The air in the arena crackled with raw magic and the clash of steel. Glynlie stood motionless, the Anubis Bracelet a mocking glint on her wrist, while dozens of mind-controlled knights surged forward. Geth, Akmenos, and Ethan formed a desperate line, pushing back the endless tide, their movements growing more frantic with each passing second. But Hythesion remained rooted to the sand, his mind lost in a haze of despair, the failure of the bracelet a bitter taste in his mouth.
Flashback: Eight Years Ago
The sun, still young and bright, dappled through the leaves of the sprawling oak tree in Honeywood. Hythesion and Glynlie sat on their favorite weathered bench, sandwich crusts scattered between them.
"You know, my father gave me this sword," Glynlie said, a nostalgic smile playing on her lips as she lightly touched the hilt of the blade strapped to her hip.
Hythesion, absorbed in a dog-eared volume on ancient civilizations, merely grunted, "Looks cool, I guess."
Glynlie laughed, a clear, bright sound that made the old stones of Honeywood feel young again. "Hey, you don't have to be that way!" She nudged him gently with her elbow. "I made a promise that this sword will be with me at every battle, always. I will never let it go."
"If you say so," Hythesion replied, finally looking up to meet her earnest gaze, a small smile forming on his own face. They both enjoyed the simple pleasure of their shared silence and the sweetness of their sandwiches.
End of Flashback
A jolt, sharp and sudden, ripped Hythesion from his despair. Glynlie's words, spoken eight years ago, echoed in his mind, cutting through the chaos of the arena like a beacon. "I made a promise that this sword will be with me at every battle, always. I will never let it go."
He glanced at the mind-controlled Glynlie, still eerily still amidst the melee. Two swords hung at her hips: her father's gift, its grip seemingly looser, and the black sword, clutched with a terrifying, almost unbreakable hold. He remembered her earlier attack – she'd thrown her old steel blade, the one from her father, only that one. She could have executed a beautiful, devastating combo by throwing both. Why just the old one? The thought nagged at him, a missing piece in a puzzle he was desperate to solve.
"Hythesion, what are we going to do!?" Ethan's voice cut through the air, strained and urgent. He smashed his flute against a knight's helmet, sending the armored figure reeling, while Geth and Akmenos roared, struggling against the relentless tide of armored warriors.
Hythesion looked at his friends, then at the knights, his gaze sweeping over the red-eyed figures. He saw it then—a subtle detail he'd missed in his panic. Every knight wore the same right gauntlet, and from each, a thin, crimson wisp of smoke curled. The same red smoke that emanated from Glynlie's black sword. The same red smoke that billowed from Ser Larry's staff just moments before.
Ethan's earlier warning about a "cursed artifact" flashed in his mind. That's the missing part!
A fierce, desperate light entered Hythesion's eyes. His despair vanished, replaced by a sudden, terrifying clarity. "It's not mind control!" he roared, his voice ringing out with newfound conviction, carrying over the clang of steel and the shouts of battle.
"What!?" Geth yelled, parrying a savage blow from a knight.
"It's not mind control, it's curse possession!" Hythesion declared, his courage roaring back to life. "Everyone, change of plans! Do what you must to remove those gauntlets from the knights! It's not mind control, those gauntlets are cursed possession objects! Remove them, and their victims will be free!"
"Say no less!" Akmenos bellowed, a primal grin spreading across his face. He lunged, grappling with a knight, his powerful hands closing around the gauntlet on the knight's right arm. With a grunt of effort, he ripped it free and flung it aside. The knight crumpled to the sand, the red glow in his eyes fading as his armor reverted from a shadowy black to its original polished silver.
"It works!" Geth cried, a renewed surge of energy in his movements. He and Ethan immediately began targeting the knights' gauntlets, their combined efforts quickly clearing a path.
Hythesion, however, had eyes only for Glynlie. She still stood, a deadly silhouette in the distance, her grip on the black sword unwavering. He focused his mana, the air around him shimmering with nascent power. "DiasEspejo" he whispered, the ancient word resonating with a deep, resonant hum.
