The whisper was not a sound carried on air, but a vibration etched directly into his soul. It was the grating of steel on bone, the final gasp of a fallen warrior, the bitter taste of blood and mud. It came from the broadsword, and the words it formed were in a guttural, ancient dialect that his 'Linguistic Osmosis' skill instantly, painfully, translated.
"Flesh… Warm flesh… Come closer, little morsel. Let me taste the spark within you."
Aris scrambled back, his heart hammering against his ribs, the Roman lantern clutched to his chest like a shield. The glass case of the broadsword seemed to ripple, the darkness within it shifting like a living thing. The Catalog flared in his vision, red text screaming a warning.
[Artifact: Frankish Broadsword (c. 9th Century CE). Status: CORRUPTED.]
[Spiritual Integrity: 89%. Latent Skill: 'Blood Price' - Amplifies power by consuming the life force of the wielder or their victims.]
[User Note: Sentient and Malevolent. Spiritual contamination risk: EXTREME. Do not engage.]
Do not engage. The advice was as useful as telling a drowning man not to breathe water. He was trapped in a room with a hungry, conscious weapon.
"I have nothing for you," Aris whispered, his voice cracking. He pressed his back against the cold stone wall, as far from the sword as he could get.
A low, psychic chuckle echoed in his skull. "You have everything. You are a vessel, newly emptied. So much room to be filled… with me."
Aris's gaze darted around the vault, searching for anything that could help. The other artifacts slept or brooded, their auras muted compared to the sword's predatory glow. His eyes fell back to the lantern in his hands. 'Unwavering Flame'. A light that dispels despair. It was the antithesis of the corrupting hunger of the sword. But it was dormant. Useless.
He needed a spark. A real one was impossible, but the Catalog had said 'ignition source'. A spiritual one. His mind raced, sifting through the skills he possessed. 'Focused Hands' was for precision. 'Linguistic Osmosis' was for understanding. 'Replication' was for copying states or feelings.
Feelings.
His eyes widened. In the alley, he had replicated the warmth of Elara's kiss to fight Croft's cold. It had been a crude, desperate act, a blast of emotional energy. What he needed now was not a blast, but a focused point. A spark.
He thought of Elara. Not just the memory of the kiss, but the feeling of her hand in his as they fled through the dark streets. The look of unwavering trust in her eyes in the bookbindery, just before he'd replicated the torc's signal. The sheer, defiant warmth of her presence in his life, a flame that had ignited in the darkest hour of the world.
He poured that feeling into the 'Replication' skill. He wasn't trying to create a duplicate this time. He was trying to capture the essence of that connection, the catalytic moment their bond had been forged. He focused on the memory of their first kiss in the stairwell—the desperation, the hope, the terrifying, beautiful certainty that he was no longer alone. He compressed that memory, that feeling, into a single, infinitesimal point of spiritual energy.
He held the bronze lantern before him, his 'Focused Hands' steadying it. He placed the tip of his finger against the old, dried wick inside the horn panel.
"Ignite," he commanded, not with his voice, but with his entire being.
For a terrifying second, nothing happened. The spiritual cost of the effort left him dizzy, the void of his depletion yawning wide again.
Then, a single, tiny spark, golden and perfect, leapt from his fingertip to the wick.
It did not catch fire with a roar. It bloomed. A soft, warm, but incredibly steady flame sprang to life within the lantern. It cast a gentle, golden radiance that pushed back the oppressive gloom of the vault, creating a small circle of sanctuary around him.
The whispering from the broadsword ceased abruptly, replaced by a sullen, psychic hiss. The malevolent pressure receded, unable to penetrate the lantern's glow. 'Unwavering Flame' was not a torch; it was a bastion.
Aris slumped against the wall, tears of relief and exhaustion mingling on his cheeks. He had done it. In the heart of his enemy's fortress, surrounded by darkness, he had created light from the memory of love.
He sat there for a long time, simply breathing in the light, allowing it to soothe his aching spirit and mend the frayed edges of his will. The Catalog confirmed the change.
[Artifact: Roman Vigil Lantern - Status: ACTIVE.]
[Effect: 'Sphere of Resolve' active. Spiritual recovery accelerated. Low-level corruptive influences nullified.]
As he rested, a new, different sensation began to tickle at the edge of his awareness. It was faint, a silken thread of feeling that was not his own. It was a profound, aching fear, a desperate, running panic. And beneath that, a current of fierce determination. And love. A love that was specifically, undeniably, directed at him.
Elara.
The connection wasn't through the corrupted torc. This was something else, something purer. It was flowing through the lantern, the 'Unwavering Flame' acting as a spiritual amplifier for the bond they had forged. He could feel her. She was alive. She was running. And she was thinking of him, her worry for him a sharp, painful thorn in her side.
He focused on that thread, pouring his own consciousness down it, trying to send a signal back. I'm here. I'm alive. I'm coming for you.
A wave of shock and then overwhelming relief echoed back to him, so potent it was almost a physical touch. It was followed immediately by a surge of urgent, desperate warning.
In his mind's eye, fueled by their connected spirits and the lantern's power, a vision flickered to life.
He saw through her eyes.
She was running through a night-shrouded forest, the trees skeletal claws against a moonlit sky. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Behind her, the crashing of pursuit—two of Croft's enforcers, one wielding a spear that glowed with a sickly green light, the other whose fists were encased in stone-like gauntlets that shattered saplings as he ran.
"You can't outrun the beacon, Doctor!" one of them yelled.
She ducked behind a large oak, her chest heaving. Her hand went to the torc at her neck, a gesture of hopeless frustration. Then, she closed her eyes, and Aris felt her focus, felt her pour all her love and fear for him into a single, silent scream.
"ARIS!"
The vision sharpened, and for a breathtaking moment, their souls touched across the distance. He felt her absolute faith in him, her belief that he would find a way, that he was her only hope. It was a love that was not a chain, but a lifeline.
And in that moment of perfect connection, he saw what she saw. Just ahead of her, through the trees, the ground fell away into a deep, dark ravine. A river roared at the bottom. It was a dead end.
The enforcer with the stone gauntlets lunged around the tree, his fist pulled back to strike. Elara spun, her eyes wide with terror, her gaze locked on the impending blow.
The vision shattered.
Aris was thrown back into his own body in the vault, gasping. The lantern's flame flickered wildly. The connection was broken.
He stared into the steadying flame, his body trembling not with fear, but with a cold, purifying fury. He could see her face, frozen in that final moment of terror. He could feel the violation of the hunt, the profound wrongness of her being chased like an animal.
The sullen whisper from the broadsword slithered back into his mind, now tinged with a new, intrigued tone.
"Ah… such rage. Such a need to protect. You burn so brightly now, little morsel. That kind of fire… it could wield me. It could feed me."
Aris slowly rose to his feet. The Sphere of Resolve shimmered around him. He looked from the gentle, protective light of the Roman lantern in his left hand to the dark, pulsating case of the Frankish broadsword on his right.
The malevolent artifact hissed its seductive promise into the silence of his soul.
"Let me out. Give me your rage. And I will give you the power to save her."