In the damp, dark cave, after the last words of the [Spell] echoed in his mind, Cyrus's body collapsed onto the cold stone floor like a leaf in the wind. The agonizing, searing pain was gone, replaced by an absolute numbness that consumed him from head to toe. His eyes were open, but his gaze saw nothing, as if an invisible curtain had been drawn between him and the world. The only things he could feel were the faint, irregular beat of his heart and the sound of his own shallow breaths, which echoed like a long sigh in the cave's silence.
That [Awakening] had come at a great cost. His body and soul had been pushed to the brink of oblivion and back. Now, in this purgatory between life and death, his mind drifted into a strange trance. It was neither sleep nor full consciousness. It felt as if his spirit had been freed from its mortal cage, floating in an ethereal, timeless space. Vague, jumbled images of black blood, white light, his father's face, and the words that had echoed in his ears swirled in his mind, but none of them held any clarity or meaning.
In this suspended state, one feeling was more pronounced than any other: loneliness. A loneliness deeper and more biting than ever before. It was as if the [Awakening] had severed his invisible ties to the ordinary world, leaving him adrift in an ocean of the unknown. This trance was not peaceful; it was more like an unwilling exile to a strange land where his only companions were silence and waiting… waiting for something, or someone, he did not know.
Leagues away, on Mount Damavand…
A figure with a bloodied yet beautiful face and hair as black as a raven's feathers was left alone. Blood flowed from his mouth like a gushing spring, staining the snow as he stared up at the sky. The pain in his body was now nothing compared to the chill of death. The sky was still the same gray, indifferent sky. His warm blood melted the snow around him, only for it to freeze again a little farther out, glittering like red jewels on the white shroud of the mountain. His mind was full of questions, full of unanswered whys. "Gods… what was all my effort for? Didn't you say that everyone is rewarded for their suffering? Does the path of light end like this for everyone?" A sacred fury ignited the last embers of life within him. "Damn you… A curse upon the fate you've written for me… A curse upon this cruel world where friendship and loyalty are paid for with nothing but death…"
His gaze fell upon the frozen blood around him. It reminded him of the people of Ayreva; people who, like his blood, lived in a frost of ignorance and fear, having forgotten their brave ancestors who chose death over servitude. But now… they had sold themselves to demons and cruel rulers, as if taking refuge in death itself out of fear of dying.
His final words were lost like a whisper in the howling wind. "Life is a fleeting dream; like the morning dew, like a night flower that withers at the first ray of sun. It's as unstable as the shadow of a bubble on water. Without eternity, even the most beautiful things, even the purest friendships, are like the image of the moon on water. Their value lies only in the delicacy and fragility of that single moment. Perhaps… perhaps true freedom is this release, this acceptance of the end."
His eyes closed. The last beat of his heart fell silent in the cold mountain stillness. His soul was freed from its mortal cage. Light and free, yet burdened with sorrow and an unfulfilled wish. Before he could find eternal peace, he had to fulfill a promise. He had to find someone worthy of carrying his legacy, his sword, and perhaps… that small flame of hope for freedom. Someone who could continue his unfinished journey.
At that very moment, in the dark and damp cave, Cyrus, lost in a deep trance filled with vague images, suddenly felt a strange, powerful presence beside him, brimming with a familiar sorrow. It was as if someone from another world, from beyond death, had come to meet him.
Cyrus's body lay still and cold on the stone floor, as if all life had fled his form during the recent agony. But his soul was wandering in another space, in a deep and endless trance. The cave was no longer the dark, damp cavern he had seen with his physical eyes; now, in this ethereal dimension, the walls seemed to be woven from thin veils of mist and light, gently swirling and creating dancing, phantasmal shapes. Strange lights, in cold and dreamlike hues, seeped from the unseen stones like veins of a forgotten galaxy, creating a fantastical atmosphere tinged with an ancient sorrow. The silence was no longer a suffocating, deathly quiet; vague, incomprehensible whispers, much like the howling wind on the peaks of Mount Damavand, drifted through the space, as if countless spirits were murmuring secrets buried in the stone for centuries.
Cyrus's consciousness floated like a feather in this ethereal ocean. He no longer felt the devastating pain, only an endless lightness and a profound sense of alienation and loneliness. Suddenly, from amidst the shimmering mist and light, a wave of familiar yet powerful sorrow washed over him, like the touch of a cold but comforting hand. It was a sorrow that resonated with every particle of his being, with the old grief inside him that had been his companion in lonely moments since childhood.
