Chains of Vengeance

Chapter 106: Scar on the Chest

After completing the sacrifice of the lamb, Narinder felt a wave of energy coursing through his body, as if every fiber of his being had been renewed, every shadow of doubt and every shred of fear dispelled. His breathing became deep, controlled, and in his chest beat a fervor he had not felt for centuries. At last, every decision, every sacrifice, every fight seemed to align his purpose with the power that resided within him. He was ready.

He stood up firmly, his eyes shining with a determination the cultists had never seen before. He raised his head to the sky, his resonant and confident voice piercing the air like a proclamation of strength: "I am not afraid! I will overcome this test, and I will not lose!"

The sound of his words filled the space, and the cultists, infected by his bravery, responded with cheers and applause. Their faith in their leader was unwavering, and seeing him so determined and powerful reminded them why they followed Narinder. They knew the challenge he would face would not be easy, but with that conviction in his eyes and that fire in his soul, he seemed unstoppable.

Narinder took a deep breath as he left the temple, letting the warmth of the sunlight wash over him, and exhaled with a calmness he rarely felt. The days of turmoil and struggle seemed like a distant echo as he made his way to the area of ​​the portals. Each step he took felt light, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor as he made his way to the place where the mystic merchant stood.

In front of him, the moon-headed mystic waited silently, his large, bright eyes following Narinder's every move. The merchant seemed eternal and enigmatic, as if he were able to read the thoughts and yearnings of those who stood before him.

"I demand to be tested," Narinder said firmly, his voice reverberating with a hint of defiance and resolve.

The mystic nodded silently, revealing a deeper understanding of what Narinder had spoken. And then, without a word, he extended his hand, and a door of shadows opened before him. The passage slowly cleared, revealing a vast, dark corridor that seemed to devour the light.

Narinder took the first step, fearlessly, into that long, dark corridor. His chest filled with memories: it was the same path the lamb had taken, the path to the veil, to his freedom. But now, that corridor held a new air of mystery, as if the very veil of the past had changed, transforming into something deeper and more challenging.

As he advanced, the gloom enveloped him; shadows danced around him, casting strange, sinuous figures on the walls. Memories of his confinement seemed to rise like whispers in the air, each step taking him closer to his destiny.

Finally, he reached the center of a large room. There, the silence was deathly, barely broken by a distant echo, a vibration felt in the ground. Narinder stopped, his presence dominating the gloom. With a precise movement, he transformed his crown into an imposing sickle, his weapon of choice, sharp and ready.

"Is this where we face destiny?" he wondered silently, his eyes fixed on the shadows.

He waited, motionless, his stance firm. He knew the test was not just physical, but a confrontation of his fears and regrets, a final test that would test the strength he had cultivated, the redemption he so desperately sought.

Narinder felt a current of ice run through his skin as he heard the echoing footsteps of hooves in the hallway. His instincts sharpened, every fiber of his being aware of the presence emerging from the shadows. The power and energy radiating from the figure was eerily familiar, but tinged with an unfamiliar undertone, something dark and wild. A figure materialized in front of him, just a few feet away, emerging from the shadows with the calm of one who has absolute control over death itself.

Before him, a towering goat with dark, fearsome fur stared at him with a crooked grin. The purple cape that covered its body billowed slightly, like a cloak laden with omens. Its twin horns curved at the ends, an orange-brown hue, and its eyes, crowned by slanted eyebrows that gave it a permanently defiant look, stared at him with an almost mocking intensity. Around its neck hung a silver bell that jingled softly to the rhythm of its breathing.

The goat bears a deep, well-defined scar on its chest, so marked that when looking at it it is difficult to look away. It is an irregularly shaped wound, but with sharp edges that somehow mimic the trace of the scar on the lamb's neck, as if they were reflections of a shared destiny. Its presence is disturbing and almost symbolic, as if both had been marked by the same blow or, worse still, the same destiny.

On his head, a crown with a purple eye sparkled, almost as if it had a life of its own, an image strangely similar to Narinder's red crown.

Narinder, seeing the goat, felt as if a spark went through his mind and, suddenly, a memory rose in his mind with a disturbing clarity: the tarot card of the purple sword. That card that he had once seen as a simple symbol of power and mystery, now took on a deep, almost revealing meaning.

The goat let out a deep laugh, a mix between amusement and defiance. "Really?" he asked, his voice deep and tinged with sarcasm. "My great test is the miniature version of the one who waits and with red eyes?"

Narinder narrowed his eyes, feeling the weight of the words of that stranger and the deadly aura that surrounded him. Without letting go of the sickle, he held it tightly, prepared for any unexpected movement. "I see you know me... but I don't know you," he said cautiously, his eyes fixed on the intruder.

The goat tilted its head, a smirk playing between its sharp lips and predatory teeth. "Oh, right, manners," he muttered, raising his eyebrows and taking a nimble leap that brought him down into a theatrical bow. "I am the goat... god of death."

Narinder felt a surge of shock and wariness at hearing him speak those words. The goat raised its head, baring its sharp fangs in a grin that seemed more like a warning. "You may call me Goliath," it added, its eyes flashing maliciously as it spoke his name.

Narinder watched him, his senses on high alert. This being, Goliath, was no ordinary entity. The similarity in their powers, the aura of darkness, and the certainty in their stance said it all. Before him was someone who knew death as intimately as he did.