A game of wits or magic? (III)

Kryo'nya jumped from pillar to pillar, evading attacks like a spider. He threw daggers at Kralyxarion, who was worn out from trying to break his opponent.

"I've been evading his attacks for almost two hours. Why hasn't he dropped? I'm getting tired of this," Kryo'nya thought. He landed on his feet, sitting down on a broken pillar. "Alright, brute. Time out."

Kralyxarion flung a broken pillar at him, but he dodged it.

"Don't be foolish, Servant," the giant roared, his massive chest tightening with rage.

"Servant? That's rich coming from you. Just end this and tell us how to go home," Kryo'nya replied, rubbing his face.

"Quiet. I can assume you lack manners due to the absence of your father," Kralyxarion spat, his lip creeping into a smirk.

"You don't know anything about me, Khra'xys."

"Oh, but you know I do," another voice came out of Kralyxarion — the real one in control. "That frown on your face proves I struck a nerve."

"Shut up already. Bringing a bunch of teenagers into your domain, lying about the Zha'rielvora lineage." Kryo'nya glared at the giant.

"Aren't you tired of being a parasite?" he snarled, his voice splitting as he manifested a twin clone beside him.

There was silence between them. The sound of rain hitting the roof filled the tension.

"Let me share a brief story with you."

Kralyxarion took slow, heavy steps forward, his weapon scraping the cold floor.

"I've gone by many names. Khra'xys — my birth name: Heir to the Nocthrazir throne. The Zha'rielvora branded me a shapeshifter, though my truth was far grander: I was immortal, sustained by the essence of countless souls, each one living out their unfulfilled destinies through me."

Kryo'nya stayed silent, observing. He gripped his dagger tighter, his clone mirroring the motion.

"The tribe bestowed upon me the name Kralyxarion."

He lunged at Kryo'nya, swinging faster. Stronger. Angrier. His axe struck the ground, missing them completely.

He swung again, faster. Kryo'nya dodged, barely making it.

"...The Eternal Usurper."

He roared, leveling the place with a barrage of swings. Left. Right. Down. Up. Everything he touched shattered into chunks.

"You have refused to fulfill your duties as a Nocthrazir!"

"Wrong. I've refused to be a host for your malicious services. You've tried killing me countless times. Because of revenge?"

"Fool! I was helping you become stronger — for the destruction of the Zha'rielvora! Just like your father did before he perished like a true blood."

His voice shook the room. The clone dashed for a cheap shot at Kralyxarion's leg with his dagger. But Kralyxarion spotted him and stopped the clone with a powerful stomp, crushing it into black mist and blood.

"Clones. Clones. Clones. You can do better than copies."

"That's enough, brute," Kryo'nya said, charging forward at an immense speed.

He aimed for Kralyxarion's eyes but was blocked. The brute grabbed Kryo'nya's arm and slammed him into the ground. In a flash, he split Kryo'nya's head open — only to realize it was a clone. Another Kryo'nya stepped forward, blade in hand.

"I'm not dead yet."

Kralyxarion kept mowing down clone after clone. "They keep coming; I keep killing."

Kryo'nya wrapped himself in the Umbramantle — black armor shifting and gliding over his body like molten iron. Then, the floor beneath him grew darker. Shadows swallowed the space where he stood. A hand emerged from the dark, offering a long sword the height of the average woman — forged from the darkest parts of the Umbra Realm.

The enemy lunged, wild and reckless. Kryo'nya didn't flinch. Shadows rippled around him as he sidestepped, fluid as wind.

That's when Kralyxarion saw it — Kryvaleth.

The blade unsheathed with a whisper, not a clang. Slender. Midnight-black. Etched in ancient markings that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The hilt was jagged, molded for a warrior's grip — and after each strike, the blade shimmered… then bled red.

A weapon born of death, made for speed.

Kryvaleth — forged in the hidden forges of Nocthrazir for the bloodline of silent kings. It didn't shine. It devoured light. And with every kill, it cloaked its wielder in shadows, faster than the eye could blink.

It was not a weapon.

It was a sentence.

"Go to hell."

Kryo'nya took one step — but to his opponent; a thousand. His blade carved through Kralyxarion in multiple slashes.

Kralyxarion staggered, barely registering what happened. He swung back, but Kryo'nya blocked it with ease, unmoved.

Their blades clashed again. And again. But the tide had turned. Kralyxarion stepped back from Kryo'nya's overwhelming aura. He smirked, masking the chill crawling down his spine.

