The Forsaken Temple's warmth enveloped Sylas like a false promise, banishing the snow's bite and the scent of death that had haunted every step.
After endless cold, the stillness inside should have soothed him, but it didn't. It felt wrong, like a predator holding its breath.
He collapsed against a stone pillar, blood seeping through the rag pressed to his side.
Each heartbeat roared in his ears, louder than the eerie silence that pressed down, heavy and watchful, like eyes hidden in the dark.
The Hero entered moments later, his bloodied sword scraping the floor behind him.
His armor bore scratches but held strong, his face carved from stone—unchanged since he'd cut down the young soldier without a glance.
Sylas lifted his head, vision swimming, and forced out a hoarse,
"Why?"
The Hero didn't answer, striding to the chamber's center and standing like a monument to his own arrogance. Sylas pushed himself upright, pain flaring.
"Why kill him? Why bring us here?"
Silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of wind outside.
Then the Hero spoke, his voice flat, unshaken.
"I don't feel guilt."
Sylas blinked, the words sinking in like poison.
"I knew what this trial demanded," the Hero continued.
"The beasts, the cold, the cursed land—none of it was survivable for everyone.
That's why I brought so many."
Horror clawed at Sylas's chest.
"You… knew people would die?" The Hero's grip tightened on his sword.
"I needed one thing—a slave, an unholy soul.
An offering. This temple grants power only to those who sacrifice something worthy." His eyes locked on Sylas, cold and certain.
"You were the one." prophecy Lamb
Sylas staggered to his feet, pain screaming through him.
"You used us all." The Hero's reply was calm, brutal.
"I used what was necessary. Loid, the slaves, that boy—they were never meant to survive.
Their deaths bought time to bring you here." He stepped forward, blade rising.
"I give the gods one cursed soul, and they give me divinity."
"You planned it all," Sylas whispered, stumbling back.
"Every death." The Hero's answer was simple.
"I planned to survive." His sword slashed down.
Pain exploded in Sylas's chest as steel bit deep, blood splashing the stone.
He cried out, collapsing, but rolled away as the Hero raised his blade again. Instinct drove him—scrambling, staggering, running.
He found crumbling stairs and climbed,floor by floor, clutching his wound, blood trailing like a map of his desperation.
The Hero's footsteps followed, slow and relentless.
Bursting into the top chamber, Sylas was met by light streaming through broken windows, illuminating dust and ancient stone.
At the center hung a massive iron bell, its runes pulsing faintly, a giant log striker tied beside it by a fraying rope.
An idea sparked.
Sylas limped forward, then let himself collapse near the chamber's edge, feigning defeat. His blood painted a trail, bait for a predator too proud to question.
The Hero appeared at the entrance, his gaze dripping with contempt.
"You've lost,"
he said.
"It's over."
Sylas met his eyes, fury burning through his pain.
"You talk too much."
The Hero lunged, his sword a silver blur aimed to end it. Sylas rolled aside, just enough. The blade missed—and sliced the rope. The log swung.
BOOOOOM.
The bell's roar shattered the air, a soul-tearing sound that shook the temple to its roots. Sylas covered his ears, blood bursting from them as the echo ripped through him. The Hero stumbled, screaming silently, his sword clattering away.
Everything blurred, but Sylas moved—crawling, clawing to the window, and throwing himself over the ledge. Snow rushed up, swallowing him with a
whump.
Pain flared, but he was alive, unbroken. Above, the Hero staggered to the tower's edge, blood streaming from his ears, rage twisting his face.
He stepped back, ready to leap—then the sky darkened. A shadow loomed.
The Yeti's massive hand seized him, lifting him like a toy. Sylas couldn't hear the scream, but he saw it—saw the beast slam the Hero into the bell, once, twice, three times.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
Bones snapped, flesh tore, and with a final bite, the creature ended him, tossing the remains into the snow.
The Yeti stood, then vanished into the blizzard.
Sylas lay trembling, blood soaking the frost, ears ringing with the sound of justice. The sacrifice had lived. The seeker of divinity had fed the gods he craved.
---
Sylas couldn't move, his body half-buried in snow, vision fading. Blood pooled beneath him, each breath a shallow plea to hold on. Darkness crept closer—then a *thud* jolted him.
Wet, heavy, it landed nearby. He turned his head, stomach lurching. The Hero's body—or what was left—lay torn in half, bones jagged, face a ruined mask. But the head… the head was whole. His final words echoed like a curse:
"Offer a sacrifice to the gods… and they will bless you."
Sylas's hand shook as he grasped the dagger the young soldier had given him, its weight a reminder of a smile long gone.
"Use it if you want to live," the boy had said.
"I'm sorry…" Sylas whispered—to the soldier, the gods, or himself, he didn't know.
With a cry through gritted teeth, he drove the blade down, severing the Hero's head.
The crunch of bone and spill of blood nearly broke him, but he crawled, dragging himself and the grisly prize toward the temple's altar.
In the inner chamber, golden statues of the Seven Gods loomed, their silence mocking. Sylas placed the head on the offering plate and collapsed, waiting. Nothing came—no light, no whisper.
One by one, the statues rejected him, their divine gaze empty.
"I gave you what you wanted," he rasped, tears mixing with blood.
"I sacrificed him, like your Hero did to us." His body slumped against the stone, life slipping away.
"So this is it… Loid… soldier boy… I'm sorry."
A sound broke the silence drip, drip—water behind a statue.
Sylas crawled, desperation pulling him through a narrow opening behind the God of Truth. He fell down a slope, splashing into a frigid pool in a hidden chamber.
At its heart stood a statue, not golden but chained, cloaked in shadow—the Dead God, the Unholy One, the God of Deceit. Sylas stared, then bowed, collapsing before it.
"I don't have a head to offer," he whispered.
"I have nothing." He coughed blood, laughing bitterly.
"Take me. I'm already dying."
The ground trembled. The air stilled. A voice stirred, echoing through his bones.
"You offer yourself… willingly?" Sylas's eyes snapped open.
"You, who have nothing, gave me what kings fear to lose—respect."
Chains cracked, the statue's eyes blazing with ancient light.
"You kneel without promise of reward. You speak not truth… but sincerity.
You lie not to deceive—but to survive."
Shadows surged, the voice thundering.
"Then rise… Lord of Lies."
Golden sigils flared, words carving the air:
[Title Acquired:"You are no longer Sylas… You are Corvian, the Lord of Lies."]
[Blessing Received: Voice of False Truth. Fate Aligned: Vessel of the Dead God.]
His wound sealed, a dark warmth spreading through him—cold yet comforting. Sylas looked at the cracked statue, tears falling as he smiled.
For the first time, he wasn't weak.
The nightmare had forged him anew, and in the silence of a forgotten god, he found his strength.
[Arise:- Son of the Silence]