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Season 3: chapter 18 : pag

  Pag stood alone in the training grounds of Valcrest Estate as night descended, the chill clinging to the air. The vast courtyard, usually bustling with activity, was now eerily quiet, the stone pillars casting long shadows under the flickering sconces. He welcomed the emptiness, finding solace in the solitude where he could push himself without prying eyes or the weight of expectations. Though he had survived trials in the Whisperwood and the Patala Tunnels, he knew that this was something different - this was not just survival, but mastery.

  He began his training, focusing on the flickering flames in his palm. Fire and shadow warred against each other within his grasp. The heat from the fire threatened to consume the darkness, while the shadow sought to smother the light. His goal was balance, but balance was proving to be elusive. He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he concentrated on weaving both elements together. A thin stream of black smoke curled around the fire, merging and twisting into something unstable. He felt the energy surge, but before he could solidify its form, the fire flared too hot, and the shadow dissipated into the cold air.

  He took a moment to focus on some of his new abilities. He turned, flexing his fingers as another surge of power coursed through his limbs. He drew upon his second new ability—Abyssal Requiem. Black fire flared from his palms, expanding outward in tendrils that coiled like serpents before striking the practice dummies with precision. The enchanted wood hissed as it cracked and burned, their forms crumbling into smoldering remnants. The sensation was intoxicating. Pag exhaled sharply, dismissing the lingering flames with a flick of his wrist.

  Then, Pag paused, his breath catching in his throat. A wave of dizziness washed over him, momentarily blurring his vision. He stumbled, reaching out to steady himself against a nearby pillar. He landed in a crouch, heart hammering, the scent of scorched earth filling his lungs. If this was the cost of power, he would pay it.

  Straightening, Pag dusted off his charred gloves. But, as he did, he saw something that made his blood run cold. The intricate network of crimson and gold runes that marked his mana scarring, once confined to his left hand and forearm, now blazed across his chest, branching out in jagged lines that resembled veins of molten fire. The light emanating from the runes pulsed with a mesmerizing intensity, flaring brightly. But what caught his attention was the darkness that now seemed to be interwoven into the pattern, an umbral shadow creeping through the familiar crimson and gold.

  He knew what this meant, or at least, he feared he did. Was this Umbralysis, the complete and utter loss of self? Or was this something more insidious, Dedisco’s influence growing stronger, twisting him from the inside out? The spirit had warned him: "A darkness within you, a fire that burns too hot. Control it, lest it consume you and all those around you". He remembered Lord Adrien's tale of the pyromancer consumed by Umbralysis, twisted into a monster of pure darkness. He had dismissed it then, confident in his ability to control the fire within, but now… now he wasn't so sure.

  A surge of panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought it down, clamping down on it with an iron will. He couldn't let anyone see this. He couldn't let them know what was happening to him. They would fear him, distrust him, perhaps even try to stop him. He couldn't risk that. He had to protect them, even if it meant keeping them in the dark.

  Withdrawing into the shadows, he resolved to conceal this terrifying change, concealing even from his closest companions, Darleyn and Eryk. He would find a way to control this, to master the darkness before it consumed him. He would not become a monster. He was Pag, the pyromancer, the whisperer, the Infernal Vanguard. And he would not be broken.

  Pag retreated to his assigned room within Valcrest Estate, the image of the spreading, shadowed mana scarring burned into his mind. The chamber was spartan but comfortable, furnished with a simple bed, a wooden desk, and a small washbasin. He shut the door, ensuring his privacy, and leaned against the cool wood, taking several deep breaths to regain his composure.

  His first instinct was to examine the scarring more closely, but he hesitated. Looking at it, acknowledging its growth, felt like surrendering to the encroaching darkness. Instead, he focused on practicalities. He needed to find a way to conceal the runes, at least temporarily.

  He rummaged through his meager belongings, pulling out a high-necked tunic and a pair of leather bracers. These would offer some coverage, but they wouldn't be enough to hide the runes if they continued to spread up his neck or down his arms. He needed something more substantial.

  His thoughts turned to the village of Willow Creek, and to Elara. He recalled his failure to save the boy, and the notification regarding his Hygeian meter, reminding him to take care of himself and that "Witnessing or partaking in wanton violence can lead to mental harm". He pushed aside the guilt. He would find a way to atone for his failures, but first, he had to ensure his own survival.

