The last warlord

The Price of Power

The night seemed to stretch longer than usual as Adrian’s feet carried him through the darkened streets. The map in his hand had begun to feel heavier with each step, as if it were becoming a weight he was not yet prepared to bear. The further he went, the more the city around him seemed to shift, the shadows growing darker and the noise of the world fading into a distant hum. He wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him or if the world truly had changed.

His instincts screamed that something was off, but he pushed forward. The first artifact was close, and Marcus’s words echoed in his mind: “You need every ounce of strength you can muster to survive what’s coming.”

Adrian wasn’t sure if he believed Marcus entirely, but the sense of urgency had settled in his chest. He had no choice but to follow the map. After all, what else was left for him? His life, as he had known it, had already fallen apart. This was his shot at something more.

As he turned a corner into a narrow alleyway, he found himself standing before a small, abandoned church. The windows were broken, and the building was shrouded in neglect, its once-white walls now worn and covered in grime. The map pointed directly at it.

Adrian’s pulse quickened. Something was wrong here. The air was thick, heavy with an unnatural stillness. It was the kind of silence that made every hair on his body stand on end, like the calm before a storm.

He hesitated, standing just outside the crumbling entrance. He had no idea what awaited him inside, but the pull of the artifact was undeniable. Without thinking, he stepped forward, pushing open the rusted doors. The creak of the hinges was the only sound as he entered.

Inside, the church was dark and cold. The once grand altar had long since fallen into disrepair, and the pews were scattered haphazardly across the floor. But what caught Adrian’s attention was the center of the room, where a strange, obsidian pedestal stood, bathed in an eerie, dim light. Atop the pedestal rested a small, ornate box.

The map’s symbols pulsed once again, and Adrian felt a surge of power flood through him, more intense than before. This was it. The first artifact.

As he stepped toward the pedestal, his breath caught in his throat. A strange feeling washed over him, one that he couldn’t quite place—something ancient, something that resonated with the very core of his being. He had felt this kind of pull before, in the depths of his forgotten memories, but never so clearly.

Reaching for the box, his fingers brushed the smooth surface. The moment his skin made contact, a sharp, searing pain shot up his arm, as though the very essence of the artifact was alive, rejecting him. Adrian staggered back, gasping for breath as the pain subsided. The box sat there, seemingly unchanged, as if mocking his attempt.

"You're not ready," a voice said, cutting through the silence.

Adrian whipped around, searching the darkness. The voice had come from nowhere—and everywhere. It echoed in his mind as much as in the space around him.

"Who's there?" Adrian demanded, his pulse racing. His instincts told him to leave, to run, but something held him in place. He was close—too close to turn back.

A figure emerged from the shadows. The man was tall, draped in a cloak that seemed to blend with the darkness itself. His face was obscured, but his eyes glowed faintly, red and piercing.

"I'm the Guardian," the figure said, his voice smooth and heavy. "The artifact you seek is not for you, not yet. You must first understand the price of power."

Adrian’s chest tightened. He stepped forward, ready to face whatever this Guardian intended. "I’m done with waiting. I’ve lived too long with nothing. If this is my chance to reclaim what was taken, then I’ll take it."

The Guardian’s eyes flickered with something like amusement. "You think the power you seek will return to you without consequence? No god has ever risen without sacrifice. You must choose: the path of the mortal, or the path of the divine."

Adrian’s hand clenched into a fist. "I’ve already chosen. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I want to be whole again. I want my power back."

A low laugh rumbled from the Guardian. "Power, boy, is a heavy burden. You will not have it without paying a price. To claim the artifact is to claim the war that once was—endless conflict, the weight of thousands of lives lost in battle. And with it, the temptation of more."

Adrian’s stomach churned. The weight of the Guardian’s words settled on him, but his resolve hardened. "I’ve fought in wars before. I’ve faced death, faced poverty, faced everything this world has thrown at me. I can handle this."

"You think you can handle a god’s legacy?" the Guardian asked, his voice tinged with mockery. "You may have strength, but it is the strength of a man who has forgotten what it means to wield true power. You have lost the essence of your being—your purpose. What will you do when the bloodshed comes for you again?"

Adrian hesitated, but only for a moment. He had been nothing before. If he was going to be anything at all, it would be as a god. The gods didn’t hesitate; they took what they wanted, and they ruled.

“I’m ready,” Adrian said through gritted teeth. “I’ll pay whatever price it takes. I want that power.”

The Guardian stared at him for a long moment, his gaze unyielding. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“So be it. But know this: once you take what is offered, there is no turning back. You are bound to the legacy of war, to the bloodshed and the wrath of gods long forgotten.”

Adrian took a deep breath, his hand hovering over the box once more. This time, when his fingers made contact with the smooth surface, the pain was even sharper, like fire searing through his veins. He forced himself to endure it, focusing on the power that was beginning to surge within him.

As the box opened, the world seemed to tilt. Adrian’s vision blurred, and he felt a force surge through him—ancient, primal, overwhelming. The artifact was his, but in that moment, he realized the truth of what he had done. The weight of his choice settled heavily upon him. This wasn’t just a path to power; it was a path to war.

The first step had been taken. But the price had been paid.