Chapter 3 Chapter 1 Resurrection
Wardens have guarded the borders of Simharon for centuries.That was what they were forced to do, through sleepless nights and dreary days, to keep watch over the border that separated the Magic Kingdom from everything in the afterlife.
What exactly is the realm of the afterlife?
Only the ancestors knew this.They fled into this world, from a home that no longer needed them, and they knew what lay behind those swirling mists.To protect themselves from those things, the First Men surrounded the world with a barrier of magic, and decreed that watchers should be stationed at the borders--forever, day and night.However, this matter has long been forgotten.The torrent of time has faded away the memory of the past.If there was a threat beyond the border, no one would worry about it. After all, how could such a threat cross that magical barrier?
The watchmen still continued to watch silently—they had no choice.So when the fog parted for the first time after centuries, when a figure stepped out of the shifting gray fog and stepped onto the sand, the watchers were terrified and shouted warnings.
However, no one now knows how to listen to the words of these stone statues.
Because of this, the man returned without warning or announcement.He left quietly, and now returns quietly.The Wardens screamed: "Beware, Simharun! Your doom is at hand! The border has been breached!"
But no one could hear them.
Perhaps someone would still hear the silent cry, if they would pay attention.Bishop Vanya is one of them.He is the highest-ranking catalyst saint in this land. With such a status, it seems that the god he worships: Emin, should have reminded his patriarch to pay attention to such a disaster.It's a pity that it was meal time, and His Excellency the Bishop was entertaining the guests. Although His Excellency's prayers on the table were beautiful and pious, everyone clearly felt that Emin was not invited by him at all.
Prince Xavier should have heard the warning from the Keeper of the Stone.He was a sorcerer after all, and as Dikonduke, a warrior of fire, he was one of the most capable masters of magic in the land.But at the time he had more important things to think about.Prince Xavier—sorry, Emperor Xavier—is preparing for war against the Kingdom of Saraken.For him, there is only one thing more important than this right now.Rather, these two things are closely related.That's how to get the Dark Sword, which is held tightly by a stone statue.If he had had this mighty sword—this one that drank mana—Sara would surely be his vassal.
Therefore, Bishop Fanya sat in the elegant room on the top of the wall in the holy mountain, eating wild boar tails and pickled shrimps, and talking to the guests about the nature and habits of marsupials. The warning was swallowed into their stomachs together with the wine.
Prince Xavier was pacing up and down his laboratory, occasionally rushing to read the text in a musty, torn book, pondering it, then shaking his head and swearing.The warnings of the watchmen were drowned out by his curses.
Only one person in all of Simharon heard the watchers' warning.In the city of Saraken a bearded young man in purple stockings, pink breeches, and a bright red silk waistcoat had just woken from his midday nap.He raised his eyes and yelled angrily: "My God! How can you make people sleep? Stop yelling so scary!" He waved his hand and slammed the window.
Beware, Simharlan!Your doom is approaching!Boundaries have been breached!
