The path to the Blighted Frontier was long — and hungry.
Osric walked for three days through rain and mud, carrying nothing but the cracked amulet and a handful of dried roots. The road twisted through dead forests where no birds sang, only the wind whispered through hollow branches.
On the fourth night, he reached a gorge choked with fog. Bones jutted from the cliffs like pale roots.
A stone bridge stretched across the abyss — carved with runes that pulsed faintly in the dark.
He hesitated.
The air tasted of rust and something deeper… curse qi.
> "Beyond this bridge lies the Blight Hall," the whisper murmured in his mind.
"If you cross, there is no turning back."
He stepped forward.
With each pace, the symbols along the bridge shimmered to life — responding to the curse within him. Shadows rose from the mist, taking the shapes of hooded figures. Their eyes glowed faint red.
"Name yourself," one hissed.
"Osric of Hollow Reed," he said, voice steady.
"What do you seek?"
"…To curse the world that cursed me."
The shadows were silent for a moment. Then one knelt. "A fitting answer."
The mist parted, revealing a vast valley below — black stone temples and towers built from bone and ash, their roofs burning with faint crimson flame.
At the valley's heart, a colossal statue loomed — a blindfolded figure with an open mouth, from which dark smoke flowed eternally.
Osric's heart pounded. He felt the pull — the same whisper that had answered him in the ruins.
The Blight Hall had been waiting.
---
Inside the valley, disciples moved like ghosts, their faces pale, their eyes ringed with black veins. Yet none looked weak — they carried the calm of those who had accepted suffering.
An old man stood at the main gate, robes of faded grey, holding a staff made of bones and black lotus roots. His gaze pierced through Osric.
"You carry the First Sigil," he said quietly. "Who taught you the Whispering Seed?"
"No one," Osric replied. "It came when I prayed."
The old man's lips curved faintly. "Heaven's silence answers in strange ways."
He turned toward the temple behind him. "Follow me. You are cursed by fate — but perhaps, you can learn to wield it."
---
Within the Hall, black candles burned with silver flames. Murals on the walls depicted men and women tearing open their chests to plant seeds of darkness within — their eyes weeping ink.
The old man stopped before a pool of still water. "Kneel."
Osric obeyed.
"This is the Pool of Blight," the elder said. "Every disciple must open his veins to the truth. Speak your vow."
Osric hesitated only a moment. Then he pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the sigil pulse beneath the skin.
"I vow to master my curse," he whispered. "So it may never master me."
The elder nodded. "Then bleed."
Osric drew a dagger from the altar and slit his palm. His blood dripped into the pool — and the water turned black.
Mist rose, wrapping around him. His veins glowed faint crimson, and the mark on his chest seared.
> "The Second Vein awakens," the whisper purred. "Vein of Blight."
Osric gasped — his blood shimmered like liquid shadow. The pain was unbearable, yet he smiled through it.
The elder watched silently. "He bleeds willingly… rare," he muttered.
"From this day forth, you are Hex Adept Osric.
Your voice shall bear weight — your words shall curse the heavens themselves."
---
Outside, the bells of the Blight Hall tolled.
Somewhere deep beneath the earth, an ancient curse stirred — sensing that another soul had stepped upon the Path of Eternal Malediction.
Osric rose, wiping the blood from his hand.
For the first time, he felt not fear — but purpose.
He whispered to himself:
"If Heaven won't listen to prayers, then let it listen to curses."