Chains of Vengeance

Chapter 29: The Duties of a God

The Mystic Merchant appeared before Narinder, his figure concealed beneath a hooded cloak adorned with enigmatic patterns, as if each fold of his garment hid the secrets of the universe. What lay beneath his tunic was not flesh or bone, but an infinite space, resembling a constantly expanding galaxy. Two eyes floated in the darkness, glowing with an ethereal light, surrounded by decorative circles that danced around them. From his "head," a black substance, like ichor, dripped slowly and perpetually, giving him an even more supernatural and distant appearance.

Upon seeing him, Narinder quickly reacted with a mix of respect and surprise. "Greetings, Mystic Merchant. It has been over a millennium since I last saw you."

The Mystic, with a resonant voice that seemed to emanate from the very stars, replied, "I have come seeking the newly freed god, victor over his victims, last of the bishops. Speak with me. Fickle beast, do you not feel how the border between this world and the next has begun to fray?"

His tone was both a warning and a reminder. The Mystic's voice echoed as if it came from beyond time and space, carrying a weight that penetrated the soul.

"You are naive in your duties, liberated god," he continued, his words cutting through the air with gravity. "You think that the death of the bishops has been their end, but they have not found rest. Bearer of the red crown, set this right. They are forced to relive their final agonies; help them move on, as is your duty as the God of Death."

Narinder felt a blow deep within his being. Was the Mystic asking him to intervene in the fate of his brothers? His four brothers, the bishops of the old faith, condemned to relive their final moments indefinitely. The god knew he had destroyed them, but he had never stopped to think about what came after their death. For him, their deaths had been final. Yet, the Mystic revealed a darker truth: those who once shared divinity with him had not found peace. They were trapped in limbo, condemned to experience their deaths over and over, unable to move on to the afterlife.

Narinder, with a grave voice and a mix of disbelief and despair, asked, "Are you telling me that those four are suffering the moment of their death indefinitely?"

The Mystic, unperturbed, slowly nodded, his eyes sparkling with unfathomable wisdom. "They relive their end again and again, trapped between worlds. Their fate is your duty. You, god of death, must choose their ending. Give them life... or grant them final death, but do not allow them to remain in that purgatory. Their torment affects all realms."

Narinder felt the weight of that revelation sink into his chest. The idea of either freeing his brothers or condemning them forever was overwhelming, and for the first time in centuries, he felt a flicker of doubt about what he should do.

Narinder let out a sinister laugh, the echo of his laughter resonating in the void around the portals.

"Oh, my god, this is magnificent. It's not the punishment I expected, but knowing that those four are there, trapped in their own torments, fills me with excitement."

His laughter continued like that of a maniac, but ironically, a tear of sadness slipped down his dark cheek. Despite everything, somewhere within him, the memory of his past brotherhood still lived on, albeit as a faint and distant echo.

After a long moment, Narinder regained his composure, his expression hardening again as he fixed a steady gaze on the Mystic. With a defiant tone, he spoke:

"Before I consider accepting, I want to know what I gain from all this. Because for me, it sounds very charming to let them suffer there, even at the risk of the problems they might cause."

The Mystic, though motionless, projected a deep calm. The nature of his words carried the weight of the inevitable. "During your journey," the Mystic replied, "I will offer you the opportunity to do business with me, and in the end, I will grant you the chance to face the Great Trial."

Narinder tensed immediately, a cold shiver running down his spine. He recalled the first card that Clauneck had shown him: that golden throne, a symbol of absolute power. And then, Haro's words echoed in his mind: "duties and the great trial." He could not ignore what was at stake.

With renewed determination, Narinder said, "I will fulfill my duties and take care of those four souls. I will not allow them to continue interfering."

The portals to the realms of his brothers—Darkwood, Anura, Anchordeep, and the Silk Cradle—began to shine brightly before sealing with a glow indicating that only he held the key to their release or destruction.

The Mystic, slightly bowing his head, gestured to open the portal to Darkwood, the realm of dark forest and decay. The light emanating was cold and gloomy but charged with a strange allure.

"Go ahead, liberated god," the Mystic said in his deep and enigmatic tone. "Regardless of your choice, you have my genuine wishes for success in this task. The border between this world and the next depends on your judgment."

Narinder, with a firm demeanor, said nothing more, turned around, and returned to his cult, walking straight to his home and locking himself inside.

He walked to the center of the room and took a deep breath.

Narinder crumpled, kneeling on the ground, barely able to control his breath. Panic engulfed him in a way he hadn't felt in centuries. The ancient god, who had faced wars, betrayals, and his own imprisonment, now found himself trembling, seized by a fear that paralyzed him.

"I can't free them... I-I don't have the courage to see them again," he whispered with a broken voice, anxiously stroking his wrists. Though there were no longer physical chains, he felt the ghostly weight of the shackles that had imprisoned him for so long. The memory of being chained in the void, betrayed by his own brothers, enveloped him like a dark cloud.

"And if freeing them makes them seek revenge and they chain me up again?" he murmured, each word laden with visceral fear. Tears filled his eyes as he looked at his trembling hands, doubting his own ability to keep them steady. The idea of facing his brothers, those who had sealed him away, terrified him. It wasn't just the physical confrontation, but the thought of reliving the betrayal, of facing again the pain of those broken bonds.

But then, like a spark in the darkness, an idea began to form in his mind.

"I must end them definitively..." he whispered, a mix of relief and terror crossing his face. "If I can finish them once and for all... this will all end."

He remembered Clauneck's letter, the second one he had shown him: the chains of the future. Was that a warning that his brothers were still destined to return? And then the third card... the sword in the purple depths. "Shamura... could fighting him be the Great Trial?" he thought, his inner voice filled with uncertainty. "If Shamura is the last to leave purgatory... it makes sense... He is the mind behind my imprisonment."

With a trembling sigh, Narinder rose, exhausted not only from physical fatigue but from the mental burden that weighed upon him. He collapsed onto his bed, wishing with all his might that it were all a nightmare, that he could wake up and find that the Mystic had never appeared, that the threat of his revived brothers was just a bad dream.

He squeezed the pillow tightly, closing his eyes in desperation, forcing himself to sleep. But he knew deep down that when he woke up, his problems would still be there, lurking, waiting. And no matter how much he tried to run from them, the inevitable truth was that sooner or later, he would have to face the duties of a god.