Although he looked old, the man who walked out of the mist was only in his late thirties.His physique was youthful—strong, fit, firm, erect, but his face seemed to have seen a century of vicissitudes. Against the background of thick black hair, the face was handsome and cold, and at first glance, it seemed indifferent, like the faces of the many stone statues staring at him.However, lines of worry and sorrow have been carved on his face by the hands of the master of fate.The flames of rage and hatred that had burned in his brown eyes were long gone, leaving only cold ashes. The man was dressed in fine white woolen robes, and over a wet traveling cloak, still speckled with mud.He stood on the sand and looked around slowly and calmly, as if looking at a home he hadn't seen for many years.The sad and melancholy expression on his face has not changed, it has only deepened.He turned and walked back into the mist.A hand grabbed him, and a woman with long blond hair stepped out of the gray mist and stood beside him. She glanced around blankly, her eyes blinking in the afterglow of the setting sun.The setting sun, like a blazing unblinking eye, was staring at the two in amazement from behind the distant mountains. "Where am I?" the woman asked calmly, as if they were walking down the street, but turned in the wrong direction. "In Simharon." The man replied in a calm and calm tone, like an analgesic ointment applied to a deeply painful wound. "Do I know this place?" the woman asked.Although he answered and she accepted his answer, she did not look at him, as if she was not talking to him, but was constantly looking for an invisible companion, and talking to that companion. The women are younger than the men, about twenty-seven years old.Her blond hair was parted in the middle and tied loosely in two thick braids that fell to her waist.It made her look childish, younger than she really was, and that impression was reinforced by her pretty blue eyes—an impression that didn't change until you looked closely at her eyes.The strangely bright luster of these eyes, and the wide-open concentrated expression are not childlike ignorance and amazement at all.This woman's eyes can see what other people can't. "You were born here." The man said softly. "Being raised here, and so am I." "Strange," the woman said. "I guess I should remember." Her cloak was the same as the man's, mud-splattered and soaked.Her hair, like his, was wet against her face.The two looked very tired, as if they had just gone through a long journey in heavy rain. "Where are my friends?" she asked, turning sideways and looking into the depths of the fog behind them. "Aren't they coming?" "No, they're not coming." The man replied in the same calm tone. "Because they can't cross the border, but you can meet new people here. Take your time, they may not accept you very much. It's been a long, long time since anyone has spoken to them here." "Oh, really?" The woman cheered up, but her face soon darkened. "They must be lonely," she said, raising her hands to her forehead to shade the sun, and looked up and down the sand. "Hello?" she said, holding out a hand like a wary cat. "Come on, it's all right. Don't be afraid. Come to me." The man let the woman talk to the air, but let out a heavy sigh, and then walked towards the stone statue of the catalyst saint, which held the sword in its stone hand. He gazed at the stone statue in silence, a tear fell from his clear brown eye and sank into the deep gash on that stern and clean face; another tear slid down the other cheek, falling into his thick black hair that curled around his shoulders.Trembling and taking a deep breath, he reached out and gently grabbed the orange silk banner.Although the flag is dilapidated, it still bravely flutters in the wind. He removed the banner from the statue, smoothed it, folded it, and placed it carefully in a pocket of his white robe.Then, with his thin fingers, he stroked the worried face of the statue. "My friend," he whispered. "Do you still recognize me? I've changed, I'm no longer the little boy you used to know, the little boy whose poor soul you once saved." His hand was pressed to the cold rock. "Yes, Saryon," he muttered under his breath. "You know me, I feel it." He smiled, a half-smile.There is no bitterness in his smile now, it is no longer like his previous smile, but sad and full of regret. "We are the opposite now, Father. I was once cold as a stone, and you warmed me with love and pity. But now the cold body I touch is yours. If my love—too late Learned love—it would be nice if it could make you warm!" He hung his head, lost in grief, and then his tearful eyes fell on the hands of the statue holding the sword. "What's this?" he murmured to himself. He inspected the hand of the stone statue carefully, and found that the palm holding the sword had cracks and gouges, as if it had been struck with a hammer and chisel.Several stone fingers were broken and twisted. "They're trying to take the sword!" he suddenly realized. "But you won't let go!" He rubbed the broken hand of the