Chapter 30:
CHAPTER 30 — Severing the Curse
The Human Who Challenged the Heavens
Aren’s shallow breathing was a whisper against the roar of the mountain wind. Ivan felt it in every fiber of his being: the corruption, the dark veins of fate and sickness twisting through the boy’s soul.
Maelis, the wizard, gripped her staff tightly, her knuckles white. “…He carries the Wither Vein Curse,” she said, voice trembling. “A disease from ancient times. Even the greatest healers can only delay it… never remove it entirely.”
Selra sank to her knees, clutching her son’s small hand. “Please… anyone… save him…” Her voice cracked, each word a fragile plea.
Dorian, standing tall despite exhaustion, rested a hand on the hilt of his sword at his waist, as if drawing courage from it. “We… we’ve tried everything. Please… help him.”
Ivan’s eyes narrowed. He had seen the helplessness in faces like theirs countless times before. Children dying of things no healer could touch. Families broken, hope extinguished.
But this boy… there was something different here. Something about the curse. Something that could be severed.
He drew his sword. The dark silver blade pulsed faintly, runes glowing in response to the presence of corruption. The Sword of the Seventh Veil. It was not a weapon for flesh, but for threads—threads of fate, life, curses, and destiny itself.
He hovered the blade just above Aren’s chest. Silver aura seeped down, a gentle warmth that did not harm, but touched the boy’s very essence.
“Cut,” Ivan whispered.
A black mist erupted from Aren’s body. Twisting, writhing, shrieking as if alive. The parents screamed. The knight instinctively drew his sword, eyes wide. Maelis shouted, “…The curse! He’s forcing it out!”
The shadow clawed and writhed, trying to cling to the boy’s life. Ivan’s sword moved with precision. Thread by thread, he severed it, slicing through the corruption that had lingered for centuries.
SHHRAAAK!
And then silence.
Aren gasped, chest rising steadily. Warmth spread across his cheeks. The blue veins faded like smoke on the wind. He opened his eyes slowly, confusion and wonder flickering across his face.
Maelis sank to her knees, staring in disbelief. “…A complete cure… he actually cut it….”
The knight, still tense, lowered his sword slowly. “Who… what are you?”
Selra threw herself around her son, sobbing uncontrollably. Dorian, sword still at his waist, bowed deeply, forehead pressed to the ground in gratitude.
“…Warm… I feel… warm…” Aren whispered, his tiny hand reaching for his mother’s.
Ivan said nothing, merely sheathing his sword. His eyes swept the group, lingering on the boy for a moment.
He had survived the Seven Veils. He had learned to cut what should never be cut. Fate, death, curses—they were all threads waiting for the right hand to sever.
For now, he would let this family breathe. For now, hope would live.
And somewhere deep in the mountain, the wind carried a whisper of power, silent, but undeniable.
Maelis, the wizard, gripped her staff tightly, her knuckles white. “…He carries the Wither Vein Curse,” she said, voice trembling. “A disease from ancient times. Even the greatest healers can only delay it… never remove it entirely.”
Selra sank to her knees, clutching her son’s small hand. “Please… anyone… save him…” Her voice cracked, each word a fragile plea.
Dorian, standing tall despite exhaustion, rested a hand on the hilt of his sword at his waist, as if drawing courage from it. “We… we’ve tried everything. Please… help him.”
Ivan’s eyes narrowed. He had seen the helplessness in faces like theirs countless times before. Children dying of things no healer could touch. Families broken, hope extinguished.
But this boy… there was something different here. Something about the curse. Something that could be severed.
He drew his sword. The dark silver blade pulsed faintly, runes glowing in response to the presence of corruption. The Sword of the Seventh Veil. It was not a weapon for flesh, but for threads—threads of fate, life, curses, and destiny itself.
He hovered the blade just above Aren’s chest. Silver aura seeped down, a gentle warmth that did not harm, but touched the boy’s very essence.
“Cut,” Ivan whispered.
A black mist erupted from Aren’s body. Twisting, writhing, shrieking as if alive. The parents screamed. The knight instinctively drew his sword, eyes wide. Maelis shouted, “…The curse! He’s forcing it out!”
The shadow clawed and writhed, trying to cling to the boy’s life. Ivan’s sword moved with precision. Thread by thread, he severed it, slicing through the corruption that had lingered for centuries.
SHHRAAAK!
And then silence.
Aren gasped, chest rising steadily. Warmth spread across his cheeks. The blue veins faded like smoke on the wind. He opened his eyes slowly, confusion and wonder flickering across his face.
Maelis sank to her knees, staring in disbelief. “…A complete cure… he actually cut it….”
The knight, still tense, lowered his sword slowly. “Who… what are you?”
Selra threw herself around her son, sobbing uncontrollably. Dorian, sword still at his waist, bowed deeply, forehead pressed to the ground in gratitude.
“…Warm… I feel… warm…” Aren whispered, his tiny hand reaching for his mother’s.
Ivan said nothing, merely sheathing his sword. His eyes swept the group, lingering on the boy for a moment.
He had survived the Seven Veils. He had learned to cut what should never be cut. Fate, death, curses—they were all threads waiting for the right hand to sever.
For now, he would let this family breathe. For now, hope would live.
And somewhere deep in the mountain, the wind carried a whisper of power, silent, but undeniable.
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