SML Ch 78

Chapter 78

Damn it… my hand… it’s moving on its own…!

Reynald glared at the blade creeping steadily toward his own throat. He strained with all his might to resist, but his right hand—clutching the sword—did no more than tremble violently. It would not obey him.

If only Serna would unleash the Golden Mirror, then surely this mental assault could be broken. But in his current position, Reynald had no way to signal for aid. And Serna—as he had been told earlier—would hesitate to use the relic unless absolutely convinced. Reynald himself had warned him: “Save the mirror. Keep it for unforeseen danger.”

So the only tactic left was to endure, to stall for time. Serna was clever and perceptive; once he realized something dire was happening inside the horse’s neck, he would surely act. That hope was his only line of defense.

Of course, it was only hope. If Serna misjudged even briefly, Reynald might well be transformed into the next rider of the Dullahan.

[…Sever thy neck. Cast aside that worthless head, that soul at its limit, that feeble life. Forget all and become eternal.]

The voice hummed like a song—low, entrancing. In a fog, one might almost believe its words sweet. But even as his thoughts blurred, Reynald knew better. His instincts snarled at the lie.

Why are the lies of monsters always the same? Do they learn from some handbook of false promises?

How many times had he endured such honeyed deceit in battles before? Monsters that reached into the mind always whispered the same: Your life is hollow. Death will bring completion. Always the same bait. Always the same weakness of men to pick at.

“Trash… wretch… You want me to die just to keep laboring even in death, is that the bargain?”

Reynald, squeezing words past a locked throat, rasped out defiance. The logic was nonsense to him. To become this horse’s rider meant never to rest, never to retire. An eternal, miserable half-life. Unthinkable.

“That pitch works on someone twenty years my junior maybe—but not me! Keep dreaming, and get out of my head!”

He threw his body, twisting with desperate resolve. His right hand was chained to betrayal, but his other limbs—still his own—he forced toward the horse’s inner cavity, seeking the magical core.

But one hand bound was enough to cripple him. He could barely cling to bone to avoid falling, much less climb further. His head spun, lungs heaved. Sight wavered. Still he blinked, searching the ribs and vertebrae for the telltale glow of a core.

[…Foolish. Thought is only torment to the living. Cast off mind, cast off feeling, and eternity will be no burden…]

“…”

[…You came here to die, did you not? That useless head cannot admit it, but your soul knows. Your instincts carried you to where your grave awaited.]

“You—how many people have you fed this same drivel to? If I escape, will you just find another and repeat, word for word, this pathetic speech?”

Even half-drowned in fog, Reynald forced the words out, if only to hold his mind to awareness. He recalled advice from a friend, a wizard: mental attackers recycle the same empty phrases, twisting universal fears to sound personal. Weaker spirits succumb. But they were patterns, nothing more.

A monster like this—its lines had probably been written by some long-gone sorcerer, assuming, “Whoever stumbles to this graveyard must have already given up on life.”

By thinking, by mocking, Reynald bought clarity. His mind steadied enough that his sight at last sharpened. And there—the glint.

There!

Set deep within, a pendant gleamed—its gem the size of a child’s fist, emerald green, etched with the very glyph glowing at the horse’s neck stump.

That was the core. Remove it, and the beast would fall.

[…How foolish, to deny reality with wandering eyes. Your blade already kisses your throat.]

And indeed—it was true. The steel bitten into his skin, drawing red. He felt his own blood slide down the blade.

And still, the voice pressed.

[…And do not delude yourself. I speak only to you, dragon-slayer.]

“—!”

[…The hydra that swallowed a thousand serpents, the lion who guarded the sacred fruit, even the fae king who dwelled beyond the world’s rim. And more, countless lesser beings slain along your endless road. You bore the blood others should have shed. Dare you claim you are not at the limits of soul?]

Shock froze Reynald.

Hydra. Lion. Fae king. Names of foes he had faced—but never shared aloud save among a few. That the beast spoke them—the moment of distraction nearly killed him. His grip faltered; the sword drove closer, eager to finish its betrayal.

He was seconds from a slit throat when—

[…Kids! Kids! Are you all right? The link cut off and I couldn’t come—nearly had me panicking!]

A shrill voice shattered the air. Loud, piercing, almost comical. Not human—something other. From beyond.

And at once, the coercion broke. Reynald’s right arm slackened, control his again. His head cleared, like cold water dashed upon him.

With a heaving gasp he rammed his sword back into the scabbard and lunged.

Now!

Grabbing the emerald pendant, he tore. The chain was wedged deep in bone; it refused to yield. So he ripped it, wrenching until at least the gem came free in his hand.

[…Then I shall wait. For the day you too sink into earth.]

The horse’s final whisper. Pitifully anticlimactic for a monster that had dragged him to death’s edge. Reynald stared at the jewel—clearly a power-source. Its design—like that necklace Volant had found in his field days ago, only greater.

But there was no time.

A rending crack sounded—the bones he clutched shivered, ready to fall. The mound collapsed beneath.

“I need out—now!”

He jammed the gem into his pocket and clambered to the outside of the neck, preparing to leap. Ten full meters down—the fall itself death—yet he held faith.

“Doll! Catch him!”

Alex’s cry reached from below. Reynald glimpsed far off the small figure on Arun’s head, little arms raised to the sky. If the puppet invoked a ward, he might survive the fall, as with the carnivorous plant before.

He trusted it. He leapt.

Only—he was not caught by the doll.

[…Falling to your death now? After breaking free? Thought you’d nine lives at least, the way you carry on.]

The shrill, alien voice from before. Arms—not the doll’s, but some stranger’s—wrapped him lightly, lowering him back to earth.

The doll, left scowling on Arun’s head, crossed its stubby arms, glaring daggers at this interloper.