Chains of Vengeance

Chapter 16: Shadows and Mushrooms in Anura

Narinder moved through the swamps in the heart of Anura, a realm wrapped in shades of orange and yellow, where the air was thick with moisture and spores of mushrooms. The mushrooms, both large and small, rose around him like twisted trees, and the ground beneath his feet was covered in autumn leaves in an endless cycle of decay. The atmosphere was dense and oppressive, the earthy scent permeating every breath he took. He walked with purpose, searching for the prized Menticide Mushrooms, a rare fungus that only grew in these lands beneath the shadows of the giant mushrooms.

"Anura... How ironic that in such a repulsive realm, things of great value would grow," he thought as he carefully uprooted one of the fungi. Its slippery texture left a strange feeling on his hands, but he did not stop. There was something satisfying in the methodical collection, as if these small acts of control balanced the chaotic nature of the environment.

Without warning, a group of monstrous frogs emerged from among the larger mushrooms, leaping agilely toward Narinder. They were enormous, with bright orange skin, their yellow eyes glinting with hatred. The mouths of these creatures were filled with sharp teeth, dripping with venomous saliva. Unfazed, Narinder raised his relic, watching as his enemies came to a halt, paralyzed by the power emanating from him. A flash of blinding light, and within seconds, the frogs fell to the ground lifeless, their bodies dissolving into the putrid vegetation of Anura.

Narinder let out a sigh, not of fatigue, but of boredom. Despite the danger these creatures posed, defeating them with his relic had lost its charm long ago. It felt like a routine exercise, mechanical in execution. He sheathed his relic and continued on, uprooting another Menticide Mushroom and carefully placing it into the bottomless pocket of his crown.

The path continued, and although he occasionally encountered heretical cultists of Hunger, those who still worshiped the memory of Heket, none posed a real challenge. Whenever an enemy stood in his way, Narinder simply transformed his crown into a sharp scythe and with a single blow ended them. The speed and precision of his attacks were unmatched, and with each fallen enemy, he barely registered the impact of the battle. One after another, they fell like dry leaves swept by the autumn wind.

"Too easy," he thought, his mind wandering as the blade of his scythe cut clean lines through the bodies of the heretics. The weight of his thoughts was heavier than that of his opponents. Clauneck's words still echoed in his mind, the chains that would appear in his future, the pain from which he could not escape, and the rival... the purple shadow that, deep within him, he knew could only mean one thing: Shamura.

The day wore on, but the atmosphere in Anura remained unchanged. Everything was a blend of mushrooms, dry leaves, and stagnant water. The more he walked, the more trapped he felt in his own thoughts, as if the repetitive cycle of battle and mushroom gathering was a metaphor for the very cycle in which his life was ensnared. Was he truly free, or was he still trapped in some way?

Narinder continued traversing the shadowy paths of Anura, collecting mushrooms between battles that no longer excited him. His thoughts drifted until, unexpectedly, he arrived at a special chamber, different from the previous ones. The heat welcomed him before he entered, and the metallic sound of a forge echoed in the air. The walls were adorned with weapons hanging high, like trophies of forgotten wars. The stone floor was marked by years of heavy labor, and the forge's fire flickered like a living flame, casting dancing shadows in every corner.

In the center of the room stood Kudaai, a powerful and neutral being, brother to Clauneck. Like him, he was a duck with black plumage, but draped in a yellow cloak that gave him a majestic and distant air. Narinder greeted him with a slight nod. He maintained a cautious respect toward neutral beings like Kudaai, who did not align with good or evil, but whose power was undeniable.

Kudaai, with a solemn smile, greeted him: "Oh, if it isn't the ancient chained one, what brings you here?"

For a moment, Narinder didn't know what to say. His mind wandered, and the words seemed stuck in his throat. So, instead of responding, he transformed his red crown into his scythe. The crimson glow of the weapon illuminated his hands as he extended it toward Kudaai. "Could you sharpen it? Perhaps make it... more powerful," he said in his usual authoritative tone, as if it were a routine request, though he knew it was not.

Kudaai accepted the scythe without further words and began to work on it, his hammer ringing out in the room as the forge's fire crackled. The silence grew denser with each strike. Narinder, feeling uneasy, took out his relic and started to play with it between his fingers, trying to appear occupied, as if the blacksmith's fire did not unsettle him.

Kudaai broke the silence without taking his eyes off his work. "So... do you still carry the chains of the past?"

Narinder shuddered slightly. The comment caught him off guard. He looked closely at his relic, noticing how the claw was surrounded by a black chain, a physical symbol he had overlooked so many times. He cleared his throat, his voice regaining its firmness. "Oh, well... yes, of course. My relic has those chains embedded; I couldn't remove them even if I wanted to."

Kudaai did not react to Narinder's words, but his voice resonated calm and firm. "I don't know much about relics. My craft is weapons. But I can tell you this: a weapon is only as good as its bearer. And what I see in you is that you still carry your own shackles, in more ways than one."

Narinder did not respond immediately, though it was a message between the lines; he understood what he meant. His eyes, usually fierce and confident, fell to his own wrists. With a trembling hand, he brushed aside the fur covering the scars, those lines left by the chains of his imprisonment in the Veil on his skin. They didn't physically hurt, but the emotional weight they carried was immense. Since escaping the Veil, he had avoided looking at them, fearful that each glance would pull him back into those endless days of confinement.

The sound of the hammer ceased, and Kudaai interrupted his dark thoughts. "I'm done. Its edge has improved; I assure you its power is much greater now."

Narinder blinked, shaking off the images of his past. "Oh, yes... thank you," he replied, his tone less authoritative and more subdued than usual. He took the scythe with a firm hand, but as he left the room, his mind remained engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions.

On the outside, Narinder stood tall, his posture firm and serene. But inside, he had taken a hard hit. Kudaai's words were not spoken with malice, but they still resonated in his mind as an uncomfortable reminder. Was he still bound to his past in ways he did not want to admit?

After collecting the ten mushrooms he had come to find, he teleported back to his cult. But upon arrival, he did not feel at peace. There was something in the air, in his thoughts. Without a second thought, he decided to teleport again, this time to the Pilgrim's Bay, a place near the sea, ideal for fishing and meditation.

The sunset painted the sky in shades of purple and orange, and the beach was nearly empty. Taking advantage of the solitude, Narinder made his way to the lighthouse rising in the distance, seeking refuge behind it. There, under the mantle of the encroaching night, he allowed himself a moment of weakness. He sat on the cold sand, and his eyes moistened. He brought a hand to his wrists, gently caressing the scars he always tried to ignore. The weight of memories, of the chains he had broken, and those he still carried, overwhelmed him.

Alone at last, he let the tears fall.