Corpses littered the mountainside—every one a soldier sent by Goujian. Eugene Smithson stood among them, holding the sword known as Cecilia, fresh blood still dripping from its blade.
None of these corpses met a different fate—each was killed with a single stroke, their heads severed cleanly and precisely.
Eugene Smithson stood silently, his eyes burning red. Waves of chilling, feminine laughter echoed around him. Nearby, Lucy Hidden lay on the ground, long dead.
Judging by the color of these bodies, they had been dead for days. Yet Eugene Smithson remained alive, his appearance immaculate, untouched by blood or dirt. The ground around him was soaked red, and the sword in his hand—Cecilia—gleamed crimson as blood.
It was as if Eugene Smithson was resisting something unseen. He stood utterly still, unmoving.
"Is that Cecilia?"
I asked, and the Soulreaver Blade beside me let out a soft, sinister laugh.
"Indeed, it's her. Back then, I hadn't yet come into being. Normally, for a ghost blade to be born, many conditions must be met before a spirit inhabits the weapon, gaining self-awareness. But this beauty was, at first, merely a finely crafted sword. When Cecilia drove the blade into her own heart, her soul took residence inside it."
I swallowed. Though this was only a memory, I could sense a sinister aura emanating from the sword, from Cecilia herself.
At last, Eugene Smithson moved. He seemed to awaken, his eyes clearing. With sorrow, he gazed at his lifeless wife, Lucy Hidden, overcome with grief and unable to hold back his tears.