The Wrath of the Saint
Arthur, bleeding from several shallow cuts and his regal attire caked in layers of grit, stumbled through the settling dust. He reached George's prone form and collapsed to his knees. "George! George, wake up!" he cried, his voice fracturing with a desperation he rarely allowed himself to show.
George's eyes fluttered open, the emerald depths momentarily clouded before snapping into sharp focus. Instinctively, his hand shot out, gripping the hilt of the sword that lay in the sand beside him. The moment his skin touched the leather-wrapped grip, a low hum resonated through the air.
Arthur surged forward, embracing his friend tightly, tears of relief streaming down his grime-streaked cheeks. "We thought you were dead... the sand, it just swallowed you whole."
George barely had a moment to ground himself before the sounds of the struggle returned—the desperate, rhythmic thud of the Sand Golem reassembling itself. He looked past Arthur to see the remaining Harvesters, including Elvina and Jamil, frantically casting. Spells flashed and fizzled against the colossus; their magic was a flickering candle against a gale, seemingly useless against the creature's shifting, regenerating form. George rose slowly, feeling a strange, heavy familiarity in his grip. Ascalon felt like it had always belonged there. As he turned to face the Golem, he didn't feel the usual panic of the hunt. Instead, he felt a cold, focused clarity.
He channeled every ounce of his wind-aligned aura into the hilt. Ascalon didn't just glow; it erupted. A brilliant, luminous swirl of pressurized wind spiraled around the blade. At that moment, George felt a barrier within his own spirit shatter. He tapped into an unknown power source hidden deep within his core—a reservoir of divine energy drawn out by the sword's ancient presence. With a single, devastating slash, George swung the blade. A massive arc of brilliant yellow and green aura exploded from the steel, carving a path of widespread destruction through the basin. The force was immense; the ground trembled as if the earth itself were recoiling. The air sizzled with the sharp scent of ozone as the Sand Golem was hit square in its core.
The creature didn't just fall—it disintegrated into a violent vortex of dust, its pressurized form scattered to the four winds. Silence fell over the basin, broken only by the whistling of the wind. His friends stood stunned, their mouths agape. They stared at the crater where the titan had been, then back at George, before rushing to his side.
Flynn was the first to speak, his dark eyes scanning the glowing silver markings still faintly visible on George's arms. "How? How are you even standing? We saw you go under."
"I don't know," George replied, his voice sounding deeper, more resonant. He looked down at the legendary blade. "I thought I was dead, but I was taken to a cavern by a weird old man... a Druid. He told me I was a Seer. He gave me this."
"My... it appears incredibly ancient," Siri whispered. She reached out a hand but hesitated to touch the pulsing steel, her reddish-purple eyes wide with academic wonder and a touch of fear.
George looked at her and gave a weary nod. The weight of Elijah's words—Child of Eden—still pulled at his mind.
"So," Siri asked, her voice regaining its practical edge as she glanced at the horizon, "what's our next course of action? We can't stay in the open."
Jamil, leaning heavily on a staff and looking at the pile of scattered sand where the Golem had stood, walked toward them. His face was grim. "That thing isn't fully dead," he warned.
"What do you mean?" George asked, looking at the empty basin. "I just turned it to a cloud of dust. There's nothing left."
"Jamil is correct," Siri added, her expression darkening as she remembered her studies. "My father once shared a tale of the Sand Golem. He said it cannot truly be vanquished—not so long as a single grain of sand remains in its domain. It is the desert itself."
George felt a cold sense of dread creeping into his chest. He looked down and saw the grains of sand beginning to vibrate, slowly rolling back toward the center of the basin. "Are you saying it's coming back?"
"Right, then," Siri proclaimed, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Shall we make our departure before it decides to reform under our feet?"
George didn't argue. He raised his hand, flicking the tele-stone ring on his finger. The emerald needle within the stone spun frantically before locking onto a coordinate deep in the distance. It pointed straight toward the innermost heart of the forest—Zone C.
The most dangerous territory in the Forest of Golems lay ahead, but as George gripped Ascalon, he knew he was no longer the same boy who had entered the desert. He was a Master of the Saint's Blade, and his journey into the heart of the curse had only just begun.