statue back and forth, and the anger that he thought had long been extinguished burned again in him. "What torture you have been through! And they know it all! You watch helplessly as they chiseel away your body and smash your bones! They know you can feel every moment Hitting hard, but ignoring it, how can they do this?" He asked sharply. "They can't even hear your cries!" The man stretched his hands towards the blade of the sword, hesitating to put his hands on it.Involuntarily, his hand grasped the hilt of the sword. "Looks like I'm going to waste my effort—" He stopped suddenly, speechless.He felt the sword move!Considering that it was probably a hallucination in anger, he pulled a stone sword as if he was about to draw a sword out of its sheath. The result surprised him, the sword was drawn out easily.He was so startled that he almost dropped his sword on the ground.Holding the sword in his hand, he felt that the cold stone became warm under his touch. When he took a closer look, he couldn't help being surprised, the stone sword turned into an iron sword. The man raised the dark sword in the sunlight.The afterglow of the setting sun fell on the sword body, but the sword body did not reflect any brilliance.The metal is black, and it absorbs sunlight instead of reflecting it.He stared at the weapon for a while.At the same time, part of him heard the woman's voice, heard her calling to some unseen person or persons as she walked away on the beach.He didn't look at her, he knew from long experience that although she never acknowledged his presence, she would not go away from him.His eyes and thoughts were on the sword. "I thought I got rid of you." He spoke to the sword as if it were alive. "It's like I thought I was free from life. I handed you over to the Catalyst Saint, who accepted my sacrifice, and I went—happily walked—to death." Layers of gray fog above. "But death is not outside..." He remained silent, and gripped the hilt tighter, realizing that it had never fit him better.Now he's grown up and has the strength of a man. "Maybe it's death." He added as if belatedly, then twisted his thick eyebrows, his eyes returned to the sword again, and then moved to the indifferent eyes of the stone sculpture. "You are right, Father. This is an evil sword, which brings pain and disaster to all who are connected with it. Even I, its creator, do not know or understand its power. Just because of this, it is dangerous enough, and it should be destroyed." He frowned, and turned his eyes to the gray mist again. "But it came back to me..." As if answering some unspoken question, the leather scabbard dropped from the statue's hand to the sand at the man's feet.When he bent down to pick it up, he suddenly felt something warm on his skin. is blood. He was startled, and raised his head to see blood slowly flowing from the crack in the stone carving's hand, gushing out from the deep gouges in the stone's flesh, and rolling down along the broken fingers. "Damn them!" he roared. He stood up, facing the stone statue of the Catalyst Saint, and saw not only blood gushing from its hand, but also tears rolling down from its eyes. "You gave me life!" cried the man. "I can't repay you, Father, but at least I can give you the peace of death, Emin, they can't torture you anymore!" The man raised the dark sword, which shone with a mysterious blue and white light . "Saryon, may your soul rest in peace at last!" he prayed, and then with all his strength, he drove the sword into the stone statue's chest. The Dark Sword felt someone wielding it.The blue light around the blade twisted and twisted, and in an instant, when the sword eagerly absorbed the magic power that could give it life in this world, the blue light on the blade rushed to the man's arm.The sword pierced deeply into the stone statue, up to the heart. The stone statue's cold and stiff lips suddenly burst into a cry, which seemed to be heard not with ears, but with the heart.The stone around the sword began to crumble with a crackling sound, jagged cracks stretched across the entire statue, the cracking sound masked the moaning of the Catalyst Saint, one arm was split from the shoulder, mutilated The statue shattered into pieces, detached from its torso, and its head fell from its neck onto the sand. The man yanked out his sword, tears blurred his vision; he couldn't see, but he heard the breaking of the stone, and he knew that the one he hadn't had time to love because he had learned to love too late was dead. He threw the Dark Sword on the ground fiercely, covered his eyes with his hands, and tried his best to restrain the tears of anger and grief. He trembled and took a deep breath. "They'll pay for it," he swore hoarsely. "By Emin, they're going to—" A hand touched his arm, and a low voice said hesitantly, "My boy? Joram?" He looked up, his eyes widening. Saryon stood among the fragments of the stone statue. Joram reached out trembling hands and grasped the catalyst saint's arm, his hands grasping warm, living flesh. "Father!" he stammered, and was hugged tightly by Saryon.