With a blinding flash, Glynlie vanished from the arena, replaced by a swirling void of mirrored reflections. She looked around, her red eyes wide with confusion, seeing only endless, shimmering reflection of herself.
"You must be wondering where we are.. This is the Mirror Realm..." Hythesion's voice echoed from every reflection, reverberating through the kaleidoscopic space. "–Where I'm in control!"
He stood alone before her in the fractured dimension, his hands raises sideways, channeling raw arcane energy. Green flashes of aura erupted around him, pulsing with an intense, otherworldly light. Glynlie's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as the black sword in her hand seemed to pulse in response.
"I was holding back the whole time, you know, worrying I might be hurting Glynlie's body. But now I know who I'm dealing with. " Hythesion continued, his voice gaining a dangerous edge, amplified by the mirrored walls. "You know it too, don't you? While possessing a person, your body will replace your victim's body... Which means I can go all out..!" The green aura intensified, swirling around him like a verdant storm. His hair began to shift, strands turning a vibrant, luminous green, and his eyes glowed with an ancient, primal light. He was no longer just Hythesion, the bookish strategist; he was in his Elvish Spirit Form, Hythesion's Ancestral Form, a living conduit of pure, untamed power.
"In case you didn't know, Glynlie was just the 4th ranked in the Silverlake Mercenary, and I'm 2nd–" He stated, "Which means I'm much stronger!– and you, whatever kind of demonic sword you are–" he declared, his voice echoing with the might of his spirit form, "You made one mistake.. You messed with my girlfriend!"
The moment Hythesion's words echoed through the Mirror Realm, the controlled Glynlie reacted. A blur of black armor and red light, she lunged. Her black sword, humming with dark energy, swept in a blinding arc aimed at where Hythesion had stood. But what she sliced through was nothing but shimmering air, his after-image dissolving into green-tinged smoke.
"Too slow," Hythesion's voice, now deeper, more resonant, came from directly behind her.
Before Glynlie could even fully register his new position, Hythesion moved. His right fist, crackling with potent green light, connected with her armored back plate. It wasn't a mercenary's brawl; it was a sorcerer's focused strike, imbued with the raw power of his Elvish Spirit Form. The impact sent Glynlie careening across the mirrored expanse, slamming hard into one of the infinite reflective surfaces.
For the first time since falling under Larry's curse, Glynlie stumbled, collapsing onto one knee.
"Dropped something on the ground?" Hythesion said.
The black sword still remains in her hand. As she struggled to rise, the red glow in her eyes flickering with uncharacteristic disorientation, Hythesion began to harness his magic once more.
"The original Glynlie could take this," he murmured, his voice laced with a cold challenge. "Let's see if you can."
Behind him, dozens of green magic circles, intricate and glowing, burst into existence, arrayed like a celestial clock. "Ancient maximize magic; Rain Fall!" Hythesion commanded, and the circles pulsed, unleashing a torrent of emerald rays. They shot toward the controlled Glynlie with impossible speed, a dazzling, inescapable barrage of light.
The attack was too swift, too precise. Glynlie had no time to dodge. Each ray struck her, not with concussive force, but with a searing, resonant energy that seemed to shake her very essence. She fell back onto her knees, groaning, but with a primal snarl, she then began to attack, Ignoring her old steel blade lying nearby, she seized the cursed weapon and, with a guttural cry, launched herself high into the mirrored sky.
The black sword, glowing with an angry red, descended in a powerful, overhead slash meant to cleave Hythesion in two. But Hythesion merely watched, his green eyes calm. As the blade impacted, he didn't dodge, didn't block with magic. He simply, casually, caught the black sword with his left hand. The cursed metal hissed against his palm, struggling to break free, but it was held fast, trapped by an unseen force.
Then, with his other hand, Hythesion placed his palm gently against Glynlie's armored chest. "Incarnate," he breathed.
