Three days had passed since Valen first fell into his deep slumber. The days stretched into weeks—two and a half, then nearly three. The rain began to fall, heavy and unrelenting, drumming against the roof of Orlen's home like an unbroken dirge. Thunder growled in the distance, splitting the sky with jagged veins of light.
Orlen sat beside Valen's bed, watching over him like a father over a dying son. He murmured softly to himself, fingers tightening around the old wooden chair. "Val, my child… wake up."
But the warrior did not stir.
Another five days passed, vanishing like breath on glass. The sun finally emerged after nearly a month of unending storms, its golden light piercing through the shutters, casting long shadows across the room.
The sword Valen's blade rested near his bedside. Its darkened steel shimmered in the morning glow. And then, in a voice Valen had never truly heard before, it spoke.
"Master… wake up."
Crimson, the cursed blade, called out to him. Until now, it had been nothing more than a whisper in his dreams a presence gnawing at the edges of his mind, urging him toward violence, toward slaughter. But now… it had a voice. Real. Cold. Commanding.
Valen's eyes snapped open.
His breath was shallow, his body sluggish from weeks of stillness, but his gaze darted immediately to the sword and then to the window, where sunlight streamed in like an omen.
Orlen was nowhere to be seen.
Minutes passed, each one slower than the last. Then, footsteps heavy, hurried. The door swung open, and there stood Orlen, a bowl of steaming soup in his hands. His weathered face paled, his eyes widening as if he had seen a ghost.
"Val… you're alive," Orlen whispered, disbelief thick in his voice. Then, as if shaking himself from a trance, he moved quickly to the bedside, pressing the bowl into Valen's hands. "Eat. You need it."
Valen hesitated only for a moment before obeying. The hunger clawed at him, a deep, primal need. He devoured the soup like a starving wolf, the warmth seeping through his body, awakening his senses.
Between ragged breaths, he finally asked, "How long?"
Orlen sighed. "Four weeks, Val. You need to rest now. Eat slowly."
But Valen had no patience for rest. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes burning with something more than hunger.
"I need to leave soon," he muttered. "That's why I came to you in the first place to have you repair my sword. I need to find the Champion of Eruyland."
Orlen stiffened at those words, his brow furrowing. "And what then, Val? Kill him?"
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Valen met the blacksmith's gaze without hesitation. "I have to."
Orlen shook his head slowly. "You do know that Champions are nearly immortal, don't you?"
"I know." Valen's fingers curled into fists, his voice unshaken. "But I have no choice. It was my contract… with the old hag, Rahul."
Orlen exhaled, rubbing his temples. The storm outside had passed, but inside this house, inside Valen's eyes, the storm still raged.
Orlen sighed deeply, his fingers tightening around the edges of his chair. "I understand that. I really do. But where will you find him?"
Valen didn't hesitate. "In the Abyss, of course."
Like a thunderstorm rising from the horizon, Orlen surged forward, grabbing Valen's wrist in a firm, almost desperate grip. His voice, though measured, crackled with restrained fury. "There are beings there that even I do not understand. And you still want to go?"
Valen's expression hardened. "Then what should I do? Give up?"
Orlen's grip tightened for a moment before he exhaled sharply. "No, of course not. You can't give up. But there are plenty of different contracts. And in my 127 years of life, I have never seen someone take on a contract to kill a Champion let alone someone like you."
Valen's eyes darkened. His voice was steady, but there was a quiet fury beneath it. "Rahul said he will tell me who killed my whole family."
Orlen's face twisted with concern. He released Valen's wrist, stepping back slightly. "And you believe him?"
Valen exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Of course not. But do I have any other options? We searched for thirty years and found nothing. Then Rahul appears...out of nowhere....claiming to know something. He even said I would know the truth instantly after meeting this Champion."
Orlen's jaw clenched, his gaze flickering with something between frustration and pity. "And that doesn't sound suspicious to you?"
Valen let out a bitter laugh, one that carried more pain than humor. "Of course it sounds off. Do you think I have any other choice? Do you think I can go on just slaying orcs and, on occasion, a dragon? No, I can't. So tell me, what do I do now? Give up? Stay here while the answers to my questions wait for me in the darkness?"
His breath was ragged now, his hands trembling as he gritted his teeth. "Why? Why did they have to die? Why does it still hurt to be alive, to keep going forward? Why do I have to suffer while they have already met the Creator?"
His voice cracked, and for the first time in years, Valen broke down.
Orlen stood still, watching the warrior who had always seemed unbreakable crumble before him. He had no answer to Valen's pain, only silence.
Finally, Orlen exhaled, his voice softer now. "Okay… I will help you with this."
He crossed his arms, his expression grave but resolute. "First, I'll ask my friend Luca to prepare some mana potions for you and some blood. Who knows how long you'll be out there? But remember this… I'll be waiting for you."
A single tear welled in Orlen's eye, but he turned away before Valen could see. His voice was steady when he spoke again. "Even though you're an annoying brat, I still see you as a friend."
Valen watched as Orlen walked toward the door, his shoulders stiff, his back straight.
"I hope you find your answers," he said, then stepped outside, leaving Valen with nothing but his thoughts… and his blade...