Chapter 43 – Relic of the Forgotten War
POV: Daren
The cavern walls seemed to breathe as Daren pressed deeper, lantern light sliding across symbols carved in ages long past. The runes were jagged, almost violent in their construction, each line etched with desperation rather than artistry. This was not a temple. It was a tomb of defiance.
At the heart of the chamber stood the relic. A shard of black crystal, jagged and irregular, thrust upward from a shattered pedestal. It pulsed faintly, as though some buried heart still beat within. The air around it bent strangely, rippling like heat haze, and even from a distance Daren felt it claw at his essence.
The shard was not dead stone. It was alive — with memory, with hunger.
When his hand neared, whispers pressed into his mind, fractured voices layered atop one another: screams of mortals crushed in war, chants of dragons summoning storms, and above them all, the terrible laughter of gods. The shard did not simply hold mana. It held the residue of a god's fall, bound into unyielding form when flesh and divinity alike had been torn apart.
Daren staggered back, breath ragged. His wards flared instinctively to keep the voices at bay. The relic's aura gnawed at him, testing, tempting, promising power if only he surrendered. It reminded him of the Taboo — but deeper, more ancient.
For a long moment he stood there, sweat dripping down his brow, letting the weight of it settle into his bones.
This was proof. Proof the histories were lies. The system had not erased every trace of rebellion. Here stood a fragment too stubborn to be erased — a shard that bore witness to the Forgotten War.
He circled the relic cautiously, noting the way the pedestal was carved. Chains once bound it, but they had long since corroded, leaving only scorch marks where divine fire had been unleashed. He imagined the battle here: a god brought low, its essence torn free, the shard left as a monument to both victory and defeat.
Dangerous. Corrupting. Deadly.
And yet… utterly necessary.
He pictured Aric. His son had already brushed against the jaws of death, barely surviving the system's enforcers. What chance would he have when greater powers came for him? To resist, he would need not just strength, but forbidden tools — weapons denied to mortals.
Daren pressed his hand to the shard again, this time with wards layered thick upon his skin. The surface was cold as the grave, but beneath that coldness something writhed, almost eager, as though it recognized his defiance. The voices grew sharper. One of them — impossibly — spoke his name.
He yanked his hand back, heart pounding.
Not yet. Aric wasn't ready. If exposed too soon, the shard would consume him. He would need patience, training, and above all, the will to resist the lure of power.
With practiced motions, Daren inscribed protective circles around the relic, weaving spells of concealment. Each one felt like trying to dam a storm with nothing but cloth, but eventually the relic's aura dimmed, shrinking back into silence. The system's probing presence, faint on the edges of perception, receded. For now, the shard would remain hidden.
He straightened, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. One last look showed him the shard gleaming faintly in the lantern light — its surface catching his reflection. Except it wasn't just him. A thousand Daren's stared back: some older, some younger, some broken, some crowned. Futures fractured into a cruel mockery.
"The war isn't over," he whispered to himself, stepping away. "It only sleeps… waiting for my son to wake it."
With that, Daren left the cavern, sealing its entrance behind layers of wards. Yet even as he walked away, he felt the shard's presence still gnawing at his thoughts — as if the relic had chosen him, or perhaps chosen Aric, long before he ever found it.