"My, my. Look at you…"

He blinked once.

Kryo'nya stood behind him, blade aimed at his liver. "I'll ask you this," he whispered — cold, husky, sharp. "Does the dead speak?"

"Kryo'nya… don't be so hasty. That beautiful blade is just what the devil needs for his selfish mission."

Kryo'nya said nothing. He pressed the blade forward slowly. Kralyxarion trembled… and laughed.

"You can't kill me in this body. We both know that," he said. "I tremble not from fear — but because you don't understand what you wield. I am scared for you."

Kryo'nya didn't flinch. He plunged Kryvaleth into the brute's stomach. Blood poured. The brute dropped his weapon, still laughing. "Your father didn't abandon you. He loved you. Your mother contradicted—"

Then, in a flash, his head was gone.

He didn't even feel it.

Kryvaleth gleamed burgundy — then bled cherry red.

"The dead doesn't speak," Kryo'nya said, turning away. His sword and armor dissolved into shadow, claimed by a waiting hand in the dark.

"Now, I just have to find Lyra and the others… Tch. No clue where they ran off to."

He sighed, heading in their last known direction.

BRIGHT: LYRA'KAIDOS UNIT

"Zephirine! Speratoz! I found something!"

They ran over, eager to see what Lyra'kaidos had uncovered.

"What is it?" Speratoz asked.

She dusted the papers, trailing her fingers along the ancient text.

"Vel'saakth no'verra, Korr'vaelin da'syrr. Vor'nael ik'tharn, vyrr-kael Nocthra," she read aloud, squinting at the smudged ink.

"Whoa, whoa. You can read this?" Speratoz raised a brow.

"Why am I not surprised?" Zephirine said with a smirk.

Lyra'kaidos chuckled. "Yes, I can. It's Ky'ralian — Nocthrazir language. Kryo'nya and I used to study it together back in the..."

They both froze, eyes widening.

"Kryo'nya is a Nocthrazir?!" Speratoz exclaimed.

"Why am I not surprised," Zephirine repeated dryly.

"Um, that's not true. You went like..." Speratoz teased, mimicking her gasp.

She rolled her eyes and poked his throat. He coughed. "Are you trying to kill me before this place does?!"

"If you can die from that, you're useless," she muttered with a smirk.

"You guys!" Lyra'kaidos interrupted, clearly unamused. "Focus. This text could save our lives."

They turned serious, stepping closer.

"That phrase I read? It's an ancient punishment — for betrayal or disloyalty to the land," she explained. "By blood and shadow, the bond is forged. Remain within the fatherland, or be devoured by nothingness."

"...Yikes," Zephirine said, sitting on a dusty stool. "What does that even mean?"

"You're dumb," Speratoz muttered.

"Sorry?"

"I said you're dumb, Purple."

Zephirine grabbed her stool like a weapon. "Say it again. I dare you."

"Stop distracting us. Go on, Lyra," Speratoz said quickly, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.

Lyra'kaidos frowned. "This is serious. If this spell stays active, we won't just die. We'll vanish — completely."

Speratoz stiffened. "Like, erased erased?"

"Body. Spirit. Memory. Gone."

Zephirine's eyes darkened. "That's a fate worse than death."

They stood silent, until Lyra'kaidos flipped another page.

"Still nothing about how to lift the spell and regain our Psyrixals," Zephirine said. "You said it triggers in emotional distress, right? We've had that. Still nothing."

"What if this place blocks Zha'rielvora magic?" Zephirine asked. "It said enemies will lose everything within our domain."

"Everything… even powers. That explains it," Lyra'kaidos whispered.

Speratoz slammed his hand on the table. "We can't do magic! We're screwed. We're gonna die here, or start a civilization in this underground crypt."

"With who?" Zephirine said, chuckling.

"I don't understand. Did I say something funny?"

Lyra'kaidos was already scanning the shelves again. "Wait — Silencer of Chains." She read some descriptions in the book, obtaining Intel on the directions, and activities.

"Got it. Let's move."

---

The tunnel ended — abruptly — as if the earth itself had carved out an offering to something long forgotten.

They stepped into a vast subterranean chamber. The air was thick, as if holding its breath for centuries.

It wasn't the silence that struck Lyra'kaidos — it was the light.

Not sunlight. Not torchlight. But a dim, indigo-blue glow that oozed from the obsidian walls — like shadows trying to mimic stars.