A burst of flame erupted, but it was no longer the fierce orange of basic elemental magic. This was a vibrant, emerald fire, crackling with ancient power. The green flames enveloped Glynlie, not burning her armor, but slamming into her with immense force, sending her hurtling backward across the Mirror Realm. This time, she didn't just fall to her knees. She crashed to the ground, lying still amidst the fractured reflections, the black sword still in her grasp.The red glow in her eyes dimmed, flickering like a dying ember.
Hythesion watched Glynlie crash, his green eyes still blazing with his ancestral power. He noticed something then: even after that powerful blast, Glynlie's hand still holds the black sword. A grim realization settled over him.
"Wow," he said, a dry, almost mocking tone in his voice. "That sword really sticks to you, doesn't it?"
Glynlie slowly pushed herself upright, her movements stiff, unnatural. But this time, her eyes weren't just flickering red. They were a blazing, steady crimson, radiating an undeniable malevolence. And when she spoke, it wasn't Glynlie's voice. It was a guttural rumble, deep and ancient, laced with pure venom. "Annoying Elf. I'll have your soul."
The possessed Glynlie lunged, a sudden, explosive burst of speed. The black sword, seemingly leaping into her hand from the ground, was driven forward with a single-minded intent to stab through Hythesion's heart. But before she could cover half the distance, an unseen force slammed into her.
A powerful gravitational pull, invisible yet undeniable, brought Glynlie to an abrupt, grinding halt. Her boots skidded across the mirrored floor, unable to take another step. She strained, muscles bulging, the red in her eyes flaring with frustrated rage, but she was utterly, completely pinned.
Hythesion began to chant, his voice low and deliberate, each word resonating with the immense power he now wielded. "With this attack, you will know you never had a chance the moment you entered my realm..."
Below Glynlie, a colossal green magic circle shimmered into existence, vast enough to encompass the entire Mirror Realm. Then, another appeared directly above it, and another, and another. Ten concentric circles, each glowing with intricate, ancient Elvish runes, stacked themselves vertically, forming a towering cylinder of emerald light that pierced the ethereal ceiling. Mana surged, making the very fabric of the Mirror Realm hum with anticipation.
"...Ten layers of magic..." Hythesion's voice rose, growing in power and conviction. Then suddenly he speaks in his norm low voice, "Alventross!"
From the apex of the towering stack of magic circles, a blinding beam of cosmic green light erupted. It descended with terrifying speed, focused and pure, striking Glynlie where she stood.
A shriek tore from her throat, starting deep and monstrous, then horrifyingly, chillingly, transforming back into Glynlie's own familiar voice for a fleeting, agonizing second. The black sword, still clutched in her hand, began to burn, engulfed in the same emerald fire.
"Curse you, Elf!!!!" the sword shrieked, its voice raspy and ancient, its demonic essence consumed. With a final, agonizing flash of blinding green light, the black sword disintegrated, obliterated from existence.
The light faded, leaving only a lingering emerald shimmer in the air. Glynlie's body slumped, no longer stiff and unnatural, but limp and unconscious. Her armor, once menacing black, returned to its original, polished steel. The Mirror Realm remained silent, bearing witness to the exorcism of a powerful curse.
The mirrored dimension rippled, then shattered, bringing Hythesion back to the bustling chaos of the King's Arena. The vibrant green light around him faded, his ancestral form receding as his hair and eyes returned to their normal, subdued hues. He stood in the center of the sand pit, carrying Glynlie gently in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder, a silent testament to the battle he'd just fought within himself and for her. Her armor, now gleaming silver, reflected the harsh afternoon sun.
He scanned the arena. Around him, the ground was littered with the discarded crimson gauntlets. Geth, Akmenos, and Ethan sat sprawled on the sand, bruised and winded, but clearly victorious. Hundreds of knights lay unconscious, their armor no longer dark and menacing, but gleaming silver, their faces peaceful in their slumber.
