Chapter 139: The Bridge of Sighs
The misty island and its small stone shrine disappeared behind them as they stepped back onto the Sunken Path. The Whispering Mire was quiet once more, the malevolent presence that had been hunting them having retreated into the depths of the swamp.
They had won the battle, but the silence that followed was not one of peace. It was the tense, watchful silence of a predator that had been wounded and was now planning its next, more cunning attack.
Rhys led the way, his simple iron sword in hand. The bite mark on his arm was completely gone, his Void-Tempered Immortal Body having left no trace of the injury.
But a different kind of wound remained. The vision the Weaver had shown him, the image of Sera standing alone in the Ashen Dimension, her eyes empty, her voice a whisper of abandonment, had shaken him more than any physical blow ever could.
It was a cruel, targeted attack, a reminder of the one thing in the universe he truly feared losing.
Behind him, Emma walked with a new, cold resolve. She too had been attacked, shown a vision of her mother’s dying moments, a memory twisted into a weapon to break her spirit.
The assault had failed, but it had left its mark. The fear in her eyes was gone, replaced by a grim determination. Their enemy was not just a monster to be killed; it was a personal insult to be answered.
They pushed deeper into the mire. The Sunken Path grew more treacherous, the moss-covered stones slick with a thin layer of black slime.
The whispers were still there, a constant, low murmur in the back of their minds, but the focused, intelligent presence behind them was gone. It was hiding, watching, learning.
The landscape grew stranger, more alien. The trees were twisted into grotesque shapes, their gnarled roots like the bony fingers of giant skeletons reaching out from the black, still water.
The air was thick with the sickly sweet smell of decay, a scent that clung to the back of the throat.
They traveled for the rest of the day in a tense, watchful silence. They knew the next attack would come. They just didn’t know what form it would take.
As dusk began to fall, casting the green twilight of the mire into a deeper, more profound gloom, they saw it. The path ahead widened, ending at the edge of a deep, dark chasm that cut through the swamp.
The chasm was at least a hundred feet across, and its bottom was lost in a thick, swirling mist. On the other side, they could see the faint outline of the Sunken Path continuing into the gloom.
Spanning the chasm was a single, elegant bridge made of a pale, white stone that seemed to glow with its own faint, internal light. This had to be the Bridge of Sighs, the next marker from Emma’s book.
It felt too easy. After the constant ambushes and psychic assaults, to find their next destination so openly waiting for them felt wrong.
The whispers in their minds, which had been a constant, chaotic noise, suddenly quieted down. The entire mire seemed to hold its breath.
"It’s a trap," Rhys said, his voice a low, certain growl.
They approached the bridge cautiously. It was beautiful, its smooth, white stone a stark contrast to the dark, twisted world of the mire.
On the other side of the bridge was a small, green island. A clear, sparkling spring bubbled up from its center, and a few small trees grew there, their branches heavy with a strange, golden fruit that glowed with a soft light.
It was a perfect, peaceful oasis, an image of safety and rest in a world of danger and decay. It was everything they needed, which made it the most obvious bait in the world.
Rhys stopped at the edge of the chasm. The beautiful, glowing bridge looked solid, inviting. But his instincts screamed at him that it was a lie. Emma stood beside him, her mother’s book open in her hands.
"The book says the Bridge of Sighs is a simple stone bridge," she said, her voice a worried whisper.
"Not... this." She looked at the elegant, glowing structure. "And there is no mention of an island or a spring."
"It’s an illusion," Rhys confirmed. "A powerful one. It’s designed to lure us in."
Emma closed her eyes. She focused her will, pushing her Soul Inquiry trait forward, not as an attack, but as a probe.
The familiar, faint golden light emanated from her. She was not trying to read a mind; she was trying to read the environment itself, to feel the texture of reality.
She let out a small gasp.
"It’s a psychic trap," she said, her eyes snapping open.
"The entire island, the spring, the fruit... it’s all an illusion. A mental construct. If we step onto that bridge, it will feel real. We will drink the water, eat the fruit. We will feel rested and safe. But it will all be a lie. It’s a psychic web. It would slowly drain our will, our consciousness, until we fell into a sleep we would never wake from."
"So where is the real path?" Rhys asked.
Emma looked at the book again, her finger tracing a single, cryptic line of text her mother had written under the entry for the bridge.
"The true path is not the one that offers rest."
She looked at the chasm, at the illusionary bridge that spanned it. Then she looked down. Hidden in the deep shadows beneath the glowing illusion, almost completely obscured by the swirling mist, was another path.
It was not a bridge. It was a series of small, rough, and uneven stepping stones, slick with moss, that crossed the chasm just a few feet above the black, murky water. That was the real Bridge of Sighs.
They looked at each other. The choice was clear.
Rhys went first. He carefully lowered himself from the causeway and onto the first stepping stone. The stone was wet and slippery, and the mist from the chasm was cold and damp.
He moved slowly, his balance perfect, his senses on high alert. Emma followed close behind, her hand on his shoulder for support.
As they stepped onto the real path, the beautiful illusion above them began to waver. The glowing, white bridge flickered and dissolved.