Statues. Dozens. All carved in obsidian, shaped like twisted humanoid figures. Hollow eyes. Clasped hands. Kneeling. Screaming. Some bowed in reverence, others contorted in torment.

The black floor was cracked, glossy, and etched with spiraling silver glyphs that pulsed underfoot.

Above them, the ceiling arched high like a cathedral — jagged rock and dangling chains that swayed as if something had just left.

At the center stood a circular stone altar, engraved with crimson-glowing runes, and five massive chains that extended from the ground to the ceiling.

Lyra'kaidos stepped forward. The room felt… awake.

She touched the open tome atop the altar — its pages blackened, its words whispering into her thoughts.

"Zephirine. Speratoz. This isn't a library book. It's a curse record."

Zephirine blinked. "A what now?"

"An archive of binding and punishment spells."

She began to read:

Vael'khun syrrha tal Vi'reth… zhirae'mal veynn tor daalh.

Speratoz raised a brow. "And that means...?"

"Loyal to the land by blood and oath… until the soul steps into sin."

The air thickened.

"If one turns from the sacred thread," she translated slowly, "the land shall devour the treacherous — body, mind, and soul — erasing them from all realms."

Speratoz stepped back. "That's a punishment?"

Lyra'kaidos nodded, flipping to the next page.

"The Oath of the Ancestors binds the renegade. All their holdings shall be undone, unless purity from blight and broken faith is shown. Thus is the decree."

She flipped again and again. A glyph spiraled into the shape of a serpent devouring its own tail.

Then, she found it:

Zhirae — the undoing of shadow.

She whispered it. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

The chamber stayed sealed. Their Psyrixals still locked away.

"We can't break this spell with words," she muttered. "We have to break it with something it's not ready for."

That's when the tunnel behind them collapsed.

A thunderous bang.

"What the hell?!" Lyra'kaidos yelled, turning around.

Speratoz yanked at the rock. "We're trapped! Again?! Because of you!"

"What are you talking about? You followed me willingly," Lyra snapped.

"Because you said you knew this place!"

Zephirine shoved him against the wall. "Hey! Shut up. She never claimed to have all the answers."

He shoved her back, gripping the collar of her shirt tight. "Don't touch me, purple."

She gripped his too, her frown stretched into a glare. "Get your hand off me or I'll show you where to shove it."

They released each other. The air went heavy.

Lyra'kaidos sat beside a statue, her face stretched with gloom. "I'm sorry. I dragged us here… thinking I had the answers. But I don't."

Zephirine crouched beside her, hand on hers. "You tried. That's more than most."

"It's not just about trying. I split us up from the start. I was the one who pushed everyone of us into this mess. We don't even know if the others are okay!" Lyra'kaidos exclaimed, her face buried in her palms.

Speratoz sighed. "Look... maybe I got a bit harsh."

Zephirine glared at him. "A bit?"

Speratoz sighed again. "Okay. Okay. It's not totally your fault. It's just that... my dad doesn't think I'm fit to be a warrior. I wanted to prove him wrong. That I could awaken my Psyrixal too. Even though nobody from my family has ever done it before."

Zephirine added, "Same. I'm not from a family of fighters except My uncle. He died saving me without any magical ability. I want to protect people the way he did. Even if I never awaken my Psyrixal."

Lyra'kaidos looked down. "...I don't even want to lead an army. I want to protect lives — not take them. I'm not a big fan of my Dad's work. Sometimes, they raid people's homeland just to prove a point," She said, inspecting her dagger.

"If I was given the power to reshape the whole of Vylaxys, I'd take it. Even if it means risking mine."

The room darkened.

A red hue seeped into the stone. The indigo glow turned crimson. Chains rattled. Statues leaned.

Then came the groan.

A horrifying wail — half scream, half sorrow.

From the altar rose a creature — eight feet tall, peeling itself from stone.

It was skeletal, twisted, bald, and naked. Black bones visible beneath thin, ash-gray skin. Hollow eyes wept darkness. Chains bound its limbs and neck, connecting to the high ceiling.

In its left hand: a double-edged, thorned scythe. The thorns pierced its own palm.

In its right: a soul prism — glowing faint red and silver — with a kneeling figure trapped inside.

From the cavity in its chest, spectral hands clawed outward — desperate for escape. A symbol of unbinding… or its price.

It wept. Screamed. Groaned.

Just being near it made the air unbearable.

"What is THAT?!" Speratoz shouted, voice cracking.