Jon's boots scraped against the uneven stone as he descended deeper into the earth. The tunnel was damp, and the air grew colder with each step, a biting chill that seemed to seep into his bones. The light from his sword, though dim, flickered and cast long shadows along the walls, illuminating the jagged rocks that jutted out at odd angles. Drops of water fell from the ceiling in a steady rhythm, echoing through the narrow passageway.
The walls were covered in dark, mossy growth, and the further Jon ventured, the more he felt the oppressive weight of the cursed magic that permeated the air. It pressed against his chest, making it harder to breathe, as though the very air was trying to suffocate him. Yet Jon pressed on, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.
Ahead, the tunnel began to widen, and Jon could see faint, flickering blue light coming from an opening at the far end. He slowed his pace, his senses sharp. There was something unnatural about that light, a cold, eerie glow that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
As he stepped into the open chamber, Jon was struck by the sheer size of it. The ceiling arched high above him, and the walls were smooth stone, covered in ancient carvings that seemed to writhe and shift under the blue light. At the center of the room, a massive altar loomed, carved from dark stone and draped in tattered, rotting cloth.
On top of the altar sat the shard—a jagged, black piece of glass, larger than any Jon had imagined. It pulsed with a malevolent energy, its surface swirling with dark, shadowy tendrils that reached out toward him, as though it sensed his presence.
Jon approached cautiously, his steps slow and measured. As he drew closer, the air around him seemed to grow thicker, colder. The shard's dark power gnawed at the edges of his mind, filling his thoughts with whispers, promises of power, of revenge.
He shook his head, banishing the thoughts. He had faced the darkness within himself before. He would not let it consume him again.
Just as he reached for the shard, a voice echoed through the chamber, cold and filled with malice.
"You are too late, swordsman."
Jon's hand froze. The voice was deep, ancient, and it seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the chamber. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing as a figure began to take shape from the shadows. It was tall, cloaked in darkness, its form shifting and rippling as though it were made from the very shadows that surrounded it. Two burning red eyes stared out at him, filled with an ancient hatred.