The fire had fully extinguished. For the first time in the history of the land, the Forest of Death was scorched. Burned to its bones. The once-mythical woodland now lay in smoldering ruin—its silence more deafening than the screams it once swallowed.
Amidst the ashes, near the blackened core of what was once a cursed forest, the Duke and his surviving knights took respite. Bodies bruised, souls scarred, but their mission fulfilled. Alaric leaned against a half-buried root, sipping aged wine—its vintage forgotten, yet its taste now a symbol of bitter triumph.
With a nod from the Duke, the search began.
The ruined castle was odd. Too old. Too permanent. Too… structured for a cultist den. It wasn't built by them. No—it was inherited. Claimed. That could only mean one thing:
Someone stronger than them had lived here first. Someone the forest itself once feared.
They found it near the desecrated altar: a heavy stone door, half-buried in moss and centuries of forgotten time. Upon it, a strange crest. The knights exchanged puzzled glances—none recognized it.
But the Duke froze. His breath caught.
"Itarim's crest," he said quietly, voice carrying the weight of a century-old secret.
The name rang hollow to the knights. It was a ghost to them—a bedtime myth for sword apprentices. But to the Duke… it was real.
Itarim. The only known 7-Star Aura Swordmaster. Thought to have died 300 years ago. Erased from all royal records. His power was deemed too great, too uncontrollable—an existential threat.
"So this… is where he spent his final days," whispered the Duke, almost reverently.
With care, he pressed his palm against the cold stone. The door, ancient and untouched, rumbled open—not with force, but as if recognizing him.
Torches flared to life on their own. A corridor lit itself, revealing a breathtaking underground vault. Scrolls lay stacked in obsidian cases. Ancient swords and warped shields lined the walls, glowing faintly with residual mana—not relics of war, but of ascension.
At the center, elevated on a dragon-bone slab, was a coffin. Regal. Untouched. Heavy with presence.
Resting atop it: a pendant.
A pendant that bled light, its ruby core pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Unmarked. Unassuming. And yet—the Duke felt something inside him stir. A familiarity. A reflection of power that was not yet his, but… destined.
Alaric stepped forward. "No traps?"
The Duke shook his head. "Itarim never needed them. His logic was cruelly simple—if you're worthy enough to find this place, you're worthy to take what remains. He didn't hide treasures. He left behind burdens—his legacy. What's left here would kill the unworthy, not with fangs, but with overwhelming purpose."
Crates of mana stones, so dense they pulsed like hearts. Scrolls etched with forbidden martial theory, unreadable to most but glowing faintly when the Duke touched them. A manual of swordsmanship so complex it is avoided by others.
And the pendant…More valuable than others combined.