Chapter 21 — The Aetherial Crest, 6
The stone steps spiraled downward into silence.
The forbidden archives lay beneath the Noctis estate, carved into the foundations centuries ago, warded with runes older than the empire itself. The air grew colder with each step, damp with the breath of secrets never meant to be unearthed. Torches sputtered weakly along the walls, their light barely reaching the carvings etched into stone — twisting sigils that seemed to writhe when watched too long.
Sylan descended first, his crimson eyes sharp, soldier's instincts alive with tension. Virelle followed a pace behind, clutching a small lantern, its flame trembling with every nervous step. Her brown eyes darted to every rune, every shadow, every flicker of movement.
"Are you certain, my lord?" she whispered, voice taut.
"Certain enough," Sylan muttered, his tone clipped. His thoughts burned sharper than his words.'This is what I bled for. What I gambled for. The Crest will raise my stats, grant me what I need to live. Nothing else matters.'
The system's pale glow hovered before him, a ghost only he could see.
[Objective: Breach the forbidden archives. Authentication complete. Key and blood sigil verified.][Warning: Defensive wards active. Probability of successful infiltration: 52%.]
Half odds. A soldier had faced worse.
The first barrier rose at the bottom of the stairwell: an iron gate inlaid with runes that pulsed faintly blue. The sigils hissed when Sylan drew close, reacting to his bloodline but rejecting his presence.
Virelle's grip on the lantern tightened. "Those are binding wards, my lord. If they strike, they'll crush the body inward—"
"Then they won't strike."
He produced the folded cloth hidden in his coat sleeve, Amanda's dried blood staining its edge. He pressed it to the center rune, his hand steady.
The ward flared, light searing bright, then sank into stillness. The gate groaned as it opened.
Virelle exhaled shakily. "It worked…"
Sylan did not answer. His soldier's mind already mapped the next steps. He advanced, boots silent against the stone.
The archives unfolded into a labyrinth. Shelves of forbidden tomes stretched into the dark, their spines cracked with age, their bindings sealed in wax and blood. Pedestals held relics wrapped in chains of silver. Statues of forgotten saints stood watch, their faces eroded, their hollow eyes filled with black resin.
Virelle trailed him, lantern casting long, quivering shadows. "It feels wrong down here."
"It is wrong." His voice was steady, but inside his thoughts churned.'The Game built this place as a wall. A reminder: minor characters don't cross into the major arc. But I'm not playing minor.'
The system pulsed again.
[Archive defenses escalating. Remaining wards: 2.]
The second ward awaited them at a narrow passage lined with statues. Chains of faint light draped from wall to wall, humming softly. Each step closer made the air heavier, pressing against the chest like a weight.
Virelle faltered. "If we touch them—"
"They'll bind us." Sylan studied the chains, noting the rhythm of their hum, the faint shift of their glow. A soldier read patterns like these on battlefields — traps, patrols, artillery fire.
"Follow me. Match my steps exactly."
He advanced, timing each movement to the lull in the hum, stepping between the chains just as they dimmed. Virelle followed, trembling, eyes fixed on his boots. Sweat trickled down her brow as she matched each stride, lantern trembling in her grip.
Once, she faltered. The chain flared near her shoulder.
Without hesitation, Sylan's arm shot out, dragging her flush against his side as the chain lashed. It missed by a hair, sizzling into the wall.
Her breath came sharp. "My lord—"
"Keep moving."
They passed the last chain together, the hum fading behind them.
[Second ward bypassed. Remaining wards: 1.]
The final ward pulsed at the end of the passage. A door of obsidian loomed, its surface carved with runes that shifted like living veins of light. The air around it vibrated, thick with power.
Virelle's brown eyes widened. "That's… it. Beyond there."
Sylan stepped closer, the silver key heavy in his palm, Amanda's blood already dried into the folded cloth. His soldier's heart pounded, not with fear, but anticipation.
'Eight days. Now, it begins.'
He pressed the key into the lock. The door drank the bloodstain from the cloth. The runes flared — not blue, but silver and black, light and shadow entwined.
The door opened.
A wave of light crashed over them.
Virelle gasped, her lantern falling to the floor, forgotten. She raised her hands to shield her eyes, but Sylan stood firm, crimson gaze locked forward.
The chamber beyond was vast, its ceiling lost in darkness. At its center hovered the Aetherial Crest.
It did not have a single shape. One moment it gleamed like a crown of radiant light, every edge sharp with divinity. The next it twisted, shadows writhing within its glow, forming jagged wings, a blade, a halo of horns. The Crest shifted endlessly, divine and demonic, holy and profane — an embodiment of contradiction.
The air thrummed with its presence. Voices whispered in the walls, some like hymns, others like growls. Light poured from it, but so did shadow, twin forces coiled around one another.
Virelle fell to her knees, her brown eyes wide with awe and terror. "It's… beautiful… and monstrous…"
Sylan's breath came slow, steady. His soldier's instincts whispered that this was no relic, no prize. It was a weapon. A double-edged one, forged by the Game itself.
'This is it. Salvation and damnation. And it's mine.'
The system flared violently.
[The Aetherial Crest detected. Status: Unclaimed.][Warning: Archive defense trigger active. Proximity detected.]
The Crest's light pulsed, casting long shadows across the chamber. Sylan reached forward, crimson eyes burning with resolve.
But from the corridor behind them, footsteps echoed.