Swearing an Oath (I)

"One last question." Jairzinho Guzman tapped the metal bed with his fingers, his expression devoid of emotion. "Reserve Jago Sevatarion, how are you feeling?"

"."

Answer me, reserve. Otherwise, I'll take it as you're ready.

The boy nodded silently.

At this moment, he was wearing a straitjacket, lying on the cold iron platform, looking tense.

It's impossible for him not to be nervous—why wouldn't he be nervous?

He agreed to Karyl's request and became a reserve officer, but he still had only a vague understanding of his surroundings and was completely confused. Moreover, just two hours later, he found himself lying in a dark room.

His hands and feet were bound, and the cold iron platform felt like a corpse, not only making him very uncomfortable but also making him unable to feel his back. He felt like he was sweating constantly, but he had no proof of it.

"Very good." The physician walked up to him and tapped his forehead with his finger. For some reason, he was wearing Iron Hands, and the metallic touch made Sevatar feel a sharp pain in his forehead.

"You already know what's going to happen next, don't you, reserve officer?"

"The twentieth surgery?" Sevatar turned his neck to look at the medical officer.

The latter's gaze remained emotionless; he simply nodded slowly. "Yes, the twentieth surgery, and also your first."

Will I be dissected?

Not for now.

"Then what will you do to me?"

"I won't do anything to you, reserve. You're not at the stage where I need to operate on you yet." Jairzinho grinned, a chilling smile, and tapped Sevatar's forehead again with his finger, this time with more force than before.

"What you should do right now is not ask questions, but shut up and wait quietly."

Will keeping quiet allow me to have the surgery?

"Uncertain."

"Then why should I shut up?" Sevatar stared at him. "You kept tapping my forehead, why? Chief Medical Officer Jairzinho Guzman? Is there something wrong with my forehead?"

"Perhaps." The physician looked back, his voice softening. "But I'm still not sure if the problem is with your forehead or your brain."

"Do you want to confirm this?"

"Not for now, I'm afraid I'll catch it from you, reserve." Jairzinho lowered his head and pressed a button on the side of the iron platform.

It began to change angle, lifting Sevatar from a lying position to an upright one. He didn't actually touch the ground; his feet dangled in the air. The iron platform itself, along with the straitjacket, worked together to firmly bind him. For a moment, Sevatar almost felt like he was lying in a coffin.

Of course, this did not prevent him from refuting the physician's words.

"I don't have any infectious diseases, that's what you said yourself, esteemed physician."

"I make mistakes too."

Jairzinho glanced again at the recruit who was talking too much and suddenly found it amusing.

"Save your energy and stay calm, reserve. I don't mind this kind of personal attack, but do you really think I can't tell you're nervous? Shut up and wait a bit."

Sevatar did as he was told. He was silent for a while before speaking again—stuttering.

"It's so cold," he said, shivering, his teeth chattering and his eyes rolling back. "Why... why is it so cold, Physician?"

"It's cold, that's for sure," Jairzinho Guzman said expressionlessly.

He turned his head and looked at a pair of bright eyes that shone in the darkness. Fer stepped out and nodded to him. They left the room, leaving the cold and loneliness inside to Jago Sevatarion to bear alone. Two people had been waiting in the corridor for some time.

They were of similar height, appearance, and even posture. At this moment, they were observing the interior through bulletproof glass.

Fer approached them and reported in a low voice. The Chief Librarian's voice sounded very different from his usual self, carrying an inexplicable coldness, as icy as his eyes that were now glowing blue.

"Everything is normal, Primarch, Instructor. Reserve Jago Sevatarion has already started dreaming."

"So fast?" Konrad Curze Curze raised an eyebrow, looking somewhat surprised. "I thought he would wait a while longer before falling asleep."

"Speed is a good thing," Karyl said to Fer. "How's it going, controlling the ritual?"

"It's peculiar," Fer replied slowly.

