Absolute Cheater

Chapter 67 Catherine Past VIII

The tendril led Alaric through landscapes that seemed to grow darker with every step. The once lush plains near the Bloodcrown estate had become desolate wastelands, the air thick with an unnatural stillness. Shadows loomed over the jagged rocks, and whispers—inaudible yet unnerving—began to creep into his thoughts.

His hand reflexively hovered near the hilt of his backup blade, though he knew it would be of little use in his current state. He was weakened, wounded, even his vampiric trait not helping him gainst the wounds caused by dark energy, he could only stop them with his blood energy and not heal them yet he is walking a path that he knew might be a trap. Yet his resolve remained firm.

If this is what it takes to protect the Bloodcrown, then so be it, he thought.

After what felt like hours, the tendril stopped, spiraling downward into the earth. Before him stood an ancient archway carved into the side of a craggy mountain. The gateway pulsed faintly with dark energy, its surface etched with runes that seemed to shift and writhe like living things.

"This is it," Alaric muttered, his voice heavy.

The tendril vanished as he stepped closer to the archway, leaving him alone before its ominous presence. He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the threshold.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The air grew colder, and the faint hum of dark magic surrounded him. The cavern was vast and jagged, with glowing red veins running through the walls like the lifeblood of the mountain.

In the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, and atop it, a pulsing orb of crimson light. The light cast eerie shadows across the room, its energy calling to Alaric like a siren's song.

This power... Alaric's heart pounded as he approached. He could feel the immense energy radiating from the orb, unlike anything he had encountered before. It was raw, untamed, and alive.

The closer he got, the louder the whispers became, this time forming coherent words.

"Take it."

"With this, you can crush your enemies."

"Reclaim your glory."

Alaric stopped before the pedestal, his hand hovering over the orb. The temptation was overwhelming. With this power, he could rebuild the Bloodcrown, defend against the King Beyond Shadows, and strike down anyone who dared oppose them.

But a voice inside him—a quiet, yet resolute voice—urged caution.

This power feels... wrong. Dangerous. But do I have another choice?

As he wrestled with his decision, the room seemed to pulse with anticipation. Then, suddenly, the cavern began to tremble. From the shadows, a figure emerged—a monstrous creature that appeared to be formed of both flesh and shadow. Its glowing eyes locked onto Alaric, and it roared with fury.

The creature lunged forward, its massive claws slashing through the air. Alaric barely dodged, his instincts kicking in despite his injuries. He drew his blade, but his missing arm made his movements slower, less precise.

The beast was relentless, forcing Alaric to retreat toward the pedestal. He realized with growing dread that he couldn't defeat this creature in his current state.

His gaze flickered to the orb.

If I take it, I can fight. But at what cost?

Another strike from the beast sent him sprawling to the ground, his sword clattering away. The creature loomed over him, its claws raised for a killing blow.

Alaric gritted his teeth. He didn't have time to weigh the consequences.

With a roar of defiance, he reached out and grasped the orb.

The moment his hand touched the orb, a surge of power unlike anything he had ever felt coursed through his body. His vision blurred, and his mind was flooded with images—worlds burning, armies falling, and shadows devouring entire civilizations.

The whispers grew deafening, their tone shifting from alluring to commanding.

"Submit to us, Alaric Bloodcrown. Become our vessel."

"No!" Alaric growled, his voice echoing in the chamber. He fought against the invading presence, his will clashing with the ancient entity that resided within the orb.

The power burned through him, searing his veins and forcing his body to change. His missing arm began to regenerate, though it wasn't flesh that formed—it was blood and shadow, merging into a twisted, clawed appendage that pulsed with dark energy.

The creature attacking him recoiled, its instincts recognizing the transformation.

Alaric rose to his feet, the orb's power now flowing through him. His crimson eyes glowed with a new intensity, and his aura surged, shaking the cavern.

The beast lunged again, but this time, Alaric was ready. With a swipe of his newly-formed arm, he tore through the creature's shadowy flesh, reducing it to ash in a single strike.

As the dust settled, Alaric stood in the silence of the cavern, his chest heaving. The orb's whispers had quieted, but he could feel its presence still lingering within him—a constant, gnawing force.

He stared at his new arm, a mix of horror and fascination in his eyes. The power was incredible, but it came with a price. He could feel it tugging at his soul, threatening to consume him if he let his guard down.

This is what it takes, he told himself, his resolve hardening. This is the power I need to protect my people.

But as he left the cavern, the whispers returned, faint and mocking.

"You are ours now, Alaric."

Unbeknownst to him, the power he had claimed was not only tied to the King Beyond Shadows but to the same sinister force that had manipulated the former king. The whispers within the orb had planted a seed—a fragment of their will—deep within Alaric's soul. Every moment he held this power, the lines between himself and the ancient entity blurred further, eroding his will and testing his resolve.

The cycle of destruction was no longer a distant threat. It had been set in motion, its ripples already reaching across the realms. Alaric's decision to claim the orb had awakened forces beyond his comprehension, forces that fed on chaos and thrived in darkness.

As he left the cavern, the blood-red moon above seemed to pulse in rhythm with his newfound power. The air felt heavier, colder, as if the world itself recoiled at his presence. He marched toward the ruins of his estate, his steps steady but his mind a battlefield.

The remnants of the Bloodcrown estate were eerily quiet as Alaric approached. Survivors of the previous battle huddled in makeshift camps, their eyes widening as they saw him. Whispers spread among them, a mix of awe and fear at the sight of their lord's transformed arm.

One of the surviving captains approached cautiously, bowing low. "My lord… you've returned. But… what is that?" He gestured to Alaric's shadow-blood arm, its dark energy crackling faintly.

"It's what was necessary," Alaric said, his tone sharp, dismissing the question. He swept his gaze over his battered people. "Gather everyone. We begin rebuilding immediately. There is no time to waste."

The captain hesitated, clearly uneasy, but nodded and hurried off to carry out the order.

That night, Alaric stood alone in the ruins of the great hall. The weight of his choices pressed heavily on him. He clenched his clawed hand, staring at the way it pulsed with unnatural life.

This power… it's not mine. It's a curse.

The whispers were quiet now, lurking in the recesses of his mind, but he could still feel them. They prodded at his thoughts, tempting him with visions of victory and vengeance, promising strength beyond imagination.

But along with those promises came flashes of something darker—visions of himself losing control, becoming a vessel for the very force he sought to defy. Read new chapters at empire

What have I done?

Elsewhere, the cloaked figure who had guided him to the orb stood atop a jagged peak, watching the crimson horizon with a wicked grin.

"It begins," he murmured to himself, his voice filled with satisfaction. "The Bloodcrown is now my pawn, just as the King Beyond Shadows was before him. With Alaric caught in my web, this world will fall faster than the last."

The figure raised a hand, and the shadows around him swirled, coalescing into a shape that resembled a throne. Sitting upon it, he surveyed the lands below as though they were already his.

"All the pieces are in place," he said, leaning back. "And soon, Alaric's precious sanity will crumble. When it does, he will be nothing more than a tool—one that will bring about the end."

As Alaric tried to find rest that night, sleep eluded him. When he finally closed his eyes, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent than before. They spoke of power, of blood, of chaos, weaving their poison into his dreams.

But amidst the chaos of his mind, a faint memory surfaced—a fragment of a long-forgotten lesson from one of the fallen elders.

"Power without control is no blessing, Alaric. It is a chain that binds your soul."

The words struck like a dagger, cutting through the whispers for a fleeting moment. Alaric awoke in a cold sweat, his clawed hand pulsing with dark energy.