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  He considered his pact with Dedisco, the god's influence intertwined with his very being. Could Dedisco sense his fear, his growing resistance? Was this why the umbral influence was intensifying? He rubbed his temples, trying to quell the rising anxiety. He would not become a puppet dancing to the tune of darkness.

  He needed information. Knowledge was his greatest weapon, even more so now that his control over his own power was wavering.

  He retrieved his lore book from his inventory, the worn pages offering a sense of comfort amidst the growing chaos. He flipped through the sections on Umbralysis, rereading the descriptions of the symptoms, the stages of progression, the horrifying transformation that awaited those who succumbed.

  The text offered little comfort. The causes of Umbralysis were shrouded in mystery, attributed to a variety of factors: exposure to concentrated shadow magic, a predisposition to darkness, or a weakening of the will. He checked for updates or patch notes, anything that might offer insight into the condition or how to combat it.

  He paused, his gaze drawn to the pulsing icon of Dedisco's power on his character sheet. A dangerous idea formed in his mind. Perhaps, if he could communicate with Dedisco, he could glean some insight into the umbral influence. It was a risky proposition, like bargaining with the devil, but he was running out of options.

  He steeled himself, took a deep breath, and focused his intent. The familiar sensation of Dedisco's presence washed over him, a cold, invasive force that sent a shiver down his spine.

  "Dedisco," he projected, his thoughts echoing in the silent chamber. "I need to speak with you."

  A moment passed, then a voice, dark and resonant, echoed in his mind: "Little mage. What troubles you?"

  Pag hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. He couldn't afford to show weakness, but he couldn't afford to be dishonest either. "I am… experiencing some… unexpected side effects from the Doomflame Sentinel training," he said, choosing his words carefully. "The umbral influence seems to be… intensifying."

  Dedisco was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with amusement: "Interesting. It seems you are more attuned to the darkness than I anticipated. Fear not, little mage. This is merely a… test. A trial by shadow. Embrace the darkness, Pag. Let it consume you, and you will emerge stronger than ever before".

  "Consume me?" Pag echoed, a surge of alarm coursing through him. "I thought the goal was balance, not… submission."

  Dedisco chuckled, a low sound that sent a shiver down Pag's spine. "Balance is an illusion, little mage. Power lies in embracing the extremes. Surrender to the darkness, and you will unlock a potential you never knew existed".

  The connection severed abruptly, leaving Pag reeling. He stumbled backward, clutching his head, the god's words echoing in his mind.

  Embrace the darkness.

  He sank to his knees, the weight of Dedisco's influence pressing down on him. Was this his destiny, to become a monster, a puppet dancing to the tune of darkness? He closed his eyes, fighting against the encroaching shadows, clinging to the memory of Aviva's unwavering friendship, Eryk's quiet strength, Darleyn’s sharp wit. He would not surrender. He would not be consumed. He would find his own path, even if it meant defying a god.

  He opened his eyes, his gaze hardening with resolve. He would seek guidance from another source, someone who could offer a different perspective, a different path. He would seek out Nakruer, the enigmatic figure he had encountered in the Sunken City, the one who had spoken of the delicate balance between shadow and light.

  He rose to his feet, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and determination. He would not succumb to the darkness. He would find a way to control it, to master it, to use it for his own purposes. He was Pag, the pyromancer, the whisperer, the Infernal Vanguard. And he would not be broken.

  Pag stood in his room, the silence amplifying the frantic beat of his heart. He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers, searching for any sign of the encroaching darkness, any hint of the terrifying transformation he had just envisioned. But there was nothing. His hands were steady, his breathing calm, the runes on his skin glowing with their familiar crimson light.

  Then, a cold realization washed over him: the conversation with Dedisco, the god's ominous words, the vision of embracing the darkness—it had all been a hallucination. A product of his own fear, his own paranoia, amplified by the lingering influence of the Heart of the Abyss and the chaotic energies of the Whisperwood.

  The weight of this revelation hit him like a physical blow. He stumbled, his knees buckling, and he collapsed onto the edge of the bed. He had been so consumed by fear, so convinced that he was losing control, that he had succumbed to his own inner demons, creating a phantom threat that was more terrifying than anything he had faced in the game.

  Dread filled him. If he was susceptible to these kinds of hallucinations, how could he trust his own judgment? How could he be sure that what he was seeing, what he was experiencing, was real? The line between the virtual world and his own mind was blurring, and he was terrified of losing himself completely.

  

  The game was warning him about the dangers of mental instability, the potential for his own mind to turn against him. And it was happening. He was losing his grip.

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