes. The moment his fingers touched one of their handles, a sinister voice echoed in his mind:
"Since when were temple dogs allowed to tread upon this sacred ground?"