Chronicles of Legends

Volume 7 Chapter 1 - Alacarya

|Arthur|

As consciousness gradually returned, I peeled my heavy eyelids apart, feeling the cool stickiness of saliva beneath my cheek. The realization that I had lost consciousness washed over me, interrupting the fleeting elation of regained movement.

Carefully lifting myself off the damp floor, I couldn't ignore the overwhelming sensation of thirst that parched my throat. Swallowing, I tried to moisten my dry mouth with the meager remnants of saliva. As I struggled to quench my thirst, I took in my surroundings and examined my body.

Sitting upright, my eyes were drawn to my own hands. The sight that greeted me elicited a baffled exclamation. My hands, once weathered and marked by battles, now appeared pale and flawless. The calluses that had adorned my palms, testaments to years of wielding a sword, were absent. Even the scars that adorned my knuckles, souvenirs from hard-fought encounters, had vanished. The remnants of the battles I had fought, including the scars on my wrist earned during my clash with the toxic witch, were replaced by smooth, pearlescent skin.

A mix of wonder and apprehension surged within me as I gnashed my teeth, attempting to push aside thoughts of Sylvie's sacrifice. I refused to succumb to a deeper abyss of dread.

Continuing my examination, I noticed further distinctions manifesting in my hands. While my arms still bore the toned muscles developed through rigorous training, they appeared thinner. My hands seemed smaller, and my fingers possessed a delicate grace, albeit devoid of calluses and scars.

However, it was when my gaze descended to my forearms, specifically my left forearm, that a sharp pang shot through my chest. My heart quickened its pace as panic surged within me.

The mark was gone.

Confusion and disbelief intertwined as I stammered, struggling to comprehend. Frantically, I turned my arm, hoping against hope to find the mark on the other side. But it was all in vain. The mark, the indelible symbol of my bond with Sylvie, had vanished without a trace. In its absence, every scar and blemish that had adorned my hands and arms had also disappeared, erasing the physical remnants of my journey and sacrifices.

"Before you start shedding tears, take a gander to your right," a distinctively cynical voice resonated in close proximity.

Oddly unthreatened by the voice, I turned my gaze towards the source and discovered an iridescent stone, approximately the size of my palm, resting nearby.

My eyes widened, and instinctively, I lunged towards the vibrant stone, clasping it firmly in my hand to examine it more closely.

"Is this...?" I began, my voice trailing off in disbelief.

"Yup. That's your bond," the voice responded curtly, as a shadowy figure materialized at the edge of my vision.

A teardrop-shaped, black will-o-wisp, slightly larger than a marble, floated into view. Yet, this particular dark apparition possessed a pair of piercing, pure-white eyes and two diminutive horns protruding from its...head?

My mouth agape, I struggled to find words, but before I could gather my thoughts, the black teardrop-shaped entity, adorned with eyes and horns, drew closer. It inclined, as if bowing, and spoke with an exaggerated tone.

"Greetings, my pitiful master. I am Regis, the magnificent weapon that has finally manifested and emerged from your metaphorical posterior."

My anger flared at the sight of the black ball of flames.

"Why..." I seethed.

"Why what?" it responded with a hint of confusion, its expression uncannily lifelike and infuriatingly sentient.