The broadsword's offer hung in the air, a venomous nectar for a dying man. Power to save her. The words were a key crafted to fit the exact lock of his desperation. Aris's gaze was locked on the pulsating darkness within the sword's case, the gentle glow of the Roman lantern in his hand suddenly feeling feeble, a child's nightlight against the abyss.
The memory of the vision was seared behind his eyes: Elara's terrified face, the crushing finality of the dead-end ravine, the brute with stone fists closing in. Every instinct screamed at him to act, to seize any tool, any weapon, no matter the cost. The part of him that was still a scholar, a preserver, recoiled. But the part of him that loved her was howling for violence.
"How?" The word scraped from Aris's throat, raw and barely audible.
A wave of sinister satisfaction emanated from the sword. "The glass. Your trick with the lantern… do it again. But for me. Let me taste the air of this prison."
Aris's mind raced. Using the 'Spiritual Echo' on the lantern's case had been one thing; it was a tool of hope. To use the same skill, born from his connection to Elara, on this corrupted thing felt like a profound desecration. It was using their love to unleash a monster.
"I cannot control you," Aris stated, his voice gaining a shred of strength. "The Catalog says you consume your wielders."
"Control is a pact," the sword whispered, its tone shifting to one of reasonable, deadly persuasion. "I do not need to consume you whole, little curator. A taste. A sip of your righteous fury to wet my blade. In return, I will lend you my edge. A temporary alliance. You get your woman. I get… a glimpse of the world outside this box."
It was a devil's bargain. But the sound of Elara's silent scream still echoed in his soul. He had no time. No other options. The vault door was impregnable. This sentient weapon was the only key.
"A taste," Aris repeated, his heart a cold, hard stone in his chest. "Nothing more."
"A taste," the sword agreed, its psychic voice a purr of anticipation.
Aris took a step toward the case. The Sphere of Resolve from the lantern wavered as he moved to its edge, the warm light battling the oppressive aura of the sword. He could feel the malevolent energy crawling over his skin like insects. He held up the Minoan seal stone, his anchor to sanity, and pressed it against the cold glass of the broadsword's prison.
He focused, not on the memory of Elara's love this time, but on the raw, sharp-edged fear for her life. He channeled the image of the enforcer's fist, the dizzying drop of the ravine, the crushing helplessness of being trapped in this vault while she fought for her life alone. This was the 'righteous fury' the sword wanted. He replicated the state of that desperation, the frantic, chaotic energy of it, and pushed it into the interface between the stone and the glass.
[Applying: Spiritual Echo - Signal Interference.]
[Warning: Target Artifact is Corrupted. Spiritual Backlash Imminent.]
The shimmering distortion appeared on the glass, but it was different this time. It was murky, shot through with veins of black and crimson. Where the portal for the lantern had been like clear water, this was like pushing his hand into viscid oil.
Gritting his teeth, Aris reached through. The moment his fingers passed the threshold, a jolt of pure, undiluted malice shot up his arm. It was a psychic scream of a thousand battlefields, the agony of the slain, the bitter triumph of the killer. He saw flashes of sacked villages, of betrayal, of blood soaking into foreign soil. The weight of the sword's history was a tsunami threatening to obliterate his own mind.
His fingers closed around the leather-bound hilt. It was cold, and he felt a parasitic hunger stir within the metal, reaching for him.
"Yes…," the sword sighed in ecstasy. "Now… a pact. A drop of blood to seal our bargain."
With a final, grim effort, Aris pulled the broadsword from its case. It was impossibly heavy, not just physically, but spiritually. It felt like he was lifting a mountain of sorrow and violence. As the blade cleared the shimmering portal, the distortion collapsed, and the glass solidified once more.
He stood holding the massive sword, its point scraping against the stone floor. The lantern's light seemed to shrink back from it. A thin, almost invisible tendril of darkness seeped from the hilt and wrapped around his wrist, cold as a serpent's kiss. The 'taste' had begun.
"Now," the sword's voice was now a clear, commanding presence in his mind, no longer muffled. "The door. Put your will into me. My edge can cut more than flesh."
Aris turned to the vault's massive, bolted door. He raised the broadsword, his arms trembling with its weight and the spiritual drain. He didn't know how to wield it, but the sword did. A crude, brutal knowledge flooded his muscles—the best angle for a cleaving strike, the distribution of weight. It was the 'Blood Price' skill, awakening.
He poured every ounce of his fear for Elara, his hatred for Croft, his desperate need to be free, into the blade. The dark metal began to glow with a dull, crimson light. The runes along its fuller shimmered like fresh blood.
With a roar that was part his, part the sword's, he brought the blade down on the area around the heavy iron lock.
The sound was not a metallic clang, but a shriek of sundered reality. Spiritual energy flared, crimson against the door's innate defences. The metal didn't just bend; it dissolved under the corrupting touch of the sword's power. Molten slag and splinters of wood exploded inward. The complex spiritual lock, designed to contain powerful artifacts, screamed and fizzled out, unable to withstand the primal, destructive force Aris had unleashed.
When the dust and energy cleared, a gaping, jagged hole stood where the lock mechanism had been. Freedom.
Panting, Aris stood in the wreckage, the broadsword's crimson glow slowly fading. The tendril around his wrist tightened, and he felt a distinct, unsettling pull on his life force. A wave of lightheadedness washed over him. The sword was taking its payment.
"A satisfying first cut," it murmured. "There will be more flesh to taste soon. Now, go. Find our prize."
Our prize. The words filled him with dread. He had not just freed a tool; he had unleashed a partner with its own agenda.
He stumbled through the shattered doorway, the Roman lantern in one hand, the corrupt broadsword dragging in the other. He was in a sterile, concrete corridor, part of the museum's secure sub-levels. Alarms were blaring—not electronic, but spiritual, a deafening psychic siren that pounded against his skull. He had minutes, maybe less, before Croft's entire force descended upon him.
He had to get to the surface. He had to get to the forest. He had to find her.
He began to run, a strange and terrifying figure: a scholar clutching a lantern of hope, trailing a sword of damnation. The connection to Elara, which had been a silken thread, now felt frayed and strained, overshadowed by the brooding, violent presence of the sword in his mind. He could still feel her fear, but it was now mingled with his own—the fear of what he had become to save her.
He burst out into a main storage area, heading for a service elevator shaft he knew could lead up. As he ran, his foot caught on a crate, and he stumbled. The broadsword, its hilt slick with spiritual residue, clattered from his grasp and skidded across the floor.
He reached for it, but a voice, cold and sharp as the ice that had once imprisoned him, stopped him dead.
"I must admit, Dr. Thorne, you continue to exceed my expectations."
Aris looked up.
Silas Croft stood at the far end of the storage room, flanked by four enforcers. But his gaze wasn't on Aris. It was fixed on the fallen broadsword, a look of avaricious, terrifying recognition on his face.
"The 'Blood-Drinker'," Croft breathed, his eyes wide with unholy delight. "I've tried for weeks to subdue that thing. And you… you simply walked out with it."
Croft's gaze then lifted, past Aris, to the shattered vault door down the corridor. The avarice in his eyes melted into something colder, more calculating. He understood the implications instantly.
His eyes snapped back to Aris, and a slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"You've brought me two treasures tonight, Curator. The most destructive weapon in my collection… and absolute, undeniable proof that your System can be used to command even the most unwilling of artifacts."
He took a step forward, his frost-rimed staff glowing with renewed power.
"The girl can wait. She has nowhere to run. You, however… are now the single most important artifact in my museum. And I will have you cataloged, classified, and placed on permanent display."