Return of the Cursed Hero

Night had fallen over the Draknhold Bastion, and the main hall lay drowned beneath a cold, ancient heaviness—an atmosphere thick as the still air before a battlefield s*******r, oppressive and unmoving, like the weight of a forgotten war pressing down on stone and bone alike. At the very center of the hall, Issac Monroe sat cross-legged within the carved blood-red sigils of the ritual pool. His upper body was bare, every inch of his skin latticed with twisted, bruised streaks of the Crimson Bind, those sinister marks writhing beneath his flesh like venomous serpents trying to claw their way out through muscle and skin. Then— BOOM. An explosion of savage energy burst from deep inside Issac’s core, a surge so violent it warped the air itself. The shockwave cracked against the pillars of the hall, making the entire structure groan and shudder with ominous creaks. “Urgh—!!” Agony ripped through him. His fingers dug deep into the stone tiles, and in the next instant, blood streamed between them. His ten fingertips were torn open, leaving small crimson pools spreading beneath his hands. The seventh eruption. And this pain… this pain was far worse than dying. It was the kind of pain that reached into the marrow, that felt as if hooks were tearing at the soul, pulling it apart strand by strand. He felt the Crimson Bind thrashing inside him, gnawing through bone, clawing toward daylight, eager to devour him from within. “Steady—!” A voice thundered from the distance—old, harsh, and powerful enough to quake through the entire bastion. The High Jarl staggered forward, planting his dragon-etched iron stave against the stone and slamming it downward with all his strength. BOOOOOM! Dozens of golden runes surged to life around Issac. They spun in the air like glowing chains, wrapping him in layers of shimmering restraint, forcing the rampaging energy back into its cage. The struggle lasted mere seconds, but to Issac it felt like drowning in fire. At last, he gagged and spat out a mouthful of tar-black blood. His entire body sagged, collapsing sideways as sweat poured off him in relentless sheets. His breath came in ragged bursts, chest rising and falling like a man dragged out of a storm-torn ocean. The High Jarl hurried to him, gripping his shoulders with trembling hands. “You reckless fool! Are you trying to die here?!” Issac gave a rough, strained laugh. “Master… did it flare up again?” The old man’s eyes hardened. “The seventh time.” Issac fell silent for several long heartbeats. Then he lifted his gaze, voice steady but low. “Master… you can’t lie to me. How long do I have left?” The air froze. Even the faint drafts swirling through the hall seemed to vanish, as if the entire world held its breath. Only after a long silence did the High Jarl finally speak, his voice cracking. “Issac… the Crimson Bind has been in you since the moment you were born. You’re alive today only because your talent is monstrous—only because the full might of the Draknhold Bastion has kept this curse chained.” “But…” A look of deep sorrow twisted the old man’s face. “If we still can’t find a way to unravel it, you have at most… two years.” Issac’s fingers trembled, though his expression remained composed. He did not speak. The High Jarl continued, his voice heavy. “Before you turned twenty, I called you the greatest martial prodigy I had seen in my lifetime. Now, you’ve become unrivaled—standing at the very peak of the younger generation, the strongest High Jarl the Draknhold Bastion has seen in a thousand years.” “And yet… all of that, undone by a curse etched into your blood before you even drew your first breath.” Silence returned—thick, suffocating, heavy as stone. Issac finally lifted his brows slightly and whispered, “Two years…” “That’s enough.” The High Jarl blinked. “Enough? Enough for what?” Issac raised his head. His eyes were shockingly calm—so calm they were terrifying. “Enough time… for me to repay everything I owe.” “Enough time for me to go home. To spend time with my parents.” “And enough time… to go back and see Madison Clarke.” The High Jarl jerked his head up as if struck by lightning. But Issac was already rising to his feet. His silhouette stretched across the hall’s long stone floor, tall and sharp against the cold lantern glow. “I’ve had enough of being the High Jarl.” “I’ve had enough of killing.” “From now on… I want to live like an ordinary man.” “You’re walking to your death!” the old master roared. “When the Crimson Bind erupts, you can’t even bring out half your strength! Leaving the Draknhold Bastion means throwing your life away!” Issac gave a quiet, weary laugh. “Master… you’ve taught me the Martial Skill for twenty years. You still don’t understand me?” “I, Issac Monroe, have never feared death.” “What I fear is—” He slowly curled his fist. “If I wait any longer… some people I care about will be gone forever.” The High Jarl’s eyes burned red. His jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. He looked at the boy he had raised—now a man, now a titan—and for the first time in decades, the old master seemed… powerless. “Go, then.” “But remember this—” “No matter where you walk, no matter how far you run… you will always be the High Jarl of the Draknhold Bastion.” Issac bowed deeply, the motion heavy with years of loyalty. At that moment, he was no warrior, no leader, no legend. He was simply a son… who wanted to go home.