Sunny stared down at the mask in his hands, feeling like he was about to commit the biggest mistake of his life. And he had made many mistakes.
[Weaver's Mask] returned the stare, completely indifferent to his plight. The terrifying mask could not be bothered to care about his fears. Well, of course it didn't—it wasn't alive, after all.
The isolation was doing terrible things to his mind; he almost expected the mask to start talking.
Shaking his head at the absurd idea, he checked the runes once more, with the faint hope that sheer persistence would finally reveal the secrets of the mysterious enchantment from which he could glean no details. It didn't work.
He exhaled, feeling like an utter fool. Here he was, hiding in a cave in the middle of nowhere, slowly recovering from the ghastly wounds he had received during the last fight. For some reason, he thought that now, of all times, was the moment to try the enchantment of the divine memory.
Was there ever a good moment? He was about to activate an unknown enchantment from a memory that belonged to a Daemon, of all things. It was not a matter of if something bad would happen, but of how much.
He could just dismiss the mask and forget about it; there was nothing forcing him to use it, after all. He could just keep looking, keep traveling, until he found it. Nothing was stopping him from doing just that.
Nothing but the despair he felt.
Ten months had already passed.
Ten long, harrowing months.
Ten months since the assault on the Crimson Spire.
Ten months since he was made a slave.
Ten months of pain, of loneliness, of fearing for his life at every moment.
He was tired—so damn tired.
Sunny had found nothing. No clues, no traces, nothing.
Three months since he had learned about Aleras and the Temple, and still nothing.
At times, he felt like he was already dead. That this spell-forsaken land was nothing but his very own purgatory, a purgatory that he would have to traverse for all eternity. Just like how Sisyphus was condemned to roll that boulder forever.
At other times—when he was at his worst, when the pain or the grief or both proved too much—he wished that he was.
Nothing was forcing him, true, but at the same time, nothing was stopping him from trying either.
At best, it would give him something to work with.
And at worst? He would die, and that would be it—no more pain, no more suffering. Even the bond would break, and he would be liberated. Freedom in death; there was beauty in that, too.
So he summoned Saint to keep watch and put on the mask, followed by sending a trickle of essence into the mysterious enchantment. The enchantment, however, was not satisfied.
All on its own, it started to drain more, and more, and more, until nothing was left. His meager reserves couldn't handle activating the enchantment for more than a fraction of a fraction of a second.
That fraction of a fraction of a second was almost enough to destroy his mind.
The most horrifying pain he had ever experienced pierced his eyes and mind. It was like being submerged in acid, like being stabbed by millions upon millions of needles at the same time, like being flayed alive, like being set on fire. Except it was worse. Infinitely worse.
And then, as his mind threatened to unravel, the world changed.
He saw… he saw everything.
Countless threads appeared in his vision, connecting everything that ever was and ever would be. It was beautiful—the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
And then, the knowledge came. He understood. He understood everything about those threads, about the strings of fate.
He knew that the cave had formed untold eons ago, after a devastating earthquake.
He knew that the rock he was sitting on was once part of a mighty mountain that no longer existed; it had arrived in the cave after a flood dragged it in, and since then it had stood there.
He knew that the hole in one of the walls was made by a nightmare creature that was long dead.
He knew the story of every crack, of every nook and cranny, of every molecule of oxygen in the vicinity.
A silent scream died in his throat. Blood flowed out of his eyes, from his ears, from his nose and mouth. It hurt—gods, it hurt so much—and yet it was so beautiful.
Then the world changed once more. The countless threads disappeared and instead, he saw only himself.
Except that his situation was different. Where everything else had threads—strings of fate so thin as to almost be invisible—he had… chains.
They enveloped him. Every millimeter of his body and soul was covered by them, some of them even fighting among themselves for the right to own more of his self.
"Mine," they seemed to say.
"Mine," they repeated time and time again, like a mantra of madness and obsession. The golden chains were moving, trying to drag him in all directions and none at the same time. Their possessive embrace only ever tightening.
"Mine mine mine mine." They did not want to let go. They would never let go. They would rather see him dead than free of them.
Among the chains, two shone much brighter than the others, their light so intense as to almost be blinding.