Although he looked old, the man who walked out of the mist was only in his late thirties.His physique was youthful—strong, fit, firm, erect, but his face seemed to have seen a century of vicissitudes. Against the background of thick black hair, the face was handsome and cold, and at first glance, it seemed indifferent, like the faces of the many stone statues staring at him.However, lines of worry and sorrow have been carved on his face by the hands of the master of fate.The flames of rage and hatred that had burned in his brown eyes were long gone, leaving only cold ashes. The man was dressed in fine white woolen robes, and over a wet traveling cloak, still speckled with mud.He stood on the sand and looked around slowly and calmly, as if looking at a home he hadn't seen for many years.The sad and melancholy expression on his face has not changed, it has only deepened.He turned and walked back into the mist.A hand grabbed him, and a woman with long blond hair stepped out of the gray mist and stood beside him. She glanced around blankly, her eyes blinking in the afterglow of the setting sun.The setting sun, like a blazing unblinking eye, was staring at the two in amazement from behind the distant mountains. "Where am I?" the woman asked calmly, as if they were walking down the street, but turned in the wrong direction. "In Simharon." The man replied in a calm and calm tone, like an analgesic ointment applied to a deeply painful wound. "Do I know this place?" the woman asked.Although he answered and she accepted his answer, she did not look at him, as if she was not talking to him, but was constantly looking for an invisible companion, and talking to that companion. The women are younger than the men, about twenty-seven years old.Her blond hair was parted in the middle and tied loosely in two thick braids that fell to her waist.It made her look childish, younger than she really was, and that impression was reinforced by her pretty blue eyes—an impression that didn't change until you looked closely at her eyes.The strangely bright luster of these eyes, and the wide-open concentrated expression are not childlike ignorance and amazement at all.This woman's eyes can see what other people can't. "You were born here." The man said softly. "Being raised here, and so am I." "Strange," the woman said. "I guess I should remember." Her cloak was the same as the man's, mud-splattered and soaked.Her hair, like his, was wet against her face.The two looked very tired, as if they had just gone through a long journey in heavy rain. "Where are my friends?" she asked, turning sideways and looking into the depths of the fog behind them. "Aren't they coming?" "No, they're not coming." The man replied in the same calm tone. "Because they can't cross the border, but you can meet new people here. Take your time, they may not accept you very much. It's been a long, long time since anyone has spoken to them here." "Oh, really?" The woman cheered up, but her face soon darkened. "They must be lonely," she said, raising her hands to her forehead to shade the sun, and looked up and down the sand. "Hello?" she said, holding out a hand like a wary cat. "Come on, it's all right. Don't be afraid. Come to me." The man let the woman talk to the air, but let out a heavy sigh, and then walked towards the stone statue of the catalyst saint, which held the sword in its stone hand. He gazed at the stone statue in silence, a tear fell from his clear brown eye and sank into the deep gash on that stern and clean face; another tear slid down the other cheek, falling into his thick black hair that curled around his shoulders.Trembling and taking a deep breath, he reached out and gently grabbed the orange silk banner.Although the flag is dilapidated, it still bravely flutters in the wind. He removed the banner from the statue, smoothed it, folded it, and placed it carefully in a pocket of his white robe.Then, with his thin fingers, he stroked the worried face of the statue. "My friend," he whispered. "Do you still recognize me? I've changed, I'm no longer the little boy you used to know, the little boy whose poor soul you once saved." His hand was pressed to the cold rock. "Yes, Saryon," he muttered under his breath. "You know me, I feel it." He smiled, a half-smile.There is no bitterness in his smile now, it is no longer like his previous smile, but sad and full of regret. "We are the opposite now, Father. I was once cold as a stone, and you warmed me with love and pity. But now the cold body I touch is yours. If my love—too late Learned love—it would be nice if it could make you warm!" He hung his head, lost in grief, and then his tearful eyes fell on the hands of the statue holding the sword. "What's this?" he murmured to himself. He inspected the hand of the stone statue carefully, and found that the palm holding the sword had cracks and gouges, as if it had been struck with a hammer and chisel.Several stone fingers were broken and twisted. "They're trying to take the sword!" he suddenly realized. "But you won't let go!" He rubbed the broken hand of the