"I don't know how to describe this feeling, Instructor. The array itself is craving psionic energy to ignite it, and I feel like I'm just a generator. I can feel the psionic energy flowing out of my body, into the ritual array, and gradually building up the dream. But, besides that, there's nothing more I can do."

Karyl nodded to him. "That's enough, Fer. That's for the best."

He turned his head back, and behind the bulletproof glass, a dark yet crimson light was already shining.

Konrad Curze Curze closed his eyes, crossed his arms, and tensed his muscles.

"May you succeed, reserve Jago Sevatarion," he silently said to himself.

--

As always, it is cold, an endless, ceaseless cold.

A cold, emotionless wind swept indifferently from the far reaches of the pale world. Everything was silent; even the sound of the wind was nonexistent. Sevatar was enveloped in this chill, but he didn't seem to care much.

He could clearly feel that he was dreaming, which was very strange, but it did not stop him from being shocked by the scenes in the dream.

Before him lay a majestic mountain range, covered in a thick blanket of white ash, making everything appear to possess only one color, a single hue. And this color was lifeless, instinctively unsettling.

Are those things ashes? He asked himself, then immediately dismissed the idea within seconds—no, that's not right, they're not ashes.

Yes, ashes.

Yes, ashes.

Sevatar began to walk forward. He remembered what had happened before; Chief Medical Officer Jairzinho Guzman had told him he would undergo his twentieth surgery, which was actually his first.

Sevatar didn't understand why they had reversed the order, but he now seemed to be grasping some subtle clues.

He walked along the mountain range, surrounded by utter silence. Sevatar tried to make some sound by walking, but he failed. Even when he deliberately stomped his feet, no sound was produced in this pale world.

The boy let out a slightly uneasy sigh, instinctively wanting to crack his knuckles to ease his anxiety. It was a habit of his; he would do this whenever he felt uneasy—and this time, he actually succeeded.

Sevatar immediately realized that something was wrong.

Wasn't he wearing a straitjacket? His hands were tied together, crossed, making it impossible for him to move them.

He looked down and realized that his clothes had been completely changed. He was now wearing a white robe, with straps binding his hands and feet. His boots were also white and looked brand new.

Sevatar crouched down and touched it; the touch was dry, and he felt it was some kind of leather. He stood up again, feeling a swaying sensation around his waist.

Sevatar reached out and touched a kettle hanging from his waist, and an ancient-looking scroll of paper. Its surface was so rough that it felt like it would hurt his fingers to touch it.

Sevatar silently took the kettle, shook it, and heard no rattling sound, but the kettle's sturdiness told him something. He unscrewed the cap and took a small sip.

The water itself had no taste, but it was far better than the water he used to drink. Sevatar immediately closed the knob and hung the jug back on his waist. He then took the parchment scroll, unfolded it, and began to read.

"Cross the Pallid Mountain, and journey to the City of the Dead, Jago Sevatarion."

"."

Sevatar frowned.

"Eternal Night above—what does that mean?"

He pursed his lips, looking somewhat annoyed. But he still put away the parchment scroll, tucked it into his chest, and began to walk forward.

The mountains were eerily silent, but Sevatar continued walking forward, oblivious to the silence. At first, the path was relatively flat, but it soon became rugged. The slope rose sharply and began to become increasingly steep.

Sevatar's walking progressed from simple walking to a difficult gait, and eventually he was practically crawling, needing the aid of his hands to continue upwards. Each short distance he crawled forward required a great deal of effort.

He tried to rest for a while, but the rest did not restore his strength. He also looked up to see how far he was from the summit, but no matter how he tried, the distance of the path did not seem to shrink in the slightest.

Frustrated, the boy stopped, gripped the side of the steep road with one hand, and took out his water bottle with the other. He bit the cap with his teeth and then took a second sip.

In an instant, Sevatar's spirits lifted, and his physical fatigue vanished without a trace.

--What's going on?

He hesitantly screwed the kettle lid back on with his teeth, ultimately deciding against taking another sip. Doing so might answer his question, or it might not.

