Edward agreed without hesitation. Revenge was no longer a thought—it was a living, burning thing in his chest, consuming everything else. It coiled around his mind like smoke, filling every corner of his consciousness with a single word: blood. He wanted it on his hands, on the walls, in the echoes of those who had taken everything from him. Memories of his lost friend tore through him again and again. Every smile, every promise broken, every empty space left behind—each was a lash across his soul.
"I will bring them to justice… every last one," he whispered, teeth clenched so tightly he thought they might shatter. "No mercy. None. For anyone who dares stand in my way."
Beneath the inferno, however, a fragile voice stirred—a memory of a life he had once imagined: sunlight spilling through curtains, laughter echoing across a quiet home, the warmth of holding Elsa's hand. That life seemed impossibly distant, a candle flickering in a storm. Still, it burned. It reminded him that somewhere, beyond rage, there was still something worth preserving.
"These gods… they think themselves above us," he growled, crimson eyes flaring. "Untouchable. But they will kneel. They will bow."
He reached for the sword, the artifact that had always been more than metal—an extension of fate itself. But it would not yield. Its aura pressed against him like a living wall, dense and suffocating, aware of his intent. The air thickened, pressing against his lungs, tingling against his skin. Edward strained, muscles taut, breath sharp—but the sword did not move.
"Calm yourself, mortal," a voice echoed in his mind. Older than memory, patient as time itself, neither warmth nor malice.
Edward's hands ached. "I will pull you out… even if it costs my life," he whispered, more to himself than to the blade.
"You mistake fury for strength," the sword said. "You hunger for vengeance, yet understand nothing of its cost. Bring those who harm the innocent to justice. Protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is where true power begins."
The words cut deeper than any steel. Rage and desire warred with logic and conscience. If vengeance alone guides him, he would be consumed. But if he tempered it… if he channeled it… perhaps he could survive what came next.
The ground trembled beneath him. Trees groaned. Dust swirled in spirals. The sky bled colors like spilled ink. The soil crumbled beneath his boots. Edward felt the world dissolve. He fell. The sound of cracking earth, the whispers of memory, shadows brushing past him—they collided, fragmented, chaotic. For a heartbeat, he thought it was the end. Then, silence.
Absolute, complete silence.
When Edward opened his eyes, he was no longer falling. Yet he was not anywhere he recognized.
The horizon curved unnaturally, and the ground seemed alive, patterned with shifting tiles of stone and moss. The air shimmered faintly, vibrating with something old and watchful. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision, deliberate, almost sentient.
A portal floated ahead, suspended in midair like a wound in reality. It pulsed and breathed, colors flowing across its surface in impossible patterns. Edward's heartbeat thundered.
"Pass my test, or give me your life," the sword whispered, its runes glowing faintly, as if breathing alongside him. "Show me your intelligence. Your wisdom. The first trial lies beyond that portal."
Edward stepped forward cautiously. Each footfall seemed to echo in the strange, living world. His hand hovered over the sword, feeling its aura burn faintly against his skin. Choice and consequence hummed in the air, heavy as stone.
The portal's surface rippled. Within it, he saw flashes of impossible places: libraries older than kingdoms, cities folded like paper, battlefields filled with ghosts moving as though on a chessboard. Danger and promise coiled together, inseparable.
A small ember of fear ignited in him, prickling along his spine. And yet, curiosity surged alongside it. This was the beginning of the path he had sought, the trial that would shape him—or destroy him.
Three mirrors appeared, hovering in the air before him. One reflected the man he had been—laughing, carefree, innocent. Another showed the man he had become—hard, relentless, burning with desire for vengeance. The third reflected a man he did not yet know—older, tempered by loss, carrying both knowledge and sorrow.
"You will be asked to mend a wound that is not yours," the sword said. "You will choose who you are willing to become in order to protect what you love. That choice is the test."
Images flickered in the mirrors: a child reaching for a falling star, a king offering a crown to a beggar, a woman refusing a god's gift to save a stranger. Each scene played like a memory that never was, yet felt inevitable.
Edward's mind raced along two axes at once: cause and consequence, meaning and sacrifice. To solve the riddle, he would need both. One path offered power. The other demanded restraint. Both glittered with uncertainty.
He reached toward the mirrors, heart thudding. "I am not made for mindless destruction," he said aloud, voice steadying. "I will be a blade for those who cannot defend themselves. I will learn. I will choose the battles that preserve, not destroy."
The mirrors flared, testing his words. The portal shimmered. The labyrinth unfolded before him like a living map. The first trial had begun.
Somewhere, unseen, eyes narrowed. The world shifted. Not all observers wore crowns, but all watched.
Edward stepped into the labyrinth, the sword's aura burning low behind him. Choice, consequence, and understanding waited for him.
To be countinued...