Arthur was now dragging himself to his feet, wincing as pain radiated from his numerous wounds. Despite the intensity of the battle, he noticed that the deepest gashes had already begun to close, the bleeding slowed to a trickle.
'Perks of being chosen,' I guess, he thought, examining a particularly nasty cut on his forearm that should have required stitches. 'Enhanced body means enhanced healing.'
He gave himself a thorough inspection, cataloging injuries and taking stock of his condition. Beyond the wounds and his now tattered clothing—the Academy uniform reduced to bloodied rags—Arthur noticed something else.
'Now that I think about it, I do feel quite stronger and more agile,' he realized, flexing his fingers and noting the effortless strength behind the movement. 'But I doubt I have any sort of real enhancement magic. I'd imagine this is just the basic upgrade all Chosen get upon entering the Realms.'
He rotated his shoulders, testing the increased range of motion. 'Still, it's pretty cool.'
Arthur's gaze dropped to the black odachi still clutched in his right hand. The weapon seemed to pulse subtly with his heartbeat, the darkness of its blade somehow deeper than mere absence of light—as though it were made from shadow given physical form.
'Speaking of which, I got a soul sword?' He examined the weapon with a mixture of awe and regret. 'I kind of feel bad... like this beautiful sword was wasted on someone like me who can never use it to its full potential.'
He closed his eyes, clearing his mind and imagining the sword disappearing back into his being—returning to whatever metaphysical space it occupied when not manifested. Sure enough, when he opened his eyes, the odachi had vanished.
'Neat,' he thought, flexing his now-empty hand.
With the immediate threat eliminated and his weapon safely dismissed, Arthur decided to finally get a good look at his surroundings. The chaos of battle had left little opportunity for observation before.
He found himself in a large square chamber with high ceilings supported by ancient stone pillars. The walls, constructed of massive stone blocks fitted together with remarkable precision despite them being so aged. Each of the four walls featured an open archway where doors might once have hung, leading to the outside which shone brightly into the dim building.
The staircase they had tumbled down occupied one corner, ascending into shadows that concealed whatever lay above. Faint light filtered in from unseen sources, illuminating the chamber with a soft, diffuse glow that cast long shadows across the stone floor.
Arthur's inspection halted abruptly when his gaze settled on something that made his heart rate spike. He nearly resummoned his sword before recognizing what he was seeing.
In the center of the room stood a tall stone altar, its surface covered in elaborate carvings and inscriptions. But what had startled Arthur wasn't the altar itself—it was the figures arranged before it.
Three skeletons knelt side by side facing the altar, each clad in the remains of loose black robes and pants. They remained in positions of prayer or supplication, skeletal hands resting on their thighs, empty eye sockets fixed eternally on the altar before them.
Arthur approached cautiously, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. As he drew closer, he noticed what appeared to be black ink or residue covering portions of the bones—concentrated around joints and spreading outward in web-like patterns.
'Corruption,' he realized grimly, recognizing the signature pattern of the black ink type substance that covered their remains. 'They died of corruption from Void creatures and spent their last breaths praying to this altar.'
Corruption—the metaphysical contamination that spread from Void entities to other beings. Most victims simply died, their bodies and essences broken down by the foreign energy. Only individuals with exceptional willpower could survive infection, and even then, they invariably transformed into monstrosities like the creature Arthur had just slain—mindless, aggressive, and barely resembling their original forms.
A heavy feeling settled in Arthur's chest as he contemplated the scene before him. 'Would this be what happens to our world one day? The Void leaving nothing but empty prayers and death in its wake?'
The sight of these long-dead supplicants, forever frozen in their final moments of devotion, struck him as profoundly tragic. On impulse, Arthur bowed deeply to the skeletons. He didn't know why—it simply felt right, a gesture of respect for those who had faced the same darkness now pursuing him.
Straightening, Arthur turned his attention to the inscriptions covering the altar's surface. The text was incomprehensible, written in a flowing script of foreign tongue. But alongside the unfamiliar words were images—pictographs worn by time but still discernible.
He leaned closer, studying the carvings with careful attention. They depicted what appeared to be a field of flowers or grass, with five structures arranged in a perfect line across the meadow. Four smaller buildings with one larger structure in the center.
Above this pastoral scene was another, more weathered image. Arthur squinted, trying to decipher the badly eroded carving. It seemed to represent some sort of humanoid entity composed of vegetation—vines, roots, tree limbs, and grasses intertwined to form a vaguely anthropomorphic shape. This figure hovered above the field with arms outstretched, as though bestowing blessing or protection on the structures below.
Confusion furrowed Arthur's brow as he moved to examine the final set of images flanking the central carving. On each side of the field scene were depictions of human figures kneeling in attitudes of prayer, their postures directed toward the plant-being above the meadow.
Understanding dawned as Arthur connected the elements of the pictographic narrative.
'This must be some sort of sacred ground, he reasoned, and I'm currently in one of the altars depicted in the drawing.'
He turned slowly, regarding the kneeling skeletons with new comprehension. 'These must be the people in the picture... monks of some sort, maybe? Caretakers or devotees of this place.'
But as he examined the skeletal figures more carefully, Arthur's brows furrowed in confusion. 'But if these are the people from the picture, where's the fourth monk?'
The altar clearly depicted four worshippers, yet only three skeletons knelt before him. The discrepancy nagged at him.
'Did the fourth not make it to the temple in time?' Arthur wondered. 'Or maybe they simply left before death took this world.'
Questions multiplied in his mind as he turned back to the altar, studying it with renewed curiosity. The significance of this place, the identity of the plant-entity, the fate of the missing worshipper—all mysteries without obvious answers.