Ren fell silent. The wind drifted through the moss-covered stone walls, carrying the cold dampness from the black lake in the distance. The flickering torchlight shimmered on its surface like fragments of stars dissolving into the darkness.
"So… the creatures the Night Hunters hunt are…?"
"Blasphemous beings." The viscount's voice rang out, low, firm, cutting through Ren's words like a blade of frost.
He didn't look surprised to hear that name. It was as though the history of those hunters had been buried for ages… and yet, for him, it had never faded.
"They are the very reason… we had to abandon our homeland."
Ren lifted his head slightly, blue eyes flickering with doubt. But Yofilis's gaze was fixed on the far distance, where the darkness around the lake thickened as though listening to his every word.
"The god both Elf tribes once worshiped… sacrificed His very essence."
His voice slowed, each word carved into the air.
"With the last fragment of His soul, He bound together the shattered lands after the Sundering, creating this realm, where traces of light still remain. That boundary… is the wall separating us from the Under World… the place deep beneath the skies."
Ren heard the wind whistle through the cracks in the stone, carrying with it a whisper from somewhere that did not belong to this world.
"They appeared," Yofilis continued, his gaze fixed upon the pitch-black horizon, "when the Ancient Gods...the Shapers of Light, vanished. No one knows where they came from… or if they were ever truly 'born' at all."
"Some say," he lowered his voice, "they are the shadows left behind by the old world, where light once shone."
Ren shivered. For a moment, he felt as though the lake beneath his feet stirred, as if something far below was opening its eyes to look back at him.
"Sadly," Yofilis murmured, his tone fading into the empty corridors, "they were never completely purged from this realm. After the Sundering, a fragment of the Under World… seeped into ours, those forbidden lands, those fractures where light never reaches."
He tightened his grip on his sleeve, eyes distant.
"The New Gods… they are not omnipotent. Though they rebuilt the boundary, they could not ensure that everything remained under control. There will always be things that slip through their grasp. Wicked beings, patient and enduring… blending, hiding somewhere in this world."
His voice dropped lower, almost a confession.
"I believe… you've seen them before...the Fallen Elves."
Ren held his breath.
"I don't know how they changed, or what twisted their souls… but something in their eyes…"
Yofilis looked up, his gaze filled with quiet sorrow. "…is just like when we were still in the Under World."
A heavy silence settled. Only the wind howled through the cracks in the stone, sounding like the breath of forsaken souls.
Yofilis sighed softly. "Do you have anything else you wish to ask?"
Ren hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
"I want to ask about… the keys," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "and the Relic… if I may."
The firelight flickered across Yofilis's face. He smiled, a weary, gentle smile, as though the door Ren had just knocked on was one he had been waiting for years to open.
The viscount didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the vast darkness beyond the castle window.
"Perhaps… I've said too much already," he murmured, his tone deepening, "but one more story won't hurt."
"The keys…"
He paused, listening to the wind slipping through the cracks in the walls.
"…were forged from many different things. No one knows who crafted them...or if it was even a person."
"When Aincrad had yet to take form, they say there existed a Great Labyrinth, one that did not belong to any floor.
It wandered between boundaries, where space folded upon itself and time wove together.
No one knew when it appeared… nor where it vanished.
They only knew that… every time the door opened for the tenth time, it would awaken again, and close once the count reached thirty."
His voice grew lower.
"Only the chosen could see its gate.
And to step inside…"
He lifted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with something indescribable.
"…they needed the keys, not to unlock it, but to prove they were worthy of being seen by it."
"In other words…" Yofilis closed his eyes, his voice echoing softly, "it's more like a ticket of admission."
"It has been the duty of the Dark Elves to guard those keys through generations. Not all of them, of course… but the ones that remain, kept as fragments of memory."
He leaned slightly, violet eyes gleaming with distant light. "The Relic of the Dark Elves, the Jade Key..is one of those keys."
At this, the viscount fell silent.
The space between them seemed to freeze, leaving only the whisper of the cold wind slipping through the window frame and their faint breaths in the dark.
Perhaps even he was listening to that tale once more, as if never truly believing it was real.
"You may come here whenever you wish," said Viscount Yofilis, his voice low and fading into the wind.
Ren lifted his head. The night wind from the lake swept through, cold and damp, brushing through his tangled hair and leaving a faint numbness on his cheeks.
