My mind was a chaotic whirlwind. The two options Galdric had given me felt like a choice between the abyss and a shipwreck. Neither came close to anything remotely viable. I knew—felt it in every fiber of my being—that I couldn't possibly endure that judgment in less than five years, and that was being optimistic. To make matters worse, the restriction still weighed heavily on my body, limiting my access to large amounts of mana.
"Are you really sure there's no other way?" I whispered, eyes fixed on the black, terrifying mirror before me.
Galdric replied in that insufferably neutral tone of his, like my torment was just a poorly balanced equation. "Why are you so afraid?"
'Is he serious right now?' I screamed inside, almost laughing from the sheer absurdity. 'Did he really just ask that?'
"Alexander, aren't you immune to illusions? After all, you are a Dracknum." He emphasized the are a Dracknum with a subtle, crooked smile.
"You pile of clay and rusted iron with the tact of a brick!" That's what I wanted to yell, but my throat was too dry, fear too heavy, and I knew better than to provoke an autonomous golem—one capable of independent thought and even a semblance of emotion. Not to mention, he had enough strength and mana to wipe me from existence without effort.
Everyone in Allytheón knew Dracknums were immune to illusions—it was basic knowledge, the kind even kids recite in noble lineage lessons. But there was a catch. A detail that made it all worse.
Me. I wasn't immune. Never had been. And Galdric knew it. He knew very well. I told him myself how I once got swallowed by an illusion, and he still pulled this?
'Even the original Alexander wasn't immune!' I shouted in my head, fingers digging into my palm with force. Alexander Dracknum, the one whose memories I carry, never truly had that immunity. He passed as a Dracknum by appearance, sure, but that was all. Just the looks. Golden eyes? Of course, a standout trait. But golden eyes also belonged to the Magnum, the Allytharion… and one other lineage no one really knows the origin of. But those eyes alone don't define a man's bloodline.
Slightly faster regeneration? Sharper senses? Maybe. Could easily be from his mother's side, whose origins… no one knows. Not even in Alexander's memories. Some say she was a commoner, others that she was a disgraced noble, or even an exile from some ancient bloodline. Who knows? Probably only the Patriarch. And I highly doubt he cares.
My shoulders slumped, chest hollowed out by exhaustion. I felt… small. Pathetically small in front of the mirror, the golem, the world. Like a child fumbling with a thousand-piece puzzle without knowing what the final image looked like. And now, like an idiot, I was hoping for answers where only silence waited.
Fffuuuh... A heavy sigh hissed out through clenched teeth.
"No use crying over spilled milk," I muttered, trying to pull myself together. I loosened my fists—my fingers throbbing from having been clenched too tightly. Brought my hands up near my face and took a deep breath.
Clap.
My palm struck my cheek with force. A desperate attempt to snap out of the fog threatening to take over.
"Hmh?" Galdric made a low sound. He was watching me. Maybe intrigued. Maybe just curious.
Clap. Clap.
Two more slaps. A little harder this time. "Ready… ready… ready…" I mumbled like a broken mantra, my face flushing red from both the impact and, maybe, a bit of shame. Not that it mattered.
I turned, breathing hard now, heart pounding like it was trying to remind me I was still alive—that I was still me. Galdric stood there, still as ever, but his glowing eyes seemed to pierce through me with more intensity than before.
"I've made my decision," I declared, voice shaking slightly—but I didn't back down. I stood tall, even if my fingers still trembled. I held it together. Every bone, every muscle ached with built-up tension, but there was no more room for doubt.
There was no turning back. "I'll take the second path."
A slight lift of an eyebrow—or something like it on Galdric's stony face—surfaced. "Oh…"
I drew one last deep breath. "I'll cross Erebus's Demonic Mirror."
The room seemed to freeze for a second. The mirror's reflection quivered, just barely, as if its glass surface had pulsed. The light in the room dimmed slightly. Or maybe it was just my imagination trying to dramatize the moment.
But it didn't matter. The choice had been made.
It hung in the air like a cursed promise, and even the mirror seemed to react — its surface shimmered subtly, like water disturbed by an invisible fingertip. The cavern's light, already dim by nature, grew even fainter, as if the very space had held its breath.
Galdric stood silent for a few moments. Motionless. Reflective. His head tilted slightly, as though listening to echoes only he could hear. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost contemplative:
"Hm… I didn't expect you to choose the second path…" he paused, his glassy eyes narrowing a little "…but I must say, I admire your courage." Then, in a tone even lower, barely a whisper, he added, "Given your circumstances."
"..." I heard him, but didn't respond. I just stood there, feeling the weight of the decision still humming beneath my skin. My hands still trembled, though I tried to hide it by clenching them into fists.
Then Galdric moved. Slowly. With the precision of someone performing a rite. He slipped a hand beneath the heavy folds of his coat. His posture was firm, but his movements carried the patience of someone handling something ancient and significant. He fumbled for what felt like far too long… until something unexpected emerged.
At first, all I saw was a hilt. Ornate. Polished. And a sarcastic thought crossed my mind: 'No way… it can't be.'
