Re: Tales of the Rune-Tech Sage Chapter 594: Dark Choice II

The Captain stayed silent for nearly five full minutes, obsessively turning over the potential paths forward. It wasn't that the correct decision eluded him; rather, it was that this 'obvious' path was a burden too heavy to bear. Finally, he could no longer shroud his thoughts in denial. Their list of options was nonexistent. In truth, they were trapped with but a single alternative. We have no need for six men to transport the Sample, the Captain stated. His declaration hung in the air like a lethal toxin, the gravity of it striking his squad in unison. Absolute silence ensued, persisting until Brenden allowed a dry, fractured laugh to escape his lips. Well, I’ll be damned, Cap. You actually managed to devise a way out, he remarked with a mirthless smirk. The others gave small nods of agreement. The Captain felt his eyes falter. Not one of them rose to challenge his horrific suggestion. Instead, they embraced it. That realization was the most chilling part of the entire affair. Torvar scratched at his beard and nodded. Indeed. As long as just one of us manages to reach the destination with the Sample, our scholars and mages can synthesize a cure, effectively ending this cursed plague. But what if none of us make it out alive? Eli asked in a soft, trembling voice. Then the world fades away along with us, the Captain replied. A deeper, more oppressive silence smothered the group. Eli squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, absorbing the brutal truth, before reopening them with a gaze fueled by a quiet, iron fire. Then that is the final decision, isn't it? Yeah, came Torvar’s nod. The others followed his example. The surviving question is, how do we determine the sequence? Brenden asked, sweeping his gaze across their faces. Every eye shifted toward the Captain. He stared at the extinguished fire pit for a long span before finally whispering, We will draw lots. He delved into his pouch, retrieving six iron nails. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped one, rendering it shorter than the rest. The one left with the shortest nail is chosen. Torvar gave a sharp grunt of acknowledgment. Fair enough. The final man left had best be an expert rider, or we are all doomed, Brenden added with a dark scowl. Then again, we will all be corpses regardless. The others cast him heated glares, failing to notice their Captain subtly altering the short nail. Before long, the lots were cast. The holder of the shortest nail proved to be Eli, the youngest of the group. The youth stared at the scrap of metal in his palm for an eternity before letting out a thin, mirthless laugh. I suppose that is that. Torvar rested a heavy, comforting hand upon his shoulder. I am sorry, kid, he whispered. Eli dashed the moisture from his eyes. No, it is alright. He shifted his attention to the Captain. The scholars will surely craft a cure from this Sample, correct? Yes, the Captain confirmed with absolute certainty. Eli nodded. Good. Standing up, he walked toward his horse. Thank you for your service, buddy, he muttered, stroking the animal’s neck one last time. Returning his gaze to the others, he said, Make it brief. His horse was dispatched first, followed by Eli’s kneeling form. The air was void of speech. The Captain stepped forward, his own hand gripping the blade. The young man looked up at his leader, then at their peers. Whoever carries this to the end, ensure they never forget our sacrifice. With those parting words, the steel descended. Days trickled by, and the ritual became a grim cycle. Horse, then rider. Pieces of meat. Survival extended by mere fractions of time. Conversations within the squad grew rarer, tainted by an increasing darkness. Torvar was the second to face the blade. He chuckled while diligently honing his own edge. You know, I used to despise the flavorless stew back in the army, especially during long campaigns, he mused. I never imagined I would eventually become an even more insipid meal. Silence, you fool. You’ll ruin the flavor, Bren retorted with a dry tone. Torvar’s face split into a grin. Promise me, you bastards, that you will consume every last bit. We will, the others promised. Torvar let out a long, relieved breath. Good. Yet again, the Captain took on the role of the executioner, steadfast in his refusal to let anyone else shoulder that burden. The third, then the fourth departed. Finally, only two remained: the Captain and Bren, the sardonic joker. They sat near the final horse—the Captain’s mount. An untouched knife rested between them. The Captain, who had personally ended his men one by one, had reached the breaking point of his spirit. Bren sighed heavily. Seeing you in this state, Captain, I find it quite ironic. What is? the Captain asked, his voice rasping. I think this was your design from the start. No, I know it was. The Captain remained mute. Bren offered a faint smile. I bear you no resentment. I truly understand. The Captain slowly raised his head. Someone had to survive to complete the mission, Bren added. He reached for the blade, then slid it across the ground to the Captain. I only pray this world was worth this cost. Ensure that it was. With shaking hands, the Captain performed the final, necessary act. Three days later, he rode onward in solitude. Starving and teetering on the edge of delirium, he miraculously reached the Empire’s gates. He collapsed at the garrison, his vitality spent, and had to be carried within by the guards. Even in his unconscious state, his grip on the relic remained ironclad. Only the intervention of a familiar mage—the high scholar lead—managed to pry the sealed crystal from his emaciated limbs. The scholars worked with immediate, desperate fervor. Fortune favored them; they succeeded. A cure was forged, and the world was delivered from destruction. The exhausted soldiers had fulfilled their impossible task. Everyone, of course, was desperate to learn the tale of their survival. When the inevitable inquiry was voiced—How did you endure?—the Captain scanned the faces before him. The Emperor, high ministers, wealthy merchants, and the most influential power brokers of the Empire were all present. He could have woven a lie, painting himself in the vibrant colors of a hero’s epic. Instead, he answered with a simple truth. We rationed. He recounted the harrowing path from beginning to end without sparing a single grisly detail. He spoke of the sacrifices, the butchers' work, and the absolute horror that paved the way for the Origin Sample. The report rippled through the Empire like a wildfire. Shock curdled into horror, then into whispers, then into a roar of condemnation. Monster. Cannibal. Butcher. Now that the plague was a phantom of the past and safety was assured, the populace bayed for retribution, demanding justice for the 'animal' who had committed such atrocities. The Captain was arrested, cast into a dungeon, and left to decay for his choices. Years flowed by. Finally, the Captain stood upon the execution dais. A vast sea of faces stretched before him, a crowd gathered to feast on his demise. What they could not know was that the man once shattered by hunger had not merely recovered; he had ascended to a level of power that dwarfed them all. He possessed the strength to annihilate everyone gathered there and walk out unscathed. Yet, as the vitriol and insults rained down upon him, he remained motionless. He knelt before the executioner with calm resolve. A priest approached, leaning close. Do you feel regret for your deeds? he inquired. No, the man replied calmly, his heart bared to the world. Why not? the priest persisted. The man waited, lifting his gaze to the clear, blue expanse of the sky—a sharp contrast to the suffocating gloom of his past. He looked back at the priest. Because the mission was a success. With those final words, he rested his head upon the block. The blade fell.