He understood immediately, the training was over. It meant… he could leave whenever he wanted.
A moment of silence passed. Ren tightened his grip on the hilt at his side, as if seeking something solid to hold onto.
"But I think I still need..."
"No." Yofilis interrupted, shaking his head slowly, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "Not here."
His tone wasn't harsh, yet it carried a weight that sank deep into Ren's chest.
Yofilis stepped forward, the lamplight brushing against the edge of his black cloak, leaving a faint silver outline along his shoulders.
"What you still need to learn… doesn't lie within these walls," he continued slowly. "There are things you can only truly see once you step beyond safety."
Ren remained silent, simply listening.
The wind slipped through the window's cracks, snuffing out one of the torches and sending the light around them into a trembling sway.
In that darkness, Yofilis's voice rose again, soft, deep, and carrying the tone of farewell.
"The world out there is still waiting for you… Ren of the Severed World."
"And… if you ever have the chance," Yofilis said, his voice lowering, as though afraid the night wind might carry his words away, "please ask after my old comrade…"
His hand brushed against the insignia on his chest, a flower woven from metallic leaves, glimmering faintly silver under the torchlight.
Ren recognized the emblem immediately. Both Aisen and Kizmel had worn similar ones, though none shone with the same brilliance or fine craftsmanship.
Perhaps it was a mark of higher rank...or a memory that only Yofilis still kept.
"Your comrade…?" Ren echoed softly, his voice nearly melting into the cold air. But the viscount did not answer.
Instead, a dim light began to shimmer in his palm.
The glow stretched, shifting silently in midair until it took form.
A sword.
Its blade curved slightly, forged as though from ashes and memory. Pale silver-gray light ran down its edge like a dying moon's gleam.
Ren's eyes widened. He recognized it instantly, it was Varzak's sword.
The same blade he had returned to the viscount after felling the terrifying Fallen Elf who once wielded it.
And now, it had returned, quiet, heavy, and more solemn than ever.
As if it were not merely a weapon, but the lingering verse of a song left unfinished.
Yofilis gazed upon the blade, his expression softening with a sorrow as old as time.
"Its master committed a sin that can never be forgiven."
The viscount paused, his voice low, speaking more to himself than to Ren.
"But the sword itself bears no guilt."
He rested his hand gently on the spine of the blade, his eyes gleaming with a mix of tenderness and regret.
"I hope… it may aid you, even if only a little."
Ren fumbled as he took the sword, his shoulders sinking under its sheer weight. The heaviness numbed his hand, as though each fragment of metal carried its own sorrow.
It was the heaviest sword he had ever held, not merely in mass, but in meaning.
And the absurd part was… it was still classified as a one-handed sword.
Ren tightened his grip on the brown wooden hilt of the ashen Swiss Saber. The handle was just long enough to switch freely between single- and double-handed use.
He swung it a few times, the blade flashed, tracing silver arcs through the air, slicing it as if cutting through the void itself.
[Name: Oathrend (Breaker of the Oath)]
Type: One-Handed Sword (Unique)
ATK: +320
Durability: 1200/1200
Weight: 3.4 kg (−5% movement speed)
Requirements:
STR: 30
VIT: 30
AGI: 40
Buffs:
+15% damage in low-light environments.
+10% bonus damage against enemies with HP above 40%.
Passive Effects:
[Echo of the Abyss] – The third consecutive strike inflicts Dissolve, reducing enemy DEF by 10% for 5 seconds.
[Vow's Resonance] – When the wielder's HP drops below 20%, the blade emits a faint light, increasing damage by 15% for 10 seconds.
Ren blinked at the wall of numbers and effects before him. His gaze dropped to his HP bar… 1,500.
Just five swings from this sword could… and that wasn't even counting defense stats.
With nearly 200 physical resistance, that number could stretch to… fifteen blows.
Fifteen would be enough to send him out of Aincrad for good.
Ren sighed softly, his chest trembling with a strange mix of dread and delight.
It was a shame there were no bonus stats...but the passives, long enough to fill a scroll, when stacked with his necklace's speed boost, were more than worth it.
He let out a small, crooked smile, half amused, half exasperated.
…Still, it felt strange somehow.
Why do all the passive effects of every weapon I get only activate when I'm about to die?
He could only exhale and silently pray… that he would never have to use them.