Then, from the heart of that tangible sorrow, a misty, luminous specter, calm and dignified, materialized before him. At first, it was just a shimmering, indistinct aura, but with each passing moment, it gained more clarity. A tall, strong figure, clad in a robe that seemed woven from the mist and celestial light itself. His face was that of a warrior; weary, with deep lines of suffering etched on his forehead and around his eyes. But those eyes… even in this spiritual form, they held the same steel-like will and the clarity of a summer sky. The scars from his final battle were visible not as flesh and blood, but as shadows of a darker light on his ethereal body, reminders of a heavy price paid. This was Ojan, the man who lay buried beneath the snows of Damavand.
Ojan's spirit, with a gaze that held centuries of sorrow and regret, stared at Cyrus, at the young, lost soul. His voice, not heard through the ears but resonating directly in Cyrus's mind, spoke.
«At last… It seems someone can finally hear this wandering soul… in this cold, endless purgatory… It's strange to feel the warmth of a living spirit. Who… who are you, boy? What has brought you to these borders between life and death?»
Cyrus, stunned and bewildered, looked at the luminous yet sorrowful presence. He had a beautiful, captivating face, of which his eyes were the most striking part—blue as the sky, yet mournful as a mother's death. This was no nightmare; he felt it with his entire being. This presence was real, though not of the world he knew. «I… my name is Cyrus.» His voice was weak and trembling in his mind, like a candle flame in the wind. «I don't know… I don't know where this is… what happened to me… Everything is… a blur.»
A faint, bitter smile, like a fleeting shadow, touched Ojan's ethereal lips. «Here? This is the end of the line, son… the end of many dreams. A place where lost souls, those with unfinished business or who have lost their way, wander in a meaningless wait. A place between what we once were, and what we might never become. And I… well, I'm just one of these stranded travelers. The one who walked a long road, but never reached his destination.»
«You didn't reach it?» Cyrus asked with the instinctive curiosity of a youth, as if forgetting the pain and suffering of moments ago. «Where were you trying to go? What was your destination?»
The sorrow in Ojan's ethereal eyes deepened, like a sea after a storm. «My destination? A good place… A place where no one wears chains. A place where a man's own will is the only ruler of his life. I was searching for a trial, the 'Trial of Freedom.' They say whoever passes it will never again know servitude. My whole life, all my fights, were to find it. I was wounded, stabbed in the back, betrayed… but in the end… just when I thought I was one step away, death didn't give me a chance.» He gestured to the luminous wounds on his ethereal body, as if he could still feel their ache. «A death that… that was dealt by the hand of my dearest person… Not that she wanted to, no… she was a captive too, poor soul.»
Hearing these words, Cyrus felt a deep, vague pain twist in his chest, though he didn't know why. «Freedom…» The word, from his own bloody nightmare tonight, now echoed in his soul with a different voice, a different meaning, a different sorrow.
Ojan continued, his voice filled with an old regret: «Ah, what a deceptive name it has, this freedom, boy. Everyone yearns for it day and night, they write poems for it, weave tales about it, but how many of them are willing to pay its true price? You think freedom means no one can boss you around? No… the worst chains are the ones we wrap around our own souls with our own hands. The chains of fear, the chains of bad habits, the chains of despair… Sometimes, even the chains of love and loyalty, if they are blind and pull you away from yourself.» He gave Cyrus a deep, penetrating look, as if he saw something familiar in the depths of his soul—perhaps a raw talent, or a similar pain.
«I gave everything for this path, boy. So that maybe, just maybe, I could pull myself and one other person out of this mire. But… it seemed impossible. Or maybe… maybe I wasn't worthy, I don't know. They say the Trial of Freedom only accepts those who understand the true meaning of liberation. Those who are willing to sacrifice everything for true freedom, even themselves, even their most cherished ones…»
A heavy silence fell between them. Only the wordless, ethereal whispers swirled in the spiritualized space of the cave. Cyrus could feel it all in Ojan's words—the relentless effort, the bitter failure, the deep sorrow that had corroded his soul.
«So… does that mean… it's all over? All that fighting, those wounds… was it all for nothing?» Cyrus asked, his voice trembling with emotion, his tone as if he were asking about his own fate.