But it was. A sword. Whole. As if his coat had been a gateway to another realm. And still sheathed.
The blade was hidden. The scabbard, simple and dark leather, matched the deep red of the hilt — a wine-like hue, darkened to the point it was hard to tell if it was dyed… or just aged. The guard was made of golden arabesques, woven together like noble embroidery.
The grip ended in a sculpted pommel — a stylized flower, though something about it also resembled a crown — or perhaps a flame, smothered and restrained, like something on the verge of erupting.
The subtle gleam of the gold caught the cavern's weak light and reflected it softly, almost reluctantly, as if the sword itself refused to show its full splendor. Not here. Not yet.
Galdric held it by the sheath with one hand, as if it were no more than a toy — or a twig. No rush. No force. Just the delicate care of someone handing over a burden, not a weapon. Even with crystal-forged eyes, there was something in his gaze. A quiet gleam. Almost sorrowful.
"You'll need this," he said, voice low, almost intimate.
And before I could react, he tossed the sword toward me.
"Hey—wait a sec…!" I yelped, stepping sharply to the side.
The sword struck the ground with a dull thud of leather and metal against stone. I hadn't dodged from instinct — it was pure survival. That thing was huge! In his hands, it looked normal-sized, but now… it was nearly as tall as I was.
I stepped closer cautiously, like it might bite. The wear was obvious. It hadn't been used in centuries. The metal fittings were worn, some of the golden curls slightly bent. Signs of time. Of use. Of memory. Of history.
I leaned in and tried to lift it.
Nothing.
It was ridiculously heavy. I gave it a suspicious glance, eyebrows furrowed. 'What kind of weapon is this? Is it made of lead?'
With double the effort and gritted teeth, I finally managed to raise it — barely. My arm trembled. My shoulders ached.
"How heavy is this thing…?" I muttered, more to myself than to Galdric.
I stood up, sword resting against my body. It was nearly my height. I stretched out my arm with difficulty. The metal felt like it was mocking my strength. But there was something strange about it… an unsettling familiarity, as if the sword didn't quite accept me — but didn't fully reject me either.
"Tch…" I huffed, sweat sliding down my temple. "How am I supposed to use this thing?" I asked, trying to adjust to its weight.
Galdric let out a small smile, stayed quiet for a beat, then said:
"Alexander, remember, this is for your good — if you make it through the mirror. But even if you don't, never accept teachings from someone who doesn't understand the worth of that sword." His tone was serious, and for some reason, I felt I should take his words to heart. And strangely enough, they eased something in me.
"Even if I don't make it," I murmured. The way he had phrased it suggested that failure might not be the end — maybe there'd still be another chance, or at least I'd be forced to undergo the trial one way or another.
A grin tugged at my lips. "So it's useless, then," I said, deliberately.
Galdric's expression twisted into indignation. "Boy, you kn—"
"But still, it must mean something, if you gave it to me with such gravity." I paused. "Thank you. And I'll remember your warning: never accept lessons from someone who doesn't understand the worth of this sword." Galdric's expression softened.
I turned to the mirror and began walking toward it, gripping the sword with both hands.
Fffuuuh... — Galdric sighed. "Alexander, remember — when you feel powerless, when it seems there's no way forward, look to the sword and speak your heart. Swords always answer the will of their bearers; after all, they're their truest companions." He spoke like a grandfather passing down wisdom to his grandson.
"Until next time, Alexander."
"I doubt there'll be a next time, but… thanks for indulging my whims, and," I turned to look back at him, "until next time…"
I turned again to face the mirror.
A soft sigh escaped, and a nervous smile crept onto my face.
"Eye of Azrael… here I come," I whispered, taking my first step and entering the mirror.
✦ ✦ ✦
Alexander's figure faded slowly, swallowed by the demon mirror. His eyes, still locked onto his reflection, seemed heavy — as if he knew this was a farewell with no return. But before the last trace of him disappeared, Galdric, the sentient golem, watched in silence, a quiet sigh slipping from his massive, stone-forged form.
"There goes the first descendant in centuries," Galdric muttered to himself, his crystalline eyes glowing with an ancient light. He raised a hand and, with a simple gesture, sealed the mirror's entrance. The cave around him seemed to swallow all sound, like the space itself wished to stay hidden. But Galdric paid no mind to the silence. His thoughts were far away.
He took a few wide strides, his heavy steps echoing off the cavern walls. A chuckle threatened to rise in his throat, but it was silenced by a flood of sudden questions.
"But seriously," he stopped mid-step, gaze fixed on the void ahead. "Who was the genius that allowed this? Who, in their right mind—" he cut himself off.
"It could only be a madman. Only someone utterly insane would permit a Dracknum to pair with a Kazmari." His voice brimmed with disbelief. He finally let go, laughing — a deep, resonant laugh that rolled through the cavern like a cold gust of wind.
"And not just any Kazmari… a pureblooded one."
Galdric paused again, his eyes narrowing as he pondered the events now set into motion.