3 Chapitre 3 : Survivor (2)

The forest, silent witness to their despair, seemed to hold its breath as Arden and his companions, their hearts pounding, suddenly realized that the bandits after them were far fewer in number than they had feared. This moment of revelation inspired a wind of revolt within the group. Arden, grabbing a sturdy piece of wood found during their frantic escape, looked up at his companions. "We have a chance," he whispered, determination lighting his eyes.

"For our freedom, let us stop at nothing!" Arden cried, galvanizing his companions as the bandits surrounded them, weapons brandished with malice.

The group, unified by budding hope, prepared to face the bandits. With improvised weapons in hand, they faced their attackers with new boldness, their war cries echoing through the woods. The opening moments of the fight were a whirlwind of chaos and dust, with both sides clashing with brutal fury.

Arden, breathless and his gaze ablaze with an indomitable flame, stood firm, his improvised weapon clutched in his trembling but resolute hands.

In front of him, a bandit advanced with cruel confidence, brandishing his sword. The blade glowed menacingly under the rays filtering through the foliage, each movement of the bandit a promise of death.

"You cannot escape your fate, slave!" the bandit spat, his voice filled with contempt.

Arden, far from being intimidated, responded with a cry of defiance, pushing his body beyond its limits. He knew that the outcome of this confrontation would not only determine his fate, but also that of his companions.

As the bandit lunged, his sword whistling through the air, Arden dodged to the side with surprising agility, his slave background having taught him to anticipate and react with deadly precision. He struck back immediately, his sturdy piece of wood cutting through the air, finding its way towards his opponent in a deadly dance of blows and counter-punches.

The wood hit the bandit's arm with a sinister crack, drawing a howl of pain from the man. However, the victory was short-lived. The bandit, fueled by rage and pain, launched a furious counterattack, forcing Arden back into the hail of blows.

The two adversaries, locked in their duel, seemed to forget the world around them, their movements a brutal symphony of survival. Arden's every attack was parried with equal brutality, every defense tested by the violence of his opponent.

In a crucial moment, Arden saw an opening. With a cry from the depths of his soul, he took a step forward, narrowly dodging the blade that was aimed at his heart. Using the force of his momentum, he aimed a powerful blow at the bandit, the wood striking his enemy's head with devastating force.

The bandit collapsed without a sound, defeated, while Arden, panting, stood, victorious but not without consequences. His breathing was heavy, his muscles screamed in pain, but in his eyes burned an inextinguishable light. He had survived that encounter, but the battle for their freedom was far from over.

But the hope was short-lived. A companion, a young woman with fierce determination, was overwhelmed by two attackers. "Arden!" was his last cry, before collapsing under the blows.

Distracted by the fall of his friends, Arden did not see the bandit slipping behind him. A vicious sword blow was delivered to his stomach, the cold blade cutting through flesh and bone only to emerge, stained with blood and carrying with it Arden's vital organs. The impact knocked him to the ground, a cry of pain and fear escaping his lips as the reality of his mortal injury dawned on him.

Around Arden, the bodies of his companions lay in poses of eternal distress, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and pain. The air was saturated with a metallic smell, the scent of blood mixed with that of damp earth creating a heavy and oppressive fragrance.

The bandits, although victorious, were not without injuries. Some stood, panting, their bodies scarred from the struggle, exchanging triumphant but tired glances.

The noise of the combat had faded, giving way to a heavy silence, disturbed only by the groans of the wounded. The sun, filtering through the foliage, cast rays of light on the scene, illuminating the faces of the dead and the living with cruel impartiality.

Arden, at the center of this devastation, struggled to breathe, blood leaking from his wound in a steady stream. The vision of his fallen companions, mixed with the searing pain that consumed his being, made him feel like he was already a ghost among them, a spirit lost in the tumult of battle.

The battlefield, for a moment a scene of hope and despair, was now a monument to the fragility of life and the indifferent cruelty of fate.

As the heavy silence fell on the battlefield, a subtle but profound change began to manifest itself around the Behelit soaked in Arden's blood. The stone, until then inert, began to palpitate.

His grotesque features, a distorted caricature of humanity, took on a life of their own, his eyes and mouth lighting up with a blood-red glow. The Behelit now vibrated with dark power, its black veins drawing across its surface like the roots of an ancient tree feeding on the earth itself.

Arden, pain radiating from his mortal wound, felt an unsettling connection establish between him and the Behelit. His fingers, covered in his own blood, quivered as he held the object, as if witnessing the birth of an ancient presence.

"AAAAHHHHRRRGGGGG"

Suddenly the Behelit uttered a sound, a cry that was not of this world, a lament that seemed to come from the depths of the abyss itself. The cry was both a plea and a call, piercing the veil of reality, summoning powers that only the artifact could awaken.

The Behelit's eyes and mouth lit up, casting an infernal light that danced like ghostly flames around the group.

Around him, reality began to distort, the laws of physics collapsing under the weight of the unleashed energy. Space folded, creating visual ripples that evoked mirages, while sounds were muffled, replaced by an ethereal cacophony that defied description. Survivors and bandits, frozen in horror and fascination, watched as the artifact became a portal to the unknown.

Suddenly, a brilliant light burst from the Behelit, engulfing everything within its radius of action. It was no ordinary light, but darkness made light, a visual contradiction that signaled the passage to another world.

In the blinding glare where the dimension fractured, Arden and the others were transported to a place that defied all understanding. They emerged into a surreal reality, a space where architecture mocked gravity and perspective. Before them stood fragmented structures, a conglomeration of deconstructed geometric shapes, both familiar and strangely alienated from any recognizable function or intention.

Stairs rose and fell in endless spirals, ending abruptly in midair or winding in endless loops. Broken columns levitated, suspended next to vaults which buttressed each other in improbability, and arches whose counter-vaults never met. These elements, similar to fragments of reality scattered by a capricious mind, created a destabilizing scene, reminiscent of works that explore illusion and spatial perception.

This space seemed both a sanctuary and an enigma, a place where each structure invited exploration while refusing rational explanation. The rules of architecture were rewritten there by an unknown hand, drawing a landscape where one could walk on the ceilings as easily as on the floors, and where shadows fell in impossible directions.

Arden, and those who had been torn away with him, now stood before figures that spoke of ancient terror. These imposing figures, hidden in the darkness as if they were woven from the same fabric as the night, only allowed rare glimpses of their faces to be seen under their abysmal hoods.

However, a cold recognition came over Arden; he knew, with a certainty that chilled his blood, that he was facing the Hand of God, the omnipotent deities of the Berserk manga.

These entities were the undisputed masters of the cruel fate that reigned over the world of Berserk, arbiters of suffering and power. Every detail of their frightening presence revived Arden's memories, reminding him of the stories of the universe he had fallen into. The Hand of God embodied the very reality of the supernatural, beyond death and life, existing in the interstices of the cosmos.

There, in the gap between worlds, Arden stood, breathless, not from the surprise of the unexpected, but from the overwhelming weight of confirmed truth. The gods of Berserk, those he had thought were only fragments of a fantasy story, were there, terribly real, and their gaze on him was as tangible as the cold steel that had torn his flesh.

..................................

If you are not patient to be able to read the rest here is my $3 patreon link: https://patreon.com/Ermers

Thanks for the support!!!!