Ojan slowly shook his head, a halo of sorrowful light enveloping him. «No, boy. No effort, no fight, is ever for nothing, even if the end isn't what you wanted. The path itself, the struggle itself, that foolish hope that stays lit in your heart in the depths of despair… all of it has value. I didn't reach the freedom I wanted, yes… but maybe… maybe what's left of me, that fire under the ashes, that burning thirst for release, can be rekindled in someone else's heart, in the soul of a young man like you.»
Suddenly, a halo of warm, golden light, like a small sun in that ethereal space, rose from Ojan's luminous hands. Within the light, a familiar sword, a sword that seemed a part of Ojan himself, slowly took shape. Sarvin… with the same ancient, ivory hilt and a blade that, even in this spiritual world, shone with resilience and fortitude. But this time, it seemed to be forged from light and will itself.
Cyrus was startled upon seeing the sword, as it was remarkably similar to the one he had seen in his dream.
Ojan gently offered the luminous sword to Cyrus. «This… is all that remains of that warrior Ojan, Cyrus. The companion of all my battles, the witness to all my wounds, my sufferings, and that little hope I held in my heart. Sarvin… I took its name from the heart of an old, resilient oak tree that had stood against the wild mountain storms for a thousand years without flinching. Maybe… maybe this sword, in your hands, can do what I could not. Maybe it can open the path that was closed to me.»
With a mixture of doubt, wonder, and a pull full of uncertainty, Cyrus reached for the luminous legacy. The moment his fingers touched the warm, pulsing hilt of the sword, a wave of powerful energy, and at the same time, a deep and familiar sorrow, coursed through his entire being, from his soul to his weary body. The sword felt heavy in his hands, not the cold weight of metal, but the weight of a destiny, a trust, an unfinished journey.
«Go find it, Cyrus…» Ojan's voice was growing fainter, and his ethereal form was beginning to fade, like mist before the first rays of the sun. «Go find the Trial of Freedom… even if its path leads through the heart of the darkest hells… even if its price… is heavier than your life… It's the only way… the only…»
«Where… how… what should I do?» Cyrus asked, his voice trembling with a mix of excitement and fear.
«The Trials…»
Ojan's voice, like a thin thread, snapped. The last ray of light from his ethereal form rose and vanished forever into the phantasmal mist of the cave. Only Cyrus remained, a luminous sword in his hand that had now transformed into a real, cold sword of steel, and countless questions swirling like a storm in his mind.
The warmth of Ojan's presence and the glowing sword slowly gave way to the biting cold of the stone floor. Cyrus came to with a violent jolt, as if waking from a very deep and eventful dream. He opened his eyes. He was still in the dark, damp cave, but he was no longer alone. Dazed and confused, he looked around. Was it all a dream? Another hallucination born of pain and exhaustion?
But no. The sword… Sarvin… was cold and real in his hands, with its ivory hilt and its tempered steel blade. It was Ojan's legacy, the memento of a warrior's soul.
Suddenly, the voice of the spell returned.
[The sword Sarvin has bonded with your Sea of Soul.]
With great difficulty, and with a pain that still twisted in all his muscles, he rose to his feet. His body was still numb and heavy, but that sense of lightness and unknown power, that mysterious [Awakening], still surged within him. His gaze fell upon the damp, stone floor of the cave. A small black ant was trying with indescribable, tireless effort to drag the severed leg of a grasshopper, many times its own size, toward its nest. It would take one step forward and slide two steps back, but it never gave up. Cyrus stared at the small, determined creature for a long moment.
A few questions, unbidden, took shape in his mind like seeds suddenly sprouting: "All this effort… for what? Is this little ant carrying this heavy burden of its own free will, or is it compelled by a blind, meaningless instinct? Does it even know what it's doing? Does it know where this path leads? Or is it just a pawn in the hands of a larger, more ruthless law?"
A sigh escaped from deep within his chest, a sigh that smelled of despair and perhaps, a kind of empathy for the tiny ant. Under his breath, in a voice that was barely audible, he whispered, "Even the birds in the sky are slaves to the flight their wings provide; for it wasn't their choice, but a compulsion from their creator."
The very moment those bitter, questioning words left his lips, the air before him began to shimmer and warp. Invisible lines of blue light, like ethereal spiderwebs, twisted together and slowly, something resembling a transparent, glowing window materialized in front of him. On the surface of this luminous window, ancient signs, symbols, and words pulsed with an eerie, rhythmic light.
The runes of the [Spell], for the first time, had r
evealed themselves to the awakened Cyrus.