Echoes of the Abyssal Blade: Path to Free Will-Chapter 64: Forging Spirit

For Jonan, the temperature at the prison was more intense than he anticipated. His journey down the prison’s countless narrow staircases—each featuring dirt-laden walls and an overwhelming musty odor—took him nearly an hour. With each step, the atmosphere became more oppressive; air was richer, thicker, darker—at one point lacking torches—and then replaced by the soft glow emitted from luminescent stones.

Two wordless warders met him along the way, leading him masked-faced through a web of corridors, devoid of any dialogue until they reached the rusty door. It was ancient, placed at the end of the corridor, surrounded by stone statues of long-forgotten wardens brandishing spears.

One commented, "this is the entrance, beyond these gates lies the uncertain realm of cells," muffled behind their masks.

Jonan stepped through the gates, as he made his way, he noticed, the hall beyond was lined with cell doors, most of them were sealed with layers of runes and chains, he also noticed, that some of the prisoners were silent, and there were even those from whom, he could hear... faint weeping, incoherent whispers, the scratching of nails against stone, the prison was completely an uncomfortable experience for him, he didn’t want to stay long here, but he had to go on for his goals.

Cell 692, which lay at the far end of this area.

He went further and further, when he finally saw it long before he reached it, a cell door blackened and warped, surrounded by dozens of layered seals, each one pulsing with a dim violet hue, the ground around it was scorched and cracked, and a sickly mist clung to the bars.

Even standing at the threshold of the corridor, Jonan felt it, while he could not see the one imprisoned inside, he could feel the terror from afar, and the thing that troubled him was that the other cells beside this cell were all empty, while there were prisoners imprisoned behind him, after a certain distance, all the cell, whether they be in left or right were empty, only the one in front of him, cell number 692 was home to a single prisoner.

Jonan tried inquiring about it from Master Vega, but he didn’t say much, he just mentioned that this was quite a unique being with quite a unique Battle Art.

Although he was blind, he just kept on doing whatever he was doing, unfortunately, the moment he got there, it felt as though someone had pressed down on his chest; his breathing quickened, and his legs started to feel heavy.

"One step at a time," he told himself, remembering Vega’s words.

He took a step forward, a chill swept through his body, his heart was pounding against his ribs, his vision blurred for an instant as the pressure sank deeper into his spirit, he even crouched a bit, and then instantly he retreated, and started heavily breathing.

"Just the first step towards that cell is frightening enough for me, how can I go forward with the next ten steps, I cannot exert my physique to resist this pressure, only after a month, I might be able to," thought Jonan.

Even still, Jonan wanted to see his limits, to what end he could go further.

He again went for the first step, where he felt the same pressure as before, without thinking much, he then moved on to the second step, it felt like his skin was being peeled back, exposing his nerves to an unseen wind, and then at the third step, where his muscles trembled, and bones started creaking, when he lunged at the fourth step, he could taste blood in his mouth.

And a memory surfaced in his mind, the abomination’s gaze, that lone eye, filled with endless hunger.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, and was pushed back from the pressure, and retreated.

Jonan stood there again, the first step before the threshold of cell 692 had become a grim, familiar spot for him; the mottled stone beneath his feet was no different from the rest of the corridor, yet to Jonan it might as well have been a border between life and death.

The oppressive force, which was radiating from that cursed cell, had weight, which was suffocating for him, every time he stood on that single step, it felt as though some invisible mountain settled itself upon his shoulders, driving cold tendrils deep into his bones, scraping against the core of his spirit.

His fists were clenched, his jaw was clasped tight, and with sweat running down his temple, his breathing was slow and rough, harsh and heavy while his heart pounded in his ears like a drum.

Hours maybe passed, or a few minutes, but for him, it was an eternity, his skin was creeping with chills of dread leached into his marrow, the vision lightly clouding at the farthest periphery, a cloying, creeping sense of fear pricked at him, refusing to leave; it felt as if something unwilling to reveal itself had been watching him take his chances, waiting there, just on the other side of the cell door.

And yet, he refused to step back.

The wardens, silent as ever, lingered at a respectful distance, though even they dared not cross a certain point of the corridor, it seemed understood that the malevolence confined in that place was not merely dangerous, but also someone to be handled with caution.

The first step, that’s all he could manage, the weight pressed down, compressing his chest, his ribs protesting with each shallow breath, he felt his legs lock, his balance wobbling under the invisible burden, it wasn’t physical strength that would get him through this, and Jonan knew it, this was spirit, will, something far less tangible and infinitely more difficult to train, and he had to be patient about it.

Time passed slowly, he had no idea how long.

And then, as his eyes went black and his knees gave way, he surrendered, took a reeling step backward, the sudden release of tension almost sent him stumbling to the floor, and his legs shook in spastic spasms, his breath came in rough gasps as he clutched at his chest, the memory of the pressure still searing behind his eyes.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and departed.

Back in his room, Jonan lay upon his bedding, staring at the ceiling, the day’s failure gnawed at him, though he refused to call it that aloud; his body still trembled with sweat soaking his tunic, the spiritual pressure at that threshold wasn’t like anything he had faced before, not even when confronting the abomination, had he felt this terrible as it was, it had only been a moment of horror, whereas this... this was a ceaseless, formless oppression that had no stopping.

And still, he would have to go back, day after day, until he could build up resistance against such pressures.

Tomorrow.

The next day.

The day after.

Again and again.

Days blurred into one another, each morning, Jonan rose, his muscles sore and heavy, each evening, he dragged himself back to his quarters, spent and trembling, every inch of him was aching, his mind, too, felt raw.

The wardens said nothing; their presence was just a constant, they would lead him through the winding corridors, to that same cursed place, and he would stand at the first step, trying, enduring, testing the edges of his spirit.

Some days, he could last only moments before retreating, other times, he might stand an entire hour, each time the pressure threatened to crush him, to unravel his soul from within, but bit by bit, he adapted, his breathing slowed, his pulse steadied, the suffocating dread had finally lost its edge.

And after half a month, something changed.

Jonan stood at the first step, and the weight did not come.

Not like before.

It was there he could feel it, like a storm in the distance, oppressive and waiting but it no longer pressed down upon him with the same smothering intensity, he straightened, his breathing even, his muscles no longer trembling, the cold mist still clung to the cell door, the seals still pulsed with that dim violet glow, but the pressure from just this step no longer made his heart pound or his skin crawl.

A grim smile touched his lips.

Finally, He inhaled once again, and then, without delay, with hardened eyes, he proceeded to the second step.

Suddenly the heavy weight returned, like a rock dropped on his shoulders, his peripheral vision was foggy, a burning, searing, stinging sensation coursed through his skin as a thousand invisible needles stabbed him simultaneously, his arms became rigid, his legs folded under him, Jonan’s jaws were clenched so hard that they ached.

The second step was a different feeling entirely.

He could barely keep his eyes open, the oppressive force that radiated from cell 692, now this much closer, carried a malevolent will, something alive and watching, pressing against his consciousness like a thousand ghostly hands clawing at the walls of his mind, a suffocating sense of ancient, bottomless hunger leaked from behind the sealed door.

His breath became ragged, his chest was tight.

So Jonan sat down.

Right there on the stone floor, cross-legged, his back straight against the mounting weight.

His eyes were closed, and he was focused.

This was not something he could resist through brute force, he had learned that well enough, to endure this kind of spiritual pressure required a quiet, centered mind, the ability to root his will in place like an anchor against an endless tide.