One of them was made of pure white flame. It stretched long into the distance, trying to drag him southeast toward the Hollow Mountains. It was stronger than the others, its pull so overwhelming that he almost felt like he was moving.
The other was a dark, almost black chain of light that pointed north. Where its fiery sibling tried to drag him forcefully, this chain whispered softly, sweetly—almost like a lover's caress. It made promises of respite, of peace, of love and care, of an end to all woes.
The world changed once more. He saw it right above him. He saw… his mind refused to process it. The impossible angles, the shapes that made no sense, the sheer unfathomable size of it. His mind was breaking—swiftly, unstoppably. It was not made to gaze into the abyss, an abyss that wasn't even staring back yet.
And then, just like that, the fraction of a fraction of a second had passed, and the enchantment deactivated. What he saw last was already forgotten—a mercy of the utmost caliber.
Reality reasserted itself, and once more he was in the cave. He had fallen from the rock, blood flowing freely from his head despite [Blood Weave]'s influence. He paid no heed to any of it—the pain had completely overwhelmed every sense.
And while his body suffered, his mind was threatening to break all on its own.
Chains.
He was covered in them.
Countless chains that belonged to Fate.
A chain that belonged to Her, calling him, demanding his attention, almost ordering him to drop everything and go to Her.
A chain that pointed north, whispering that he had to go—pleading, begging even—toward someone or something. It was nowhere near as domineering as its sibling, and yet it commanded his fate all the same.
Laughter tried to erupt out of him, only to be stifled by the blood still pouring out of his mouth. It only made him try to laugh harder.
He coughed, more blood pouring out.
He did not care. He still tried until finally, his laughter echoed in the cave.
It was hoarse, painful, full of rage, of despair, of hate, and so much more.
He was a slave—both Hers and Fate's.
The thought made him laugh even more, tears flowing freely along with the blood.
He laughed until his voice gave out.
He cried until no more tears came.
He saw Saint's helmet above him; she was trying to help him stand up, concern clear even on the taciturn knight.
His shadows were desperately trying to draw his attention.
He ignored them all.
…
-------------------------------------------
…
Never again.
Never again would he tolerate feeling so helpless.
Never again would he feel chains enveloping him.
Never again would he be anyone's or anything's slave.
That, he promised.
Finally, he accepted Saint's helping hand and got up. She seemed worried—horrified, even. Paying it no mind, he summoned the [Endless Spring] and held it over his head to clean off the blood.
Then he started stretching to get rid of the remaining stiffness, hearing the pop of his abused bones. The pain came back—both from his previous wounds and the one lingering from using the mask.
He did not care. He had better things to do than care about some meager pain.
Sunny ignored the command still blaring loudly as he took a step forward and embraced Saint's stony form. She was just as cold and hard to the touch as he expected, but he paid it no mind.
"Thank you, Saint, for everything."
She froze, her body so still as to almost look like a statue, her ruby eyes somehow managing to transmit embarrassment. When he let go of her, she gave a barely visible nod and left in a hurry. How cute.
He offered a cheery smile to his shadows. It did not reassure them; in fact, they seemed even more worried. Ah, well—a problem for another day.
He left the cave and cupped his hands to gather the rainwater. He was so very thirsty these days; how fortunate that there was an endless source of water constantly falling on him. He drank his fill and then some more. It always made him feel better—like the pain was less intense, like his grievances didn't matter as much.
Sunny went back into the cave and summoned the [Safebox of Greed], from which he retrieved some dried meat and started eating.
When he finished, he let out a content sigh. He was well-fed, he had as much water as he could ever want, and he even had a roof above his head. Wasn't life great? His younger self would love this. One had to appreciate the small things in life, after all.
He was alive—that's all that mattered.
Then his gaze turned north, and his eyes became cold as ice. Whatever was there, Fate wanted him to see it.
He would oblige—he would gladly oblige as much as was required of him.
He would obey its orders; he would accept its guidance with a smile on his face. He would even bark if he was asked to.
Did the accursed thing consider him its child? Well then, he would play the role. No child more loving or loyal would ever be found.
All so that when the time to slit its throat came, it wouldn't see him coming.
A dangerous smile blossomed on his face.
He would break those chains—both the ones belonging to Fate and to Her.
He would do it even if it was the last thing he did.
That, he also promised. And there was no man more honest in the world—two worlds, even.