Chapter 17: The Cursed Gift
Sylas sat at the edge of his bed, his thoughts swirling like a maelstrom. The faint violet glow from his ring pulsed gently, casting an otherworldly hue on his face. He stared at it, his mind replaying the cryptic words it had spoken to him earlier.
"Negative emotions… a catalyst… abilities in return."
He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the mystery surrounding the ring. What exactly was it? Why had it chosen him, of all people? And more importantly, what was this "catalyst" it demanded?
Sylas brought his hand closer, studying the ring intently. Its once uniform violet hue was now split, with half of it appearing as a lighter shade. The inscriptions along the ring's surface had changed, and he could feel the faint hum of mana coursing through it.
"It took the attacker's negative emotions…" he murmured, piecing the puzzle together. "And in return… it gave me his ability."
He exhaled sharply, his mind recalling the ferocity of the blue-cloaked attacker. The mana slashes, the piercing indigo laser—they had seemed insurmountable during the fight. Yet now, Sylas realized he had inherited the power to mold and emit mana in the same way.
"Mana molding," he whispered. "The ability to shape and weaponize raw mana… That must've been the attacker's basic Ring ability."
But then came the matter of the catalyst.
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Sylas closed his eyes, letting his mana flow into the artifact. The faint violet glow brightened, and he could feel a subtle shift within the ring, as if it were alive, responding to his will.
"The ring isn't just a tool," he thought. "It's sentient, in a way. It feeds, it grows, and it adapts."
The word "catalyst" echoed in his mind, gnawing at his thoughts. What could it mean? Was it an object? A ritual? Or perhaps something far more abstract? Sylas clenched his fists in frustration but forced himself to think rationally.
"If the ring demanded a catalyst," he reasoned, "then it must be something I can find. Something within my reach."
The ring wouldn't have asked for something impossible—Sylas felt certain of that. It had chosen him for a reason, and its survival seemed to depend on his ability to procure this mysterious catalyst.
He tapped his fingers against his knee, considering the possibilities. "The ring fed on negative emotions during the fight. It craves something dark, something raw…"
His mind shifted to the artifact his father had mentioned. Could it be connected? If the ring needed a catalyst to sustain itself, then perhaps this artifact held the key.
He looked at the ring again, its faint glow pulsing steadily. "You wouldn't demand something out of my reach," Sylas muttered. "That means the catalyst is something I can find… and I'll figure out how."
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Determined to uncover more about the artifact and the ring's demands, Sylas sought out his father. He found Mark in the study, poring over ledgers as usual. The older man looked up when Sylas entered, his expression shifting to one of concern.
"Sylas? What's wrong?"
"Father," Sylas began, stepping forward. "You need to see this."
He extended his hand, channeling his mana into the ring. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the violet glow returned, and mana began to swirl in his palm, forming a faintly pulsating ball of energy.
Mark's eyes widened, and he stood abruptly. "By the heavens, Sylas!"
Before Mark could say anything further, Sylas dispelled the energy and launched into an explanation, detailing everything that had transpired—everything except the ring speaking to him.
When Sylas finished, Mark leaned against the desk, his expression unreadable. "You're telling me that this… ability… came from your fight with that man?"
Sylas nodded. "And there's more, Father. The ring—it needs something. A catalyst."
Mark's brows furrowed. "A catalyst? And you're certain about this?"
Sylas hesitated but nodded again. "I just… know. Call it instinct."
Mark studied his son carefully. There was something Sylas wasn't saying, but Mark chose not to press him—for now. Instead, he sighed and walked to a nearby cabinet, pulling out an old, weathered map.
Placing it on the table, he motioned for Sylas to come closer. "If you're looking for an artifact tied to your ring, this might be what you're after."
Sylas's eyes narrowed as he examined the map. The script was ancient, written in a language he didn't recognize.
"This map is over a thousand years old," Mark explained. "I came across it during my travels, long before you were born. Back then, it was little more than a curiosity—a relic of a forgotten time. But recently, I managed to decipher some of it."
Mark pointed to a section of the map, where faint markings indicated a location. "It took years of research, but I finally narrowed down the location of the artifact to the Duchy of Silva. The translation isn't perfect, but I'm confident this map will lead you there."
Sylas's breath caught in his throat. "The Duchy of Silva…"
Mark nodded, his expression grave. "And according to what I've translated, this artifact is tied to the House of Eldras."
Sylas froze, his mind reeling. "The House of Eldras? They're—"
Mark cut him off sharply. "Not another word, Sylas."
Sylas bit his lip, but his emotions were too overwhelming to contain. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at his father. "Then… the attack on you and Mom… her leaving us... it was because of—"
"Enough," Mark said firmly, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. His gaze softened. "Your mother knew the risks. She knew what this map could mean. Don't let it weigh you down, Sylas. Focus on the path ahead."
Sylas clenched his fists, his resolve hardening once more. "I'll find the artifact, Father. I'll find the catalyst, and I'll bring Mom back. I promise."
The vow was solemn, unshakable. The ring on his wrist seemed to pulse in agreement, its faint glow a silent witness to Sylas's determination.
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End of Chapter