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Continued from "Chapter 4: part 3". Hope you guys will have a good and healthy read!!
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On the top of the mountain of the Three Sisters, as the heavy veil of dust begins to clear after the brutal and unforgiving attack, both Adula and the Tarnished lie collapsed on the shattered ground, riddled with severe wounds and teetering dangerously close to death. Neither of them moves; in fact, they don't even flinch. The only sign of life is the slow, labored rhythm of their breathing echoing across the silent mountain. Adula lets out a low, painful grunt, her body writhing slightly as she struggles to move. She manages to turn her head toward the Tarnished, her vision hazy. He looks utterly broken , one of his legs is snapped clean from the shin, the limb twisted at a grotesque angle, and his left arm below the shoulder is completely blown apart, mangled with torn flesh and a river of blood still pouring from the ruin. Yet, despite this devastating state, he drags himself toward his sword, inch by agonizing inch, determination carved into every strained motion. His trembling hand clasps the hilt, and with sheer willpower, he attempts to rise. He gets onto one knee, body trembling, only to collapse limply again, panting like a dying beast. But he does not stop. Gritting his teeth, he slowly crawls toward her again, sword still in his grip, his broken form dragging itself across the rock-strewn surface. Meanwhile, Adula herself is in a dire condition, her body scorched and bruised, but her injuries are not mortal. Thanks to the advanced regenerative properties of her dragon blood, she can recover from wounds of this scale within hours. Even so, she knows that if he were to strike her now in this vulnerable state, she would not survive. It would be the same as what happened to her mother. But what unsettles her is not the threat of death, it's the question of What is this man? what does he want? He reached near her and rose to his broken legs, and grip the sword tight. Its the time.. to end what he started.
What did Shabriri mean by finding solutions? He is destined to become the future Elden Lord, is he not? Shouldn't he be the embodiment of justice itself? But he falters. He does not fully grasp what justice truly is, not yet. How can one serve justice when they are still lost in defining it for themselves? He believes he knows what justice means: to protect the innocent and to punish the wicked. That simple. That absolute.
He raises his sword, its gleam reflecting the pale starlight, preparing to deliver a clean, final strike to Adula's exposed neck. The moment is poised between destiny and doubt. Adula, too weak to resist, accepts her end with grace. Her body lies still, her breath shallow, but her eyes drift toward the heavens to look at the stars one final time, a quiet farewell to existence.
Tarnished watches her, his gaze trembling. What he sees shakes the foundation of his conviction. Was she truly evil? What transgression had she committed so dire that it warrants death tonight? She had not attacked a soul. She had not stirred chaos. She had merely slumbered on her mountaintop, lost in dreams. The beasts feared her awakened mana, not her malice. She was a dragon, and in this universe, fear of the strong is law. Was it her fault that the beasts had attacked Luth's village? Or was it merely cruel coincidence that her mountain was closest to the tragedy? What was her fault? The fact that she is a dragon? Or the fact that she simply exists, breathing and dreaming like any other creature under these stars? Was her only sin that she was born different, powerful, and feared? Is existence itself enough to condemn her in this world governed by fear and ancient grudges? Such was the paradox of existence. Weak fear strong not because of the wit and power of strong, but because of their own sense of fear
If anything, she is as innocent as those slain villagers. Perhaps more. A reluctant force of nature, not a perpetrator. After her blood is spilled, will she be mourned by the skies or by her kin hidden in the far peaks? Will any song carry her memory through the winds? Will that be the justice the Golden Order proclaims to uphold? The chant echoes through his memory, like a sermon burned into his soul, "BE THE ELDEN LORD, BE THE ELDEN LORD, BECOME THE LORD OF THE ORDER."
But what is an Elden Lord? A tyrant cloaked in gold? An ambition clad in armor? A throne adorned with thorns? No. A throne without ambition is hollow. A lord must be more, savior, guardian, the living will of justice. Yes, he must protect those villagers. But how? By slaying a creature who has done nothing?
Suddenly, the silence fractures.
"KILL~~ HER~~," a unknown voice snarls inside his head. Maybe it was a hallucination. Maybe not. It echoes again.
"KILL~~ HER~~... Don't stop~~..."
"KILL~~ HER~~" "KILL~~ HER~~" "KILL~~ HER~~"
"KILL~~ HER~~" "KILL~~ HER~~" "KILL~~ HER~~" "KILL~~ HER~~"
The phrase loops endlessly, growing louder, crashing like waves against his mind, drowning thought and conscience. The repetition turns into a roar within his skull. Madness? No, command. Fury without form.
He lets out a primal roar, one born of torment, conflict, and fear, and with a blur of motion, he swings his sword down with violent force...
Tarnished pants heavily, his breath ragged and shallow. He... didn't cut her neck, instead, his sword halted just before making contact. His hand trembled, not from weakness, but from restraint. He turned back slowly and began walking away, his footsteps echoing with the weight of sorrow and fatigue. As he walked, he released his grip on the sword. It dropped to the ground, blade-first, embedding itself for a moment before the already-chipped steel fractured, shattering into countless pieces like fragile glass. His vision began to darken with each step he took, shadows creeping into the edges of his sight. He had taken far too much damage for any ordinary man to endure, yet he pressed on, one dragging step at a time.
Adula realized what had transpired. Her golden eyes widened with awe and disbelief. She was right, this man was indeed special. He was not just a warrior; he was a soul touched by something greater. The only man to ever defeat her and yet spare her life. There was truly no malice within him, no bloodlust, no hunger for glory. Such a beautiful soul, so rare in this forsaken world. And yet, it was a tragedy, the glow of that soul was already dimming, fading away slowly like the final embers of a dying fire.
Adula watched in silence as he summoned Torrent, the spectral steed appearing with a soft glow. He climbed onto its back with great effort, his body barely holding together, every motion stiff and deliberate. By the time he mounted, he was already teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. He lifted his remaining hand with a weak wave, his farewell to Adula. Torrent, sensing the urgency and fragility of his rider, began descending the hill at a slow, gentle pace, hooves quiet against the earth. Together, they vanished from Adula's view as she too succumbed to exhaustion and slipped into sleep.
Meanwhile, the Tarnished finally passed out on Torrent's back, his body limp and battered. The loyal steed carried him all the way to Limgrave, to the place where it had all begun, where his journey first took root. When Tarnished awoke, it was to the whisper of wind and the golden hue of dawn. He found himself on a high cliff overlooking Limgrave's vast plains. With slow, deliberate movements, he dismounted Torrent, his limbs aching with invisible fire. He nullified the summoning, sending the loyal creature away with silent gratitude.
He walked to the cliff's edge, the breeze brushing against his torn armor and bloodied skin. His vision was half-blacked out, the world tilting and spinning. Still, he gazed at the horizon for a few long, final moments. Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and pushed himself off the cliff.
This was the only way left to restore his broken body. Death, the cruel gift and curse bestowed upon him. The curse of the Undead. Though his body would return, restored and whole, the agony was never diminished. In fact, he felt every ounce of pain, twice as intense, with each revival. A cycle of torment that never truly ended.
The Cursed Undead.
He spared her life because he was not the Elden Lord of the humans; he was the lord of even monsters, of those cast aside and forgotten by the world. In that moment, he saw beyond blood and fury, he saw suffering, a mirror of his own. He realized something profound: he is nobody, a fading echo in the river of fate, a shadow that walks amidst legends. He has no true existence, not yet, not until he carves one through his journey. He still has a long way to go in this vast, cruel world, and this moment is merely the prologue, the spark before the storm. And as for Adula,
"The greatest tragedies aren't about death, they're about the respect found seconds before it."
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Act-1: The End
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