Anir lay in bed, eyes wide open, attempting to sleep but failing miserably. No matter how hard he tried, the discovery from earlier refused to leave his mind. The eerie statue of his father, the blood-soaked chamber, the cryptic symbols—each image resurfaced with unnerving clarity, taunting him. Thoughts chased each other endlessly, each one more disturbing than the last, until morning crept in with a soft glow.
With a sigh, Anir pulled himself out of bed, exhaustion weighing on him. Dark circles etched beneath his eyes betrayed his sleepless night. Driven by a relentless urge to confront his fears, he left his room and paused in front of his father's door. His hand hovered over the doorknob as he hesitated, a flicker of dread sparking within him. But he needed answers—he had to face whatever waited below.
He took a breath, steeling himself, and pushed open the door. The room lay in silence, and his gaze fell to the strange symbol on the floor, marking the entrance to the stairway that led to the hidden chamber. He exhaled, steadying his nerves, and descended, the darkness around him feeling thicker with every step, like a shroud waiting to swallow him whole.
Summoning a small flame for light, he let his senses take in every detail around him, hoping to uncover anything he might have missed. At first, there was only silence and shadows. But as he descended further, the faint, metallic scent of blood grew stronger, assaulting his nose until he had to cover his mouth, stifling a gag. A chilling realization hit him: the stench hadn't been this potent the first time he'd visited.
The hairs on his neck prickled as his mind raced, questions piling up in his mind. Why did the smell intensify? Was someone—or something—maintaining this room? With a growing sense of horror, he continued, forcing himself downwards despite his mind screaming to turn back. The scent thickened with each step until it was almost suffocating.
Finally, he reached the chamber. The gruesome sight greeted him once again—the bloody walls, the twisted statue, and that haunting silence. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat sounding louder in the oppressive quiet. As he cautiously approached the statue, he studied its face in detail, hoping to disprove his initial assumption. But it was unmistakable. This statue was indeed a twisted version of his father's likeness, his older features carved into a grotesque, horned creature. Even his own features—ones he'd inherited from his father—seemed mirrored in the statue's solemn expression.
He reached out, fingers grazing the cold, blood-smeared surface, half-expecting it to come alive under his touch. But it remained motionless, an unyielding monument to something dark and mysterious. Frustration gnawed at him. What was this place? What had his father hidden here, and why?
Next, he turned his attention to the golden bowl, nearly brimming with thick, dark blood. Holding his breath, he leaned closer, peering into its depths, but found no immediate clues. Every part of this room felt like a puzzle designed to unnerve him, and yet, none of the pieces seemed to fit.
As he sat in the middle of the room, hands clasped in thought, a strange idea sparked in his mind. He remembered his father's cryptic message in the diary: They killed me... and you're next. It seemed absurd, but he couldn't shake the feeling that the bowl needed to be filled to reveal its secrets. What if… what if adding my blood will unlock something?
Anir hesitated, glancing back at the bowl. He weighed his options, realizing he might never get another answer without taking a risk. Finally, determined, he formed a small icicle, sharpened to the size of a blade, and took a steadying breath. He nicked his palm with the icy edge, wincing as a thin stream of crimson welled up.
The moment his blood dripped into the bowl, something happened.
A red glow emerged, spreading across the liquid surface like ripples in water. Strange, glowing symbols spiraled up from the bowl and traveled along the ground, tracing intricate patterns around the room. He watched in awe and fear as the statue, too, began to glow, red lines illuminating the hollows and crevices, painting a terrifying image of his father's face. His heartbeat hammered in his ears as the blood drained from the bowl, disappearing as if consumed by something unseen.
Then, blood-red words seared themselves onto the floor, an ominous message burning into his mind:
YOUR BLOOD IS KEY TO POWER. I, SHADOW OF DESPAIR, MALAKAR, CAN MAKE YOU MORE POWERFUL THAN ANYONE.
Anir's breath caught, his thoughts spinning chaotically. The phrase echoed in his mind, each word heavier than the last. Shadow of Despair… Malakar? Was this some sort of demon, or a dark entity trapped within this room?
Questions clawed at his mind. My blood? Key to power? His father had always seemed to hide secrets, but this was beyond anything he could have imagined. His mind raced with questions he had no answers for. Did my father strike a deal with this Malakar? Was this how he had gained power?
He shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. He thought back to the phrase in his father's diary that had haunted him: The line between power and madness is razor-thin. Once crossed, there's no return. The words took on a new, chilling significance. Had his father made some sort of pact with this… thing?
But the room was silent once more, the glow having faded, and only the echoes of the message lingered in his mind. He felt an instinctive fear, but beneath it, a strange allure—a curiosity to know more, to understand what his father had been willing to sacrifice.
He returned upstairs in a daze, each step feeling heavier than the last. Exhausted, he collapsed onto his bed, pulling his father's diary close, flipping through the pages with newfound urgency. But he found nothing that directly answered his questions. All that remained were fragmented hints, vague mentions of "unlocking true potential" and "a hidden force." Frustrated, he closed the book, his thoughts a jumble.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep, only to wake up later in the afternoon. He ate in silence, his mind still buzzing with everything he'd seen and the cryptic message. Tonight was his training session with Ebdo, and the weight of whether he should mention this strange discovery tugged at him.
But as he mulled it over, he decided against it. Ebdo had taught him much, but this was something so personal, so deeply tied to his father, that he couldn't bring himself to reveal it—at least, not until he understood it more.
When evening arrived, Anir donned his black armor and made his way to Ebdo's house. The underground training room was cold, its walls lined with weapons and gear. Ebdo sat waiting, his eyes narrowing as he studied Anir's face.
"You don't look too well, Anir," Ebdo remarked. "Didn't sleep much, did you? Or is there something else?"
Anir hesitated, forcing a weak laugh. "I guess I was too excited. Today's the day I get to use a sword, right?"
Ebdo raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but he let it go. "You're a terrible liar, but suit yourself. Just don't push yourself too hard. Whatever's on your mind, I'm here if you need help."
Anir offered a grateful nod. "I appreciate it, really. Let's get started."
With that, he followed Ebdo to a rack lined with swords. He scanned the selection, feeling the weight of each blade as he tested their balance. He noticed a sleek pair of black swords glinting in the dim light, their edges razor-sharp, their hilts engraved with swirling patterns.
"Can I use these… both of them?" he asked, glancing at Ebdo.
The older man chuckled. "Dual-wielding, huh? Sure, but it's going to be twice as hard to master. You're going to have to put in extra effort to get the hang of it."
Anir nodded, his fingers wrapping around the hilts of the swords. Surprisingly, they were lighter than they appeared, and he felt an instant connection to them, as though they belonged in his hands. He lifted them, testing the weight, and gave a few experimental swings. The blades cut through the air with satisfying precision.
Ebdo watched, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "They suit you. Black armor, black swords—you're starting to make a statement. New fashion, perhaps?"
Anir smiled awkwardly. "It just… feels right."
Ebdo chuckled, adjusting his stance. "Alright, let's see how well you handle them. Come at me."
Anir nodded, falling into a stance, feeling the weight of the swords in his hands. He knew tonight's training would be grueling, but he was ready. Every swing, every parry, brought him one step closer to understanding himself—and the mysterious, dark legacy his father had left behind.