The peaceful island, the sparkling spring, the golden fruit—it all melted away like a dream, revealing the dark, empty chasm and the simple, ugly stone causeway on the other side.
The trap had been sprung, and they had avoided it. But now, the trapper was angry.
From the black, still water of the chasm below, a new creature began to rise. It was not a physical monster of flesh or bone.
It was a being of pure, solidified emotion. It was about ten feet tall, its form a vague, shifting humanoid shape made of a swirling, semi-transparent grey mist.
It had no face, no features, just two long, thin arms that ended in wispy, claw-like fingers.
As it rose, a wave of pure, crippling despair washed over them. It was not an illusion. It was a real, tangible psychic pressure, an aura of absolute hopelessness that sought to extinguish their will to live.
This was a Grief-Eater, a specialized psychic predator that fed on the positive emotions of its prey.
The effect was immediate and devastating. Emma let out a small, choked sob. The hope and determination she had felt were being drained away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of loss and failure.
The weight of her family’s fall, her father’s betrayal, her own lonely struggle—it all came crashing down on her at once.
Rhys felt it too. The cold, hard purpose that had driven him, his unyielding will, his desire to protect his new family—it all seemed to evaporate, replaced by a deep, soul-crushing apathy.
What was the point? The fight was endless.
The world was a cage. He was just a monster, a killer, a being destined to be alone for eternity. It would be so much easier to just lie down, to let the quiet, dark waters of the chasm take him.
He gritted his teeth, fighting against the suffocating wave of despair. His Whispering Dread, the power of silence and fear, was useless here.
The Grief-Eater was a creature made of dread. His power would only make it stronger.
They were being mentally and emotionally drained, their will to fight literally being eaten away.
He had to find a counter. He could not fight despair with fear. He could not fight sorrow with silence. What was the opposite of despair? It was not happiness. It was will. Pure, unyielding, absolute will.
He focused his mind, pushing past the suffocating wave of apathy. He reached into his own core, into the memory of the choice he had made in the void.
He had accepted his loneliness. He had accepted his monstrous nature. He had accepted his path. That choice, that absolute, unshakeable purpose, was the one thing the Grief-Eater could not consume.
He focused that purpose. He reached for his Voidheart Flame. But he did not use it to burn or to erase.
He focused on its other property: the pure, unyielding light of a dying star, a light that shines brightest in the deepest darkness. He willed that conceptual light into a new form.
A faint, silver and black flame appeared around his body. It did not emit heat. It did not emit light that could be seen with the eyes.
It emitted a conceptual light, a pure, unwavering aura of absolute purpose. It was the Flame of Will.
The crushing aura of despair that had been suffocating them was pushed back. The Grief-Eater let out a silent, psychic screech of pain and confusion.
It had never encountered a will so cold, so hard, so absolute. It was like trying to eat a rock made of diamond.
His Flame of Will created a small, safe bubble of purpose in the sea of despair. But it was not enough. He was just one man, and his will was focused on a single, lonely path.
He looked at Emma. She was on her knees on the stepping stone behind him, her head bowed, her body trembling. The despair was still affecting her.
"Emma!" he called out, his voice a sharp command. "Your will! Your purpose! Focus on it! Fight back!"
She looked up, her green eyes full of a deep, sorrowful emptiness. "I... I can’t," she whispered. "I’m not strong enough."
"Yes, you are," he said, his voice firm. "You are the last of your house. You carry your mother’s legacy. You are on a mission to find your freedom. That is your purpose. Hold on to it!"
His words were a lifeline in the sea of despair. She looked at him, at the strange, dark flame that burned around him, a flame that was not hot, but full of an unyielding strength. She saw his will, and she found a spark of her own.
She closed her eyes. She thought of her mother. She thought of the book in her hands. She thought of the portal, of the promise of a new life. She focused all of her being on that single, desperate hope.
She did not attack the Grief-Eater. She used her Soul Inquiry to create a tiny, focused beacon of her own purpose, her own will to survive.
It was a small, fragile light, but it was pure. She pushed that beacon forward, not as an attack, but as an offering, a reinforcement to Rhys’s own Flame of Will.
When her will touched his, something new was created. His cold, lonely purpose was joined by her desperate, hopeful one.
His dark flame was infused with her golden light. The bubble of their combined will expanded, pushing back the Grief-Eater’s aura with a new, overwhelming force.
The Grief-Eater let out a final, agonizing shriek. Its own despair was no match for their combined, focused purpose. Its misty, grey form began to dissolve, unable to exist in the presence of such a powerful, positive force.
It was no longer a threat. It was just a weak, exposed creature. Rhys did not hesitate. A Twilight Edge blade formed in his hand. He threw it.
The black blade cut through the last of the despairing aura and struck the creature’s exposed, shimmering core.
Flash.
The silent, white light of the final attack erased the Grief-Eater from existence.
The oppressive psychic pressure over the chasm was gone. The world was quiet once more.
Rhys and Emma stood on the slippery stepping stones, both of them utterly drained, mentally and emotionally. But they had won. They had learned a vital lesson. They were stronger together.
They looked at each other, a new, deeper understanding passing between them. Then, they turned and continued their journey, crossing the true Bridge of Sighs.