Geth, seeing Hythesion emerge, pushed himself up with a wince, a wide grin breaking across his scaled face. "You did it," he breathed, a mixture of awe and relief in his voice.
Ethan, catching his breath, looked around the now quiet arena. "Did we win?"
Hythesion looked down at Glynlie, then up at the empty golden throne on the dais. His gaze then drifted to the northern hallway where Larry had dragged the King. "Not yet," he replied, his voice firm, the echoes of his ancestral power still thrumming beneath the surface.
A shared, urgent look passed between the four of them. Without another word, they scrambled to their feet, their fatigue momentarily forgotten, and rushed toward the King's throne room.
The heavy oak doors of the throne room hung ajar. Inside, the opulent chamber was a scene of disarray. Chairs were overturned, tapestries askew. And there, at the foot of the golden throne, was Ser Larry, a sneer twisting his features. He clutched King Tronan tightly, a glinting knife pressed precariously against the monarch's throat.
A few feet away, Maitara lay slumped against a marble pillar, breathing in ragged gasps, her face pale and streaked with dust.
Geth rushed to her side, gently shaking her shoulder. "Maitara! What happened? Are you okay?"
Maitara coughed, trying to push herself up, but her limbs trembled. "He's too strong... I-I'm sorry," she wheezed, her voice raspy.
"It's okay, you did great," Geth reassured her, helping her carefully to her feet. He glanced at Larry, a cold fury building in his eyes.
Ser Larry's sneering laugh echoed through the throne room, sharp and unnerving. "You may win against my tricks, you scum criminals," he snarled, tightening his grip on the King. "But if you move, I'll kill the King. And I'll let the world know you did it. They're going to believe me anyways." He laughed again, a chilling, triumphant sound that spoke of a mind utterly consumed by its own depravity.
Ser Larry's maniacal laughter echoed through the throne room, the heroes slowly regained their composure. Their eyes, now clear of the battle haze from the arena, began to take in the scene with renewed scrutiny. It was then that Hythesion noticed it – not on Larry, but at the King's feet. The crown.
The King's crown, usually perched regally on his head, lay discarded on the cold marble floor. Its golden filigree seemed almost too bright, too innocent. As Hythesion's gaze fixed on it, a faint, almost imperceptible crimson wisp of smoke curled from its base, precisely like the gauntlets. "That's it!" His mind screamed. "The crown was the a cursed object!"
King Tronan, who moments ago had seemed paralyzed by fear, blinked. The blank terror in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by a flicker of confusion, then annoyance. He surveyed the chaotic scene, from Larry's knife at his throat to the stunned faces of the four heroes.
"What the heck is going on?" King Tronan asked, his voice surprisingly calm, almost weary.
"Don't worry, Your Majesty, we are going to save you!" Hythesion declared, stepping forward, ready to unleash another wave of his ancestral magic.
But the King didn't wait. With a movement so fluid and deceptively casual, it almost seemed impossible, King Tronan's hand reached up. Not to swat the knife away, but to grasp Ser Larry's wrist, the one holding the blade. And then, with a sharp, sickening crunch that echoed through the stunned silence of the throne room, the King bent Larry's arm backward at an unnatural angle.
A scream, raw and visceral, tore from Ser Larry's throat as the knife clattered harmlessly to the ground. He dropped to his knees, clutching his mangled arm, tears streaming down his face as his maniacal laughter dissolved into pathetic whimpers of agony.
The heroes stared, mouths agape. They had just witnessed a man, supposedly held hostage, effortlessly incapacitate his captor with a single, brutal twist. They realized then, with a collective jolt, the true power that radiated from their monarch. Glynlie and the knights had been unconscious for merely minutes after having the cursed objects removed, their bodies reeling from the lingering magical aftershocks. But the King, despite being under the most direct and potent influence of the cursed crown, stood tall and unbowed, not even a tremble in his frame. He was indeed a strong king.