The bells of the Blight Hall echoed like hollow bones struck against stone.
Osric followed Elder Drevan through twisting corridors carved from black granite, the walls covered in veins of faintly glowing crimson.
Every step carried a hum of curse qi.
The air was thick with whispers — some soft, some snarling, some weeping.
"This Hall," Elder Drevan said, "is alive. It listens."
Osric nodded silently, unsure whether the thought comforted or terrified him.
---
A Hall of Voices
They entered a vast chamber lit by floating lanterns that burned with shadow instead of flame. Disciples sat in a circle, each with a strip of dark cloth tied around their mouths.
Osric frowned. "Why are they—"
"To learn silence," Drevan said.
"Only one who understands silence may speak a curse."
In the center of the chamber stood a tall, stern woman with ink-black hair and eyes the color of dried blood. She wore robes embroidered with countless tiny mouths.
"Lady Seris Tonguebinder," Drevan whispered. "Elder of the Silent Vein. Your new instructor."
She turned, sensing them even before Drevan announced Osric's arrival. Her steps were graceful but carried weight, like someone who had walked through tragedy and grown stronger for it.
Her eyes fixed on Osric.
"So… the child who awakened a Vein without guidance."
Osric bowed. "I seek to learn."
"You seek to curse," Seris corrected coldly.
"And that… is far more dangerous."
Her finger traced the air, and a thin ripple of pressure cut across the room — slicing the end off a wooden pillar without touching it.
Osric inhaled sharply.
"That was a Third-Rank curse," Drevan murmured. "A Silent Cut."
Osric realized something terrifying — a whispered word at that level could kill him instantly.
---
The Tongue Ritual
Seris raised her hand.
"Remove the cloth," she ordered the disciples.
They obeyed.
Black marks lined their tongues, shapes like runes or symbols caught between letters and wounds.
"These," Seris said, "are Curse Marks of the Tongue. They allow you to speak curses without tearing your throat apart."
She turned to Osric.
"You do not have one."
Osric touched his throat unconsciously. "Will I… get one today?"
Her lips curved into a thin smile that wasn't comforting.
"That depends. Half who attempt the ritual bleed out. A quarter go mad."
"And the rest?" he asked.
"The rest become true curse cultivators."
Osric exhaled slowly.
"Then I will survive."
A low chuckle came from behind the disciples. A tall youth with silver hair stepped forward, smirking.
"That's what they all say."
Elder Drevan whispered, "Be careful. That is Varin Bloodthorn — Bloodveil Sect transfer student. Extremely talented… and cruel."
Varin approached Osric, looked him up and down.
"So you're the village rat they're praising? The 'natural curse bearer'?"
He leaned closer.
"Let's hope your mouth doesn't tear off in the ritual. I'd hate to see them clean up pieces of you."
Osric met his gaze, unflinching.
"We'll see whose mouth bleeds first."
The room went silent.
Seris raised one brow — impressed.
"Enough. Begin."
---
The Trial of the Silent Tongue
Seris drew a blade of blackened bone and cut her palm.
Her blood fell into a bowl, swirling with ink and shadow.
"This is the Ink of Sorrow," she said.
"To master spoken curses, you must drink it."
Osric's heartbeat thundered.
Varin smiled, already lifting the bowl.
He drank, eyes flashing with sadistic delight.
One by one, disciples drank. Some screamed, some convulsed, some muttered incoherently.
When Osric stepped forward, Seris watched him closely.
"Your Whispering Seed reacted strongly in the Pool of Blight. This ink will hurt you more than it hurts the others."
Osric met her gaze.
"I'm not afraid."
He lifted the bowl to his lips—
And swallowed.
Pain exploded instantly, sharp and burning, like molten iron poured down his throat.
He gripped the floor, gasping, as shadows writhed beneath his skin.
The whispers in the room grew louder—
Bleed… break… fall… become… curse…
His vision blurred. He saw his mother's face.
His father's hand reaching through the flames.
The ruins of his home.
He heard the whisper that saved him on that night—
> "Breathe. You are not dying.
You are awakening."
Osric forced himself to inhale.
The ink spread through his veins like black fire.
A symbol formed on his tongue — searing, carving itself into flesh.
His back arched as the final surge hit him.
Then—
Silence.
The room stared.
Seris stepped forward, eyes wide.
"…Impossible."
"What?" Osric croaked, his voice hoarse.
"The mark… it's not a single sigil."
"It's three."
Murmurs rose. Even Varin looked shaken.
"No disciple has ever manifested three marks during their first ritual," Drevan whispered.
Seris touched his chin, turning his face gently.
Her voice lowered to awe.
"This boy… is born for curses."
---
First Curse Technique – Murmur of Withering
Seris stood before him, her voice firm again.
"Speak. Let your curse be heard."
Osric exhaled.
The new symbols burned on his tongue, pulsing with dark rhythm.
He looked at a dead flower lying beside one of the pillars.
A memory flashed — of his mother's wilted garden.
He whispered:
"Wither."
A faint black ripple left his lips.
The flower crumbled into dust instantly.
The room fell dead quiet.
Seris whispered, almost to herself:
"He has spoken his first curse on the day of awakening…
A prodigy of the Silent Path."
Varin's fists tightened, eyes blazing with rivalry.
Osric felt the last of the ink fade into his blood.
A calm certainty settled in his chest.
He had crossed yet another threshold.
The path of curses had accepted him.