A dull, throbbing ache threatened to split his skull in two as he clawed his way back to consciousness.
For a moment, it felt like he had been adrift in a deep, dreamless sleep, free from the misfortunes that had crashed upon him without warning—without even a whisper of foreshadowing.
Then the sensation returned. Auren pushed himself up, palms pressing against the rough, uneven stone beneath him. The cold seeped through his skin, jolting his senses awake.
Air snagged in his throat.
Iron bars loomed before him, their blackened surface swallowing what little light reached into the chamber. He spun around—behind him, a small, tattered bed lay sunken into the corner, its fabric stained with the passage of time, dirt, and neglect.
Something was wrong.
'A prison?'
His mind struggled to piece together how he had ended up here.
Auren lurched forward, gripping the bars with both hands. His voice cracked as he shouted:
"Anyone there?!"
His words tunneled through the silence, swallowed by the endless void beyond. No response. No shuffle of movement. No telltale signs of life.
His sword was gone.
The fine silk suit he had worn—gone.
All that remained were his inner white shirt and black trousers. Even his shoes had been taken.
Confusion churned in his gut. He looked down at himself as if searching for some sign—something to explain this madness.
His grip on the bars tightened. He tried again.
"Sentries! I need to speak to someone! My father! My brother! Relisé!"
His voice splintered into echoes that faded into nothingness.
His hands slipped from the iron, his strength deflating. He staggered backward, dropping onto the filthy bed he'd recoiled from just moments ago. He didn't care anymore. Not about the grime, not about the stench.
He needed to think.
What happened?
Where was his father?
Relisé—did she even know?
Then, realization slithered into his mind like a whisper.
'I have received a blessing now, haven't I…?'
His thoughts stalled.
'…A curse…? Whatever damned thing it was, it was supposed to make me stronger.'
His gaze sharpened, shifting back to the iron bars.
If he truly had been granted something—anything—then he should be able to break free.
Auren clenched his fist. His mind churned through calculations, estimating the force needed to bend the bars.
'My raw strength won't be enough… but if I can tap into my blessing… c–cur…'
Drawing a slow breath, he closed his eyes, waiting. Feeling.
A spark—he needed just a flicker of power.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. His fist lashed out, carving through the air with blinding speed.
The impact resounded like a hollow cry against the iron.
And then—agony.
Auren recoiled, his entire arm throbbing in protest. His fingers curled against his bent wrist, his breath shuddering as pain seared through his bones.
He gritted his teeth, stifling a cry—until the last second when it broke free.
"Damn it…" He wheezed. "Where is the skill? Even if it's cursed, at least be useful, archondamn it!"
He collapsed back onto the bed, his chest rising and falling erratically. His gaze flickered to the iron bars—utterly unscathed.
Then to his hand—purple, discolored, useless.
He couldn't afford to break anything else. His body was already screaming in protest. His head still felt wrong.
Auren sighed, tipping his head against the cold stone wall.
"What was I even thinking…? Of course, I don't have a skill yet. I'm not officially a Blessed—still just a Nascent."
Nascents received their Blessings from the Archon before returning to their respective state Temples, where they would undergo the Archon's Trial.
Only those who passed the trial would emerge as true Blesseds.
By now, he should have already been taking the test. Yet here he was, locked away in a cell with no clue what had gone wrong—or what awaited him beyond these iron bars.
Auren sighed again, letting his eyes slip shut.
"I guess I'll just have to wait and find out."
***
He wasn't sure how much time had passed.
His stomach gnawed at itself, hollow and aching. His throat had long since dried out, the thirst clawing at his patience.
Then—footsteps.
His ears perked up.
The steps were aint at first, but distinct. Humans.
His heartbeat quickened as the sound drew closer.
'Finally, someone I can talk to…'
Two sentries emerged from the darkness, their golden armor radiating light that sent shadows fleeing to the corners of his cell.
Auren's breath paused. The moment he saw them, an eerie sensation crawled up his spine.
Just like before—something felt off.
One of the sentries reached for the cell door. Auren took a cautious step back.
"Before you open that door, get my father. Baryster Veyne—he's looking for me, I'm sure of it."
"Shut up, kid."
The metal bar clanged open. The first sentry stepped inside.
Auren didn't wait.
He hurled himself off the wall, propelling forward like a coiled spring, his knee slamming into the man's visor.
The sentry crumpled.
Auren's head snapped to the second one.
The moment the man lunged, Auren twisted, slipping between his legs in a desperate roll—his back crashed into the cold stone wall beyond the cell.
Pain. He didn't have the luxury of feeling it.
He pushed forward, his body snapping into motion as he sprinted down the corridor.
But it wasn't enough.
Despite their towering frames, the sentries were fast—too fast.
A sharp yank from behind—fingers dug into his arm.
Before he could resist, the world flipped. His back slammed against the wall with bone-rattling force.
Blood flew out of his mouth and dripped from his nose.
The second sentry caught up, gripping his own bruised face.
"This cursed cretin." The man growled.
Then the punch came.
Auren's entire soul registered that blow.
Air left his lungs. His stomach caved. Blood splattered from his lips.
His body sagged, his knees crumpling beneath him.
The sentries didn't hesitate. Each grabbed an arm, dragging him forward.
***
Light.
It stabbed into his vision like burning needles.
Then—a sound.
No. A roar.
Voices tangled together, merging into a single, hateful chorus:
"He cannot be allowed to exist!"
"The Archons have abandoned the House of Veyne—they deserve to burn!"
"Kill him! Burn him!"
"His very existence is a stain on the Archons!"
"Bastard son of the Sword Saint? Hah! Even his father won't claim him now!"
The voices blurred together, twisting into an endless loop of venom.
Rage. Hate. Fear. A wave of raw malice crashing over him, drowning him.
Auren's head swam in haze, the words pulling him back to sharp clarity.
His vision focused—on them.
A sea of people stood below a massive podium, their hands raised in fury, hurling rotten food, shriveled vegetables—anything they could grasp.
But more than the debris, their hatred stung the most.
"What did I do wrong…?"
No one answered.
The jeers only grew louder.
"He is not human! He is a curse! A heretic! Execute him!"
Auren's breath shuddered. His chest tightened.
Understanding struck like lightning.
He had become the scapegoat. The vessel for their anger, their fear, their need to blame someone.
Once, they had looked to him with hope.
Now—
A soft, bitter chuckle escaped his lips, blending with the tears that glittered under the sun.
"How unlucky of me…" he whispered.
Above him, the guillotine loomed—silent.
Beside him stood a man clad in pitch-black armor, one eye marred by a savage scar.
The man raised his voice.
"The abomination. Lord Baryster's bastard shall now be executed."
Auren's eyes slid shut.
The slab of metal came down.
His world severed. Auren did not feel the blade. Only cold. Then nothing.
***
[Conditions Have Been Met]
[You have entered the Curse Realm]
[You have found a Fester]
[You shall begin your First Trial]