Chapter 80: The Illusion of the False Dawn and the Agony of the Blinded King
The False Awakening: The Trap of the Apostles
As the drunken echoes of the demons faded into the forest, a strange, sudden silence enveloped the manor. Diari, lying in his own blood, felt a sudden surge of warmth in his chest. A blinding, golden-violet light began to radiate from his heart, melting the 'Accursed Iron' chains like wax. He felt a power so immense, so absolute, that he thought the "Abyssal Key" had finally evolved. He stood up, his wounds stitching themselves shut, his aura roaring like a celestial furnace. He looked at Malakor with the eyes of a conqueror. "It is over," Diari's voice boomed, echoing with the authority of a thousand kings. He reached out his hand, and the shadows retreated in terror. But as he lunged toward Malakor to deliver the final blow, the world began to flicker.
The golden light didn't burn; it started to rot. The warmth turned into the sensation of thousands of frozen needles pricking his soul. He realized, with a horror that chilled his marrow, that this was not his power. It was the "Mirage of the Damned," a collaborative spell cast by the Apostles and Malakor. They had fed him a false sense of hope, a hollow strength that was designed to collapse from within. The 'Accursed Iron' didn't melt; it had simply turned invisible, and now it tightened with ten times the force, crushing his ribs and puncturing his lungs. The realization that his "victory" was just another layer of his torture was a psychological blow that almost shattered his mind completely. It was a trap designed to make the subsequent despair feel even heavier.
The Desecration of the Sight: The Burning Eyes
Malakor stepped closer, his shadow-face twisting into a jagged, hateful grin. "You thought you found the light, little king? Let me show you what true vision looks like." Malakor raised his hand, and a jet of "Void-Acid"—a liquid made of concentrated darkness and ancient spite—hit Diari directly in his eyes. Diari let out a scream that felt like it was tearing the air apart. It wasn't just physical pain; it was the sensation of his memories being burned away through his retinas.
The acid boiled against his eyeballs, turning the world into a blur of searing white and throbbing red. He wasn't blinded permanently—Malakor was too cruel for that—but his vision became a distorted nightmare. Every time he looked at Rina, he saw her face melting; every time he looked at the sky, he saw it raining blood. The pain in his eyes was a constant, rhythmic throbbing, as if a hot coal was being pressed into his skull. He clawed at his face, his fingers slick with blood and black bile, but the agony only intensified. Malakor wanted him to see, but he wanted every sight to be a source of unendurable suffering.
The Echoes of the Forbidden Past
Malakor leaned down, whispering into Diari's ear, his voice sounding like the rustle of dead leaves. He began to speak of a secret that predated the Silver Line, a truth that only he and the first shadows knew. "Do you know why your blood screams, Diari? Do you know why the Abyssal Key fits so perfectly in your chest?" Malakor spoke of an ancient betrayal, of how the ancestors of the King of Blood had once been Malakor's own disciples. He revealed that the "Crimson Soul" was not a gift of heroism, but a cursed fragment of Malakor's own essence, stolen and purified by a traitor.
He described the night the first King of Blood knelt in the dirt and begged for the very power that Diari now claimed was his birthright. This revelation turned Diari's entire identity into a lie. He wasn't a hero fighting a monster; he was a fragment of the monster trying to deny its origin. This historical poison was intended to rot Diari's will from the inside out, making him feel that every strike he made against Malakor was a strike against his own soul.
The Torment of the Shadow-Minions
The shadow-demons, seeing their master's delight, began their own gruesome games. They didn't just attack; they began to "play" with the fragments of the manor. They picked up the shattered pieces of the family's dinner table and forced Diari to watch as they ate the wood, their teeth grinding like stones. They began to chant in a low, guttural vibration that made the very marrow in the prisoners' bones ache. One demon took a shard of glass and began to slowly etch Malakor's name into the floorboards around Rina, creating a ritual circle of desecration. They were mocking the sanctity of the home, turning a place of love into a temple of filth. Their laughter was a constant, high-pitched scratching against the sanity of everyone present.
Elara's Desperate Spark: The Fire of the Damned
In the midst of this darkness, Lady Elara reached a point of absolute, motherly desperation. A strange, flickering orange light began to manifest in her palms. It wasn't the pure silver of her lineage, but a wild, unstable fire born of pure grief. She reached out, and as her fingers touched a nearby piece of fallen timber, it instantly ignited into a roaring, white-hot flame. She tried to stand, her hands glowing with a heat that threatened to turn the ruins into a furnace. "Get away from her!" she shrieked, her voice cracking.
For a moment, the demons recoiled from the intensity of her magic. But her body was too frail, her spirit too exhausted by the soul-drain. The fire was a parasite, consuming her own life-force to stay alive. After only a few seconds, the flames flickered and died, leaving her hands charred and trembling. She collapsed back into the dust, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She had the power to burn the world, but her vessel was broken, leaving her a prisoner of her own limitation.
The Slap of the Tyrant
Diari, through his blurred and burning vision, managed to turn his head toward Rina. For one fleeting second, he saw her pale face, her eyes filled with tears and a silent plea for him to stay strong. The love he felt for her was a physical ache, a bridge of light in a world of shadow. But Malakor would not allow even this small comfort.
With a speed that defied the eyes, Malakor delivered a stinging, heavy slap across Diari's face. The blow was infused with void-magic, sending a shockwave of cold pain through Diari's jaw and neck. "Don't look at her," Malakor spat, his voice dripping with venom. "She is no longer yours. She is a relic of a dead dream." Diari's head snapped to the side, his blood spraying the dirt. The humiliation was worse than the pain—to be struck like a dog in front of the woman he would die for.
Elias: The Silence of the Grave
Elias, the sage, remained perfectly still. He watched the slap, he watched Elara's fire, and he watched the demons' games. His silence was becoming heavy, almost a physical presence in the room. He didn't blink. He didn't speak. He looked like a man who had already moved his soul to a place where Malakor could not reach it, leaving only a hollow shell behind to witness the end. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, waiting for a dawn that seemed more like a myth than a possibility.
The Departure of the Damned
Finally, as the first gray light of a miserable morning began to touch the forest, the Apostles and Malakor prepared to withdraw. They didn't leave in silence; they left with a parade of insults and foul curses. "Stay here in your filth, 'heroes'," Xul-Kar laughed, his voice sounding like breaking glass. They hurled words that were meant to stain the soul—accusations of cowardice, predictions of a slow and agonizing death, and mockeries of their love. They walked away with the swagger of victors, leaving behind a house that was no longer a home, but a tomb for the living. The silence that followed their departure was the loudest sound of all
Written by: Dlin_myth