statue back and forth, and the anger that he thought had long been extinguished burned again in him. "What torture you have been through! And they know it all! You watch helplessly as they chiseel away your body and smash your bones! They know you can feel every moment Hitting hard, but ignoring it, how can they do this?" He asked sharply. "They can't even hear your cries!" The man stretched his hands towards the blade of the sword, hesitating to put his hands on it.Involuntarily, his hand grasped the hilt of the sword. "Looks like I'm going to waste my effort—" He stopped suddenly, speechless.He felt the sword move!Considering that it was probably a hallucination in anger, he pulled a stone sword as if he was about to draw a sword out of its sheath. The result surprised him, the sword was drawn out easily.He was so startled that he almost dropped his sword on the ground.Holding the sword in his hand, he felt that the cold stone became warm under his touch. When he took a closer look, he couldn't help being surprised, the stone sword turned into an iron sword. The man raised the dark sword in the sunlight.The afterglow of the setting sun fell on the sword body, but the sword body did not reflect any brilliance.The metal is black, and it absorbs sunlight instead of reflecting it.He stared at the weapon for a while.At the same time, part of him heard the woman's voice, heard her calling to some unseen person or persons as she walked away on the beach.He didn't look at her, he knew from long experience that although she never acknowledged his presence, she would not go away from him.His eyes and thoughts were on the sword. "I thought I got rid of you." He spoke to the sword as if it were alive. "It's like I thought I was free from life. I handed you over to the Catalyst Saint, who accepted my sacrifice, and I went—happily walked—to death." Layers of gray fog above. "But death is not outside..." He remained silent, and gripped the hilt tighter, realizing that it had never fit him better.Now he's grown up and has the strength of a man. "Maybe it's death." He added as if belatedly, then twisted his thick eyebrows, his eyes returned to the sword again, and then moved to the indifferent eyes of the stone sculpture. "You are right, Father. This is an evil sword, which brings pain and disaster to all who are connected with it. Even I, its creator, do not know or understand its power. Just because of this, it is dangerous enough, and it should be destroyed." He frowned, and turned his eyes to the gray mist again. "But it came back to me..." As if answering some unspoken question, the leather scabbard dropped from the statue's hand to the sand at the man's feet.When he bent down to pick it up, he suddenly felt something warm on his skin. is blood. He was startled, and raised his head to see blood slowly flowing from the crack in the stone carving's hand, gushing out from the deep gouges in the stone's flesh, and rolling down along the broken fingers. "Damn them!" he roared. He stood up, facing the stone statue of the Catalyst Saint, and saw not only blood gushing from its hand, but also tears rolling down from its eyes. "You gave me life!" cried the man. "I can't repay you, Father, but at least I can give you the peace of death, Emin, they can't torture you anymore!" The man raised the dark sword, which shone with a mysterious blue and white light . "Saryon, may your soul rest in peace at last!" he prayed, and then with all his strength, he drove the sword into the stone statue's chest. The Dark Sword felt someone wielding it.The blue light around the blade twisted and twisted, and in an instant, when the sword eagerly absorbed the magic power that could give it life in this world, the blue light on the blade rushed to the man's arm.The sword pierced deeply into the stone statue, up to the heart. The stone statue's cold and stiff lips suddenly burst into a cry, which seemed to be heard not with ears, but with the heart.The stone around the sword began to crumble with a crackling sound, jagged cracks stretched across the entire statue, the cracking sound masked the moaning of the Catalyst Saint, one arm was split from the shoulder, mutilated The statue shattered into pieces, detached from its torso, and its head fell from its neck onto the sand. The man yanked out his sword, tears blurred his vision; he couldn't see, but he heard the breaking of the stone, and he knew that the one he hadn't had time to love because he had learned to love too late was dead. He threw the Dark Sword on the ground fiercely, covered his eyes with his hands, and tried his best to restrain the tears of anger and grief. He trembled and took a deep breath. "They'll pay for it," he swore hoarsely. "By Emin, they're going to—" A hand touched his arm, and a low voice said hesitantly, "My boy? Joram?" He looked up, his eyes widening. Saryon stood among the fragments of the stone statue. Joram reached out trembling hands and grasped the catalyst saint's arm, his hands grasping warm, living flesh. "Father!" he stammered, and was hugged tightly by Saryon.