Book 1: Chapter 28 - The Ill-made Knight [Part 4]
----------------------------------------
"Your devotion has brought you here, Sang-woo. Now you must decide—will you continue to follow blindly, or will you see the truth for what it is? Or will you, instead, choose to rest?" Iasis intoned.
As her words echoed in the vast emptiness, Sang-woo felt the weight of his past, his choices, and his unwavering loyalty pressing down on him. It could not end here.
"Please, just take me to her or tell me where she is..." he begged, falling to his knees. "Please, if you are a goddess or if this is my judgment, give me a chance. I will do anything."
"Oh, you will, will you?" the strange woman purred, her voice throaty and seductive. "I wonder, will that twisted heart of yours lead you down the same path? Will you find what you are looking for? Will you be able to save what you hold dear? You are most fortunate that your Resonance wishes for oblivion and you wish for life. This will make things easier."
Her expression grew serious, her voice now filled with deep gravitas. "If you will bear my Mark, first... you must choose."
Just as he about to voice another question, his vision exploded into stars as a wave of disorientation washed over him. When his senses cleared, he found himself holding a tablet—an honest-to-goodness stone tablet inscribed with archaic runes and symbols. Against his will, his fingers traced the script, and it offered him a choice. A choice he knew in his bones was based on all of his experiences.
As Sang-woo's fingers glided over the ancient tablet, images began to materialize around him, swirling like mist before solidifying into vivid scenes. Each scene depicted a different path, a different destiny—each one a reflection of a facet of his soul and an aspect of the life he had left.
The word Pugilist appeared on the surface of the stone. He became a bare-knuckled fighter standing alone in an arena, muscles coiled like steel springs. The crowd roared as the fighter dodged blows with fluid grace, every punch a symphony of power and precision. Sang-woo felt the raw physicality resonate within him, reminding him of countless hours spent honing his body into a weapon. He remembered the tenets of Courtesy, Integrity, Perseverance, Self-Control, and Indomitable Will. But this path was not for him and he rejected it.
The words across the stone surface changed, shifted to form the words, Rogue. Sang-woo emerged from the shadows—a figure cloaked in darkness, slipping unnoticed through enemy lines. Daggers gleamed under the moonlight as the Rogue dispatched foes with silent efficiency. The thrill of stealth and cunning strategy stirred memories of covert missions, where one wrong move could mean the difference between life and death. But like Pugilist, it was not the correct choice.
Again the words shifted and the word for Warrior appeared in a language he did not know but could read: He became armor-clad and wielded a massive weapon that cleaved the very air. Charging into battle with a roar, he was unafraid of the onslaught before him. Leadership, bravery, and sacrifice—all values Sang-woo held dear—manifested in this vision.
Wizard was the next word. He became a scholarly figure surrounded by towering bookshelves filled with arcane tomes. This vision was superimposed over him studying in front of a screen, long hours in the pursuit of the perfection of knowledge to pass the national exams. With a wave of his hand, he summoned elemental forces, weaving spells that bent reality itself. Knowledge is power, a voice whispered, and Sang-woo felt a pang of longing for understanding the mysteries that eluded him. There was power here, true power, but it was not him. He could sense the madness behind its call.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
There was chaos as the words struggled to form, Barbarian. A force of nature unleashed. Wild, untamed, wielding primal fury as its weapon. He fought not with strategy but with sheer will and overwhelming strength. Sang-woo recognized the raw emotion, the unbridled passion that sometimes simmered beneath his disciplined exterior. But he would need control if he was to accomplish his mission.
The word for Knight formed. He stepped forward, a shining figure adorned in ornate armor and bearing a shield emblazoned with a noble crest. As a Knight he stood tall before a besieged castle, protecting the innocent and fighting for justice. In the Knight's reflection of the Knight’s blade, Sang-woo saw his own reflection staring back at him. There was no resonance, but it was what he had always wanted to be.
"Choose," Iasis' voice echoed, softer now, almost gentle. "Each path is a fragment of who you are, yet only one can you walk."
Sang-woo's mind raced. Each option called to him, representing different chapters of his life, and different skills he had mastered. But his heart knew only one true path.
"I choose the Knight," he declared firmly, his voice echoing.
"Then so be it," Iasis said softly. "Your choice is made, and your path is set. As long as you bear my Mark, seek your heart’s desire, you will find it."
The white room began to fade, dissolving into darkness, and he found himself lying on cold, grimy cobblestones. The stench of sewage and smoke filled the narrow alley, where refuse piled against aged stone walls slick with moisture. Dim light from the evening sun struggled down here, casting long shadows that muddied his vision.
A sharp pain jolted him to full awareness. He looked down to see a rusted knife lodged in his chest, his heartbeat pounding around the intrusive metal. Panicked, he looked around… against all of his training, and the greater part of common sense, he grasped the hilt with trembling hands and pulled. The blade slid free, and to his astonishment, the wound began to close—slowly but steadily.
Breathing heavily, he stood up unsteadily. His clothes were unfamiliar; a simple linen tunic, breeches, and worn boots caked with mud and dirt. Distant sounds of a bustling marketplace reached his ears: vendors shouting, cart wheels creaking, horses neighing.
"Where am I?" he whispered, his breath forming a mist in the chilly air.
Only silence answered him.
The reality of his situation sank in—this was not his world. Was this the afterlife? He remembered dying, the round hitting his chest where the knife had been lodged… which was real?
Insanity threatened to claim him. He racked his mind searching for a point of reference. Searching for anything, searching for a name.
"Lost, are we? A noble lad like you been out slumming," a gruff voice asked from behind. “I can hel…”
He felt the threat laced in the words and acted before thinking. Spinning around, he drove the knife into the stranger’s chest. The man—a dirty peasant, or perhaps a common criminal—gasped in shock. For good measure, he stabbed him again. And then, just to be sure, he struck a third time.
A strange message flashed across his vision, but he ignored it.
“Sir! Sir!” A shout echoed from somewhere nearby. He tensed, bracing for another fight. But the tone was not threatening.
Footsteps approached, and a young voice called again. This time, unfamiliar memories rose in his mind, whispering that the voice belonged to someone he knew: his Squire.
The boy came into view—a young man just shy of adulthood, his round cheeks still carrying traces of baby fat. He was stocky but not overly so, and his face was flushed from exertion.
“What happened, sir?” the Squire asked breathlessly.
An unbidden whisper in his head told him that this one’s name was Alain. “The peasant attacked me,” he replied in a gravelly and deep voice that was not his.
“Yes, sir. Evil things,” Alain agreed with a nervous nod, his head bobbing like a puppet’s. “It is good that you exacted the King’s Justice. As is your right, of course,” he added hastily, noticing the confusion on his master’s face.
“Check him,” the man commanded. “See if he carries anything of value to compensate for my… distress.”
Though his name eluded him, his purpose did not. Somewhere in this strange, new world, his lady waited for him. She was his purpose. He took a steadying breath, allowing the weight of responsibility to settle on his shoulders.
If this was the path to her, he would walk it without hesitation.