Chapter 570: The Curse of Choice (2)
He looked utterly consumed, his face drawn tight with pain. But the moment Snow neared, Frey’s eyes snapped open.
Their gazes met. Frey inhaled deeply, struggling to draw that raging violet aura into himself, the earth around him quaking violently in response. The strain of containing it boiled the energy so fiercely that the lake itself evaporated—vanishing entirely.
Minutes passed. Finally, Frey succeeded in containing it, stepping out of the dried lakebed with heavy, dragging steps.
“Snow… forgive me, I didn’t notice your presence,” Frey said, apologetic. Snow remained silent for a moment, then finally asked the question that had consumed him since the beginning.
“What just happened, Frey? What was that aura?”
Frey lifted his palm. A small sphere of violet aura bloomed above it, like a tiny sun of condensed destruction.
It was small, yet it carried the exact same energy as before.
With a dismissive wave, Frey dissolved it into nothing.
“Nothing special. I’ve been trying to develop a new technique for my arsenal. But so far… every attempt has failed.” Fresh chapters posted on novelFirｅ.net
“A new technique…” Snow whispered, though his body remembered all too well the crushing pressure.
What kind of cursed technique carries such terrifying power…? he thought, staring at Frey.
And then he noticed something he had failed to see earlier—distracted as he’d been by the overwhelming display.
“Frey, you…” Snow began, startled. Frey immediately understood, pulling on his mask once more to hide his face.
“Ah. I’ve spent so long alone that I forgot myself.”
But Snow had already seen.
“What happened to you?” he asked, his voice low.
Frey sighed. In just a few short days, he had changed dramatically.
Now that Snow was truly looking, the signs were clear.
His face was pale, marked with heavy black rings beneath his eyes—as though he had aged years overnight. His arms were thinner, harsher, their usual color leeched away, as if some wasting sickness had taken hold.
“I’m cursed, my friend. That’s all there is to it,” Frey said, as if it were the most ordinary truth in the world.
“Cursed? What curse? Who placed it on you?” Snow pressed, questions tumbling from him. This time, Frey chose to answer honestly.
The two sat before the barren lakebed as Frey told the tale of the shadow within him—Wesker’s Shadow.
It crept through his veins, draining his body, his mind, even his power.
So far, Frey had kept the symptoms in check, aided by the Nameless mask that suppressed the shadow’s influence. But lately, the symptoms had worsened rapidly, the shadow’s grip tightening. A warning, a reminder that time was running out. He would soon have to face it—or pay the price.
“Fortunately, the cure lies here, within the Church’s domain,” Frey said. “Though I don’t yet know what it is. That’s why I’ve tried breaking through their lines, aiming for their leaders. But I couldn’t find their hiding place…” He recalled the days of bloodshed.
“I killed every soldier the Church threw at me. I even fought their War Angel. I tried to make them lead me to their masters. But the plan failed. In the end, I hit a labyrinth—impossible to cross unless certain conditions were met.”
At the mention of the labyrinth, Snow immediately thought of the place he himself had encountered.
“That labyrinth… I think I can cross it. In fact, I already have,” Snow admitted with a crooked smile.
Frey chuckled, unsurprised. “As expected of Vermithor’s bearer. Their defenses mean nothing to you.”
“To be honest, it didn’t feel like a labyrinth at all,” Snow said. “I simply followed a trail of aura I felt drawn to—and it led me straight to their sanctuary. A strange temple, shaped like a towering spire. At its peak… a tree.”
“A tree?” Frey asked, narrowing his eyes. Snow nodded.
“Yes. A golden tree radiating the purest aura I’ve ever seen.”
The moment Snow mentioned the tree, Frey fell into deep thought. Snow noticed his reaction at once.
“You… you know something about it, don’t you?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
But to his surprise, Frey nodded.
“In a way… yes. I believe I know what that tree is. Most likely… it’s the World Tree.”
“Yes… though I’m not entirely certain. A tree of that kind shouldn’t even exist here, on Earth. Though honestly…” Frey smirked darkly, lifting his gaze toward the star-studded sky and the colossal moon above, “…I doubt we’re still on Earth at all.”
“I don’t know much about the World Tree. But what I do know is that its very appearance requires a power on the level of the one who forged the blade in your hands.”
“The same one who forged Vermithor… Are you talking about the Lord of Light?”
Frey’s reply sank into silence, a grim possibility flashing across Snow’s mind.
“Are you saying the Lord of Light truly stands with the Church?” If that were true, it would mean they had no chance of victory at all.
But Frey shook his head firmly.
“Impossible. The Lord of Light only cares for one human—the chosen wielder of the sacred blade he forged himself. In other words, you, Snow. If the Lord of Light sides with anyone… it’s you.”
Snow blinked in surprise, then lowered his gaze to Vermithor, the sword that had been resonating with him more and more each day.
“That doesn’t make sense. If the Lord of Light truly stands with me, then why issue such twisted decrees? To exterminate the Starlights, the Valerions… If he’s on my side, he’d know I’d stand with them. Why would he push me into fighting his own followers?” Snow demanded, his voice tight with confusion.
Frey was quiet for a while, as though he too had wrestled with the same thought for long. Finally, behind the mask of Nameless, he muttered:
“In that case… are we so sure the Lord of Light gave those commands in the first place?”
“…What?” Snow breathed, stunned.
“Think about it,” Frey pressed. “Isn’t the Tablet of Revelation supposed to be the means by which the Lord of Light communicates with mortals?”
“Yes,” Snow said cautiously.
“And do you really believe that? That a being of such immense power needs pawns of flesh to slay his enemies for him? That he’d scrawl his will into some worthless slab, instead of speaking directly to his chosen messenger on this earth—you?”
The thought struck like lightning. Had the Lord of Light truly given those orders? And if so, why address them to the Church rather than Snow—the very vessel of his will?
Questions, endless and grim, spread like cracks through their certainties.
Frey hadn’t known about the Three Decrees until recently, when the Church had turned against them. Yet suspicion had gnawed at him from the moment he’d heard of them.
“I have no proof. But keep this possibility in mind, Snow… There’s a strong chance it’s not the Lord of Light at all—but High Bishop Blattier and his ilk, pulling the strings in his name.”
“And by doing so, they can deceive every last soul who bows to their false god, making them obey without question.”
As long as the name of the Lord of Light was invoked, the faithful would do anything.
“If you’re right,” Snow said darkly, “then this entire religion was built on a lie…”
A faith that had ruled the earth for centuries. With vast legions of followers. Its history, its structure, its very existence—nothing but a fabrication spun by men.
“The Lord of Light exists,” Frey admitted. “But he isn’t a god. He’s a powerful being, yes. Perhaps even unimaginably so. But nothing more than that.”
The weight of the truth hung between them. Snow sat in silence, his thoughts reeling. The Lord of Light was real, but not divine—merely another entity of great power within the vast, merciless cosmos.
There were far greater beings still. The Demon King Agaroth. The First Seat, Crimson, whose presence was said to rival even the Demon King. The Pantheon’s King, Medir. The mysterious Great One’s.
So many monsters under the same heavens. And in comparison, they were but dust. Frey had lived with this awareness for a long time. Snow was only now beginning to walk that path.
It was a road that led easily to despair. And perhaps for that reason, Snow rose to his feet with a strained smile.
“Then let’s go, Frey. Let’s put an end to this.”