The forest was quiet again, save for the faint rustling of leaves and the sound of my own boots shifting in the dirt. I stood there, my massive sword still hanging at my side, the blade streaked with fresh blood.
I stared at the two bodies on the ground, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and pain. The smell of blood—real, metallic—clung to the air, far too vivid for anything that should've existed in a game. My gauntleted hands trembled as I let my sword fall, its weight sinking into the earth with a heavy thud.
"Oh, God," I muttered. "What the hell did I just do?"
My thoughts raced. I didn't want to kill them. I'd told them to stop, to back off. But they didn't listen. They kept coming, and I… I reacted. My body moved on instinct, faster and stronger than I'd ever been in Yggdrasil.
And now they were dead.
I felt a pang of guilt, sharp and cold, twisting in my chest. They'd attacked me first, but I could've done something—anything—to stop this. I could've held back.
I stepped back, my boots leaving shallow imprints in the blood-soaked dirt. My hands shook harder now, the gauntlets rattling faintly. My breathing felt heavy and uneven. No—wait. I wasn't breathing.
I froze, realizing the sharp edge of guilt in my mind was dulling, fading into the background. The weight of my emotions—the panic, the regret—was slipping away, like water draining through cracks in a stone.
I clenched my fists, trying to hold onto that feeling. I didn't want it to go. I didn't want to stop caring about what I'd done. But the more I tried to force it, the emptier I felt.
"That's… not normal," I muttered.
I looked down at my hands. The blood was still there, streaking the dark metal of my gauntlets. I should've felt horrified, or sick, or something. But instead, all I felt was… cold. Distant.
I took a slow step back, then another, until I was standing at the edge of the clearing. My sword remained where I'd dropped it, its massive frame looming over the bodies.
I wanted to walk away. To leave this place and never look back. But something in the back of my mind—the part of me that still thought like a player—held me in place. If I left now, what was stopping someone from finding the bodies? From spreading rumors about what I'd done?
My head turned instinctively toward the direction the boy had run. He was alive. He'd seen everything.
"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, clenching my fists.
Cut to the Boy's Flight
The boy ran as fast as his legs could carry him, the broken remains of his spear clutched tightly in his hands. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst.
He didn't stop until he broke through the treeline, stumbling into the edge of a campsite where several figures sat around a larger fire.
"What happened?" one of them—a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek—asked, standing as the boy collapsed to his knees.
"Monster," the boy wheezed. "It—it killed them. Both of them. It didn't even…" He trailed off, shaking his head, his face pale as death.
"A monster?" another voice chimed in, this one sharp and skeptical. "In the Blackpine? What kind of monster?"
"It—it wasn't human," the boy stammered, his voice trembling. "It was… armor. Like a suit of haunted armor, but huge. And it talked. It said… I don't know what it said."
The grizzled man frowned, his hand drifting to the hilt of the sword at his hip. "Armor that talks, huh? Sounds like a cursed relic or an undead. Either way, it's trouble."
"Trouble?" the skeptical one said with a scoff. "If it's just some animated armor, we can—"
"You didn't see it!" the boy shouted, his voice cracking. "It killed them like it was nothing! Nothing we did even scratched it!"
The fire crackled in the silence that followed.
The grizzled man finally nodded, his jaw set. "Alright. We'll deal with it in the morning. Get some rest, kid. You've done enough."
Back to Zarathos
I stayed in the clearing longer than I should've. Long enough to wipe the blood off my sword and set it back on my shoulder. Long enough for the last flickers of guilt to fade into nothing.
"Does it even matter anymore?" I muttered, my voice low and bitter.
I turned and started walking, my boots crunching over the dirt as I left the clearing behind. My sword felt heavier than ever, but the weight wasn't from the blade.
No, it was from me.
They turned slowly, their glowing eyes casting faint light across the broken ground. The mist trailing from their armor swirled aimlessly, like it too was unsure of its place. No whispers followed them now—only the echo of their own thoughts, hollow and distant.
Step by step, they walked back toward the fortress. The towering structure loomed in the darkness, its faintly glowing walls an eerie beacon in the night. To Zarathos, it no longer felt like a home. It was a tomb—silent, empty, and heavy with the weight of a past that no longer mattered.
As the massive gates creaked shut behind them, Zarathos paused, staring at the vast, dark halls that had once been a source of pride. Now, they were nothing but walls. No cheers of victory, no banners of glory could erase the image of the adventurers' faces or the truth they were trying so hard to ignore.
The armor whispered faintly as they sat upon the throne once more, their massive sword resting at their side. The silence pressed in, but it didn't matter. For the first time, Zarathos understood: the weight they carried wasn't the sword, the armor, or even the blood on their hands.
It was the hollow certainty that this, whatever this was, was only the beginning.