Rather than wasting a precious, hard-won water source for the sake of finding the answer to a question, Sevatar decided to keep the answer to himself.

He continued upwards, and this assisted crawling eventually turned into climbing at a certain critical point. Sevatar sensed this through the changes in slope and gravity, but did not turn his head to confirm whether his perception was correct.

Are you kidding me?

Jago Sevatarion angrily licked his chapped lips, tasting the remaining blood.

Looking back now would be tantamount to suicide—he wouldn't test his willpower for no reason. It would be better if he didn't look; if he did, who knows if he'd still have the courage to continue the climb?

After all, he still had a City of the Dead to visit.

The boy, panting heavily, took a deep breath and continued climbing. He knew the water in his canteen was almost gone. It was much lighter than before, and he had to get over the mountain before it ran completely dry.

If he can't do it, he will definitely die.

Sevatar wasn't afraid of death, but he didn't think he should die there. So he continued upwards, cursing under his breath the whole time.

After some time, his fingers began to feel sore and numb, and every movement or exertion brought pain to his wrists and forearms. His legs were the same; bending them to exert force became a terrible ordeal.

His knees began to protest, his muscles swollen and pounding with his heart. He stopped, panting, and with trembling hands, took the kettle and drank the last drop of water.

The saliva tasted bloody and had an indescribable bitterness, as if it were a concrete manifestation of pain, making it impossible to swallow. Yet, Sevatar forced it down.

A burning pain shot through his throat, while his hands began to move with increasing steadiness.

Sevatar gripped the water bottle, took a deep breath, and began to climb again.

He stopped looking up to observe, and he had run out of water to drink—he crawled, crawled without stopping. He was barely breathing, in excruciating pain, his muscles felt as if they were being torn apart, but he still forced himself to climb.

A strange willpower bound his body, compelling him to refuse to stop.

Why should we stop?

Damn it.

Jago Sevatarion cursed inwardly—Why should I stop? You bunch of bastards, throwing me into this godforsaken place and calling this surgery?

I think your brains are the ones that really need surgery! Let that damned doctor be the first one! He kept tapping my forehead with his fingers for no reason; was he using my forehead as a table?!

Before he knew it, he had forgotten that it was a dream and began to immerse himself in it completely.

He was angry, tired, exhausted, in pain, and confused. He didn't know when this climb would end. He opened his mouth and took another deep breath, but the water bottle slipped from between his already stiff jaw muscles because of the movement.

Sevatar sneered, remaining silent, but the surging emotions within him reached a breaking point, causing him to finally roar out in anger.

"Asshole!"

He hissed and roared at the seemingly endless mountain peak, his voice echoing through the once silent mountain, reverberating like thunder. But he himself was completely unaware of this.

His eyes were bloodshot as he continued climbing, seething with resentment—then, in the next second, everything before him suddenly distorted. An intense feeling of weightlessness washed over him, causing him to scream uncontrollably.

He fell, then abruptly returned to the ground.

There was no pain, only a sense of relief after landing safely. Sevatar blinked, got up from the ground, and saw a ruin shrouded in darkness. A faint light flickered in front of him, looking like a street lamp.

The boy silently lowered his head and began to explore his body. He quickly realized something.

His injuries and exhaustion had all disappeared, and the parchment roll on his chest was burning hot.

He immediately took it out, and the ancient scroll was now emitting a bright, burning red light. The characters were pitch black, and the edges were twisted as if on fire, which was very eerie.

"Congratulations, Reserve Jago Sevatarion. You have successfully crossed the Pallid Mountain and arrived at the City of the Dead. Next, you need to traverse this city to reach the Terminus Altar. There, you will witness everything."

Not again? What's going on? When will this end?

Sevatar's face twitched violently. He instinctively wanted to curse again, but immediately stopped himself. The reason was simple: he heard soft voices. He knew that voice all too well.

These are not human voices.

Jago Sevatarion silently clenched his fists and began to take a deep breath.

Also, but I don't recommend waiting. I plan to stay up all night to write tomorrow's update.