He was four hours into the dark.
The first stifling quiet of Hölloch did not endure. It had given way to an orchestra of void. The water's drip served as a metronome marking ages. The faint low moan of moving stone was the mountain's processing. His breathing, echoed inside his helmet was the rhythm of an interloper.
His heavenly radiance, which had seemed faint at the entrance had transformed into a sacrilege. It lit up horrifying sights: drapes of stone caught mid-motion columns pushing against the ceiling, like Titans supporting the earth endless dark pits where his light abruptly disappeared devoured without a hint. The cavern was not a passage; it was a maze- organ, a fossilized lung through which the earth slowly patiently inhaled and exhaled.
An hour, into the journey he spotted the evidence of human error. A corroded iron piton driven into the rock face with a fragment of rope hanging from it like mold. A deteriorated leather pack its contents long since dissolved by moisture. These were not instructions. They served as signposts to bones left behind for the following traveler. The mountain was indifferent. It merely absorbed them a petrification of hope.
The murmurs started as reflections of his musings.
Why are you battling, Alexander? the drip-drip-drip appeared to inquire. Is it on their behalf? The individuals who stared at you with fear, in their gaze?
He closed his eyes. The voice lingered within. It was his own, devoid of certainty, tired.
Could it be, for Him? The one who immersed you in that flawless light? Does a blade take pride in the hand that uses it?
"I battle for the safeguarding of everyone " he declared aloud. His voice was a fragile sound, broken against the vastness.
A faint laugh appeared to resonate through the rock beneath his soles. Preservation. A lovely term, for stillness. The light aims to halt the painting mid-brushstroke.. The darkness… the darkness knows that to bring forth creation one must occasionally remove.
He turned around a bend. Came to a halt.
The hall was immense a cathedral sculpted by watery fingers. At its heart a calm dark pool mirrored none of his illumination.. Upon a natural stone pedestal emerging from the water it lay.
The Penitent's Blade.
It differed greatly from what he had pictured. It wasn't a sword crafted from shadow alone. A shadow rendered tangible. It appeared to absorb the light cast upon his armor not bouncing it back but devouring it creating an area of profound darkness. The weapon was a two-handed longsword, its blade resembling a sliver of solidified night with a crossguard that looked like stone-like roots. It had no shine, no edge to draw attention. It was a void, within existence.
He came closer the pools water cooling the surrounding air. As he got closer he sensed it. Not hostility,. A deep sorrowful pain. It was the burden of all the self-deceptions ever spoken embodied.
He extended his hand toward the hilt. His golden gauntlet lingered above the handle made of wraithbone and stone.
Accept it the mountain exhaled.. Thus the admission started.
His fingers wrapped around it.
The world remained intact. No images of wrongdoings overwhelmed him. Rather a chill crept up his arm, a sensation not of the body but of the soul. He glanced at the knife in his grasp at his mirrored image, in the still water.
The golden armor remained intact.. The visage, inside the helmet… it was shifting. The traits were his yet devoid of the Angel's glow. He noticed the traces of weariness he hadn't conceded before. He observed the uncertainty reflected in his eyes no longer concealed by intent. He perceived the frightened query: What am I turning into?
That was the slice. The sword did not reveal to him treacheries or concealed horrors. Instead it reflected the silent, falsehood of feigning courage masking loneliness and believing his sacrifice was voluntary rather, than forced. The Penitent's Blade acted as a mirror that denied any compliments.
"Is this real?" he murmured to his reflection.
A portion the cave replied. The initial tier of the self is obligation. The next is dread. We possess time to uncover the remainder.
A fresh noise resonated, coming from the tunnel he had gone into. It was neither a drip nor a moan. A footstep. A weighty purposeful metal-like stamp.
Alexander pivoted, lifting the Penitent's Blade. It seemed unfamiliar in his hand an emptiness where strength ought to be.
Out of the shadows a figure appeared. Armor,. Unlike his own. It was matte black soaking up the light left adorned not with geometric designs but, with spirals that appeared to distort vision. Spikes jutted from the pauldrons and vambraces serving not as decoration but resembling the spines of a deep-sea animal. The helmet was a featureless surface revealing no trace of a face no sign of humanity. Clutching in one hand a sword its edge appearing to weep a subtle misty shadow.
