The cultists charged first.
Their screams shattered the silence, raw and mindless. They rushed at me with jagged blades and broken staffs, moving with a speed and fury no normal human should possess.
I met them head-on.
The relic-sword blazed in my grasp, a beacon against the creeping dark. I cut down the first cultist with a single swing, the blade searing through flesh and bone. Another leapt at me from the side. I twisted, driving the blade through his chest and casting him aside like a rag doll.
But for every one that fell, two more took his place.
They fought without fear, without hesitation, throwing themselves at me with suicidal zeal. Their bodies bore the marks of corruption. Black veins pulsed beneath their skin, and their blood hissed when it touched the ground.
They were no longer truly alive.
They were sacrifices, puppets for the thing that lurked above.
The traitor spirit descended.
It moved like liquid shadow, its body a mass of shifting limbs and broken wings. Its voice clawed at my mind, whispering of failure, of despair, of betrayal.
"You cannot save them," it hissed. "You are already too late."
I gritted my teeth and fought harder.
The relic-sword pulsed in response to my fury, growing heavier, stronger. Every strike sent shockwaves through the crumbling square, tearing chunks of stone from the ground and flinging cultists aside like leaves in a storm.
But the traitor spirit was not idle.
It lashed out with tendrils of black energy, striking the ground and summoning twisted monstrosities from the rift. These were no mere cultists. They were abominations, fused from flesh and shadow, their eyes burning with hatred.
I dodged the first, rolled under the second, and drove the relic-sword through the chest of the third.
Still they came.
Still the spirit laughed.
"You fight like a hero," it sneered. "But this world does not need heroes. It needs survivors."
I ignored its words.
I focused on the rift.
The source of the corruption.
If I could reach it, if I could seal it, the spirit would lose its anchor.
I fought my way forward, step by bloody step.
The cultists swarmed me, clawing at my armor, trying to drag me down. I broke free with a roar, unleashing a wave of energy that blasted them back. My body screamed in protest, muscles burning, lungs heaving for air.
But I would not fall.
Not here.
Not now.
The spirit sensed my intent.
It shrieked, a sound that made the stones themselves bleed, and threw its full power at me.
A storm of black lightning rained down. The ground cracked and buckled beneath my feet. The relic-sword flickered as it struggled against the onslaught.
I raised the blade above my head and called upon the ancient rites engraved into my very soul.
A shield of light burst forth, surrounding me in a sphere of protection.
The lightning slammed against it, but I held firm, teeth bared in defiance.
Step by step, I advanced through the storm, each movement a battle of wills.
The rift loomed ahead, a swirling mass of darkness and hunger. It pulsed with malevolent life, each beat sending ripples through the fabric of the world.
I reached its edge and plunged the relic-sword deep into the ground.
The earth screamed.
The rift convulsed.
The traitor spirit howled in rage and terror.
I poured my will into the relic-sword, channeling everything I was into the ancient weapon.
Light exploded outward, a tidal wave of purity that scoured the darkness.
The cultists collapsed, their bodies disintegrating into ash.
The abominations shrieked and withered into nothingness.
The spirit fought to resist, its form unraveling in the flood of light. It lunged at me in a final act of desperation.
I met its charge.
The relic-sword struck true.
The spirit's body shattered like glass, fragments of shadow raining down around me.
The rift screamed one last time and imploded, leaving behind only silence and scorched earth.
I fell to one knee, exhausted beyond words.
The light of the relic-sword dimmed, its work done for now.
All around me, Veridien was deathly still.
The corruption was gone.
But so were the people.
Those who had once lived here, the scholars and sages, the dreamers and builders, were lost. Taken by the rift's hunger long before I had arrived.
I had won the battle.
But I had failed to save them.
I rose slowly, every movement a labor.
The sky above Veridien was beginning to clear. The red haze faded into a cold, somber grey.
I turned back toward the bridge.
A figure stood there, cloaked in shadow.
For a moment, I thought it was another enemy.
But as I approached, I saw the glint of silver beneath the cloak.
It was the woman from the Council.
"You were not meant to survive," she said, her voice quiet, almost regretful.
I tensed, fingers tightening around the relic-sword's hilt.
"What do you mean?"
She stepped forward, lowering her hood.
Her face was pale, her eyes haunted.
"The Council sent you here knowing it was a death sentence. They feared what you might become. They feared that a Warden who could restore the Pillars would be beyond their control."
I stared at her, heart pounding.
"You knew," I said.
She nodded.
"I tried to warn you. But there are forces at work beyond even my reach. Forces that seek to end the Ascension before it can begin."
The ground trembled beneath our feet.
From the ruins of the library, another rift began to form.
This one was larger.
More powerful.
And at its heart, a figure stirred.
Not a spirit.
Not a beast.
But a man.
Clad in ancient armor, his eyes burning with golden fire.
The true enemy had arrived.
And he was one of us.