General Clement Duncan of the Abyss Kingdom remained before him motionless, like the rock.
"The Angel's hound has located the bone " a voice declared,. It did not emerge from the helmet. Rather it appeared to originate from the armor itself a parched murmur that skipped the ears and addressed the mind directly. "Abandon the relic. This realm is unsuitable, for your type of light. It will simply reveal how faint your flame glows."
Alexander assumed a combat posture the familiar heft of his golden sword now a thing of the past. The shadowy blade he held seemed at intangible and unbearably dense. "I am the Messenger. My orders are explicit. Step aside."
Duncan's head tilted, a predator assessing its quarry. "I have remained distant for ages, Messenger. I have observed your 'burn and reduce everything until all that is intricate all that is melancholic and imperfect is stripped away into stark blinding white. This…" he motioned with his blade at the Penitent's Blade "…is not an instrument for your mission. It is a lock, to a confinement you're unaware of being trapped within."
He shifted. There was neither a war shout nor a theatrical gesture. In one instant he stood ten feet back; in the next his blade sliced through the spot where Alexanders neck had just been. Alexander. The blades did not produce a ringing clang. Instead the noise resembled a sigh, a letting go of tension. The impact was tremendous dulling Alexander's arm up, to his shoulder.
He retaliated, twisting and swinging the Penitent's Blade in a sweep. Duncan didn't defend. He moved seamlessly around it his motions unnervingly smooth, for someone large. The dark blade reached out not toward Alexander's body. Targeting the golden armor itself. Where it brushed the pauldron, the gold neither bent nor marred. Instead… it darkened. The radiant metal faded, losing its shine as though it had weathered a millennium in a moment.
It does not slice flesh but severs the strands of deceit Alexander recalled. What was his magnificent armor, if not a ruse? A vow of impenetrability of strength.
He battled defensively every block producing a clang that resonated through the quiet room. Duncan was an expert, an absence of method. He revealed no vulnerabilities, no bursts of fury or ego. He embodied a power of negation.
"You sense it right?" Duncan's inner voice was a nagging weight. "The void inside the sword you grip. It's posing questions to you. Who is your cause, in battle? What remains of you once the battle concludes? Your Angel didn't provide answers. He merely issued an order."
With a growl fueled by irritation and mounting fear Alexander launched a series of strikes. They were flawless shapes—the War Angel's unique craft. Duncan blocked every strike, the sounds of their clashes intensifying turning into a symphony of dismay.
During the parry Duncan snapped his wrist. Alexanders hold on the Penitent's Blade was forcibly broken. It fell to the stone floor making a noise of shattering ice.
Duncan directed his sword towards Alexander's chest. "The weapon has passed its verdict, Messenger. You lack remorse. You are simply compliant.. Compliance is a deception we tell ourselves to escape the fear of decision."
Alexander crouched, weaponless, the stain blossoming like a contusion over his gleaming breastplate. He was gasping, not due, to physical effort but from the mental barrage. The cavern's murmurs, the dagger's reality this adversary who battled not to slay but to unmask.
"Then complete it " Alexander panted.
The helmet, devoid of features stared at him. The sword remained still. Rather Duncan retreated a step. He moved over to the plinth sheathed his blade and grasped the Penitent's Blade. He paused briefly sensing its heft.
"My Queen thinks you might eventually come to understand " Duncan's murmur repeated. "I am not so hopeful.. My instructions are to watch. To evaluate. Not to kill puppies before they have opened their eyes."
He spun around. Flung the Penitent's Blade. It struck the stone at Alexander's knees, tip-first, trembling.
"Embrace your truth, Messenger. Bring it forth to the challenge. Discover how much of yourself you are willing to accept before you break."
And as silently as he had arrived, General Clement Duncan melted back into the darkness of the cave, leaving Alexander alone with the weeping stones, the black pool, and the blade that showed him nothing but his own faltering, human heart.