Chapter 3: The Vault Beneath The Ash

Moon stare bright greeting town folk, it's almost midnight but still warmth because of the joy.

Horses clop through the muddy streets. Somewhere a bell rings for a service no one attends anymore. smell of firewood, wet soil… and just faintly, blood. Always blood.

William stepped outside, Cloak swishing dramatically for absolutely no reason.

Your path is clear now: the ruins of Sparda Manor, long since burned to the ground, lie a day’s ride east—through the Withered Hollow. A place the locals only speak of when they’ve had too much wine or too little sense.

That's where the Vault lies.

And if the letter true... then the Blade of Nocturne waits for William there.

......................

By midnight, you’re deep in it. Gnarled trees twist like broken limbs. The wind moans like a widow. William is quietly humming a funeral march, which is either comforting or unnerving—He is not sure anymore.

Then, He see it.

The silhouette of Sparda Manor. Or what’s left of it.

Charred beams. Collapsed towers. Stones blackened with soot and something far older. The bones of your house, left to rot like an animal in the woods.

William (quietly):

"Well. This is charming."

But as He step toward the wreckage, something moves. Not in the trees. Not in the wind.

Below.

Beneath His feet, in the crypt-soaked soil, He felt a pulse. Faint. Like a heart remembering it used to beat.

William say nothing. Words are hollow here, in the bones of His birthright.

Instead, He kneel.

The ash-stained earth is cold beneath His glove as His hand sinks gently into it. There's a hum—subtle at first, like touching a harp string strung across the world. And then, like blood drawn to iron, the ground beneath Him responds.

A sigil scorched into the stone years ago suddenly flares to life beneath His palm—a perfect circle of runes, etched in old Sparda tongue. The language of His house. A language only He can read.

William (calmly):

"Legacy. Bound in blood. Opened only by the heir who carries the scar of betrayal."

A searing heat rushes up His arm—but he doesn’t pull away. Pain is part of the rite. The ground trembles, then splits with a grinding crack as stone gives way. A hidden stairway yawns open before Him, descending into darkness.

The vault awaits below. The air is thick with dust and something older—expectation. This place hasn’t seen light since the fall of William house. Now it sees Him.

William step into the dark, torch in hand, and descend.

......................

[In The Sparda Vault]

Walls lined with sigils and weapons—some broken, others humming softly in slumber. Statues of His ancestors, masked and solemn, gaze down at you. One is missing its head. Another appears to be bleeding stone. William definitely inherited the family interior design tastes.

At the far end, on an obsidian pedestal, rests a blade.

Long. Elegant. Hungry.

Nocturne.

Its metal is black as void, etched with crimson veins that pulse faintly like a sleeping beast.

But as William approach, the room shifts. Shadows lengthen. Cold creeps into your lungs.

And something steps out of the darkness.

A man in tattered noble robes. Pale. Dead. Eyes burning like dying stars.

"You are not worthy," he says.

"The blade was forged in sacrifice.

What have you given?"

Your legacy has teeth, Sparda.

So do you.

......................

William meet the burning gaze of the shade without flinching. He's voice is low. Steady. The kind of voice that carries when the wind dies and all the world is listening.

William:

"I gave my home. My name. My family.

I watched them burn while I ran with a sword too big for my hands and blood in my mouth.

I buried my childhood in a ditch and learned to kill before I could shave.

I lost everything. And I’m still here."

The shadow doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches.

Then it speaks again. The voice softer now, like ash on snow.

"Then take it."

The challenge is accepted—not because you were noble, but because you were honest. The blade Nocturne is not a sword of kings.

It is a weapon of survivors.

William step forward and wrap His hand around the hilt. It’s cold. Then searing hot. Then nothing at all—as if the blade becomes an extension of your own body.

Power floods through Him. Not just strength, but memory. Rage. Centuries of His family’s war cry, echoing through the steel. And in the blade’s mirrored surface-William see Himself.

Not as He are.

But as He could become.

William hold Nocturne now. The weapon forged to end the monsters His family could not. The final legacy of Sparda.

yet He don’t move to leave. Not yet. He tighten His grip on Nocturne, feel its pulse sync with His own, and turn back to the figure cloaked in death and dust.

William:

"This blade…

What is it bound to?

Whose blood sings in this steel?"

The shade tilts its head. Then slowly—deliberately—it steps down from the shadows and stands before William. His face, once clearer, is now unraveling like smoke in moonlight. But his voice is solid. Heavy with truth.

"Nocturne was forged from the remains of a fallen archfiend—one slain by the first of our line.

Its bones were ground to ash. Its heart crystalized into the core.

Its name was never spoken again, for fear of summoning it back."

William (low whistle):

"Oh, fantastic. So it’s basically a haunted sword with an ego problem."

"It is more than a weapon. It is a contract.

Power in exchange for purpose.

So long as the wielder fights against the darkness, the blade obeys.

But should they stray…"

The shade reaches up, revealing the stump of his arm, blackened and rotting where a blade once rested.

"It feeds on those who would betray its oath."

William feel the weight of Nocturne shift subtly in His hand. Not with malice—but with promise.

The sword will empower you. It will cut through death itself if needed.

But only if you stay true to your cause.

Vengeance. Justice. The burning of the House of Valemont.

Time to choose your path, Sparda.

Will you wield the curse… or fear it?

......................

William raise Nocturne before Him. Its crimson veins flicker—like lightning trapped beneath obsidian. The vault stills. The air itself seems to draw a breath.

William (resolute):

"By the blood that birthed me…

By the fire that burned my name…

I swear—Nocturne will not rest until the House of Valemont is ash."

The moment the vow leaves His lips, the blade surges with power. Not pain. Not rage. Something… colder. Sharper. Like a beast recognizing its master. The room glows dimly, the runes pulsing in time with His heartbeat.

The shade begins to dissolve, the tattered remnants of his presence drawn into the sword like whispers being pulled into silence. His final words echo in William's mind:

Shade (fading):

"Then rise, heir of Sparda.

Fear not, the blade won't hurt Sparda bloodline.

So cut the world back into shape."

And then at the end of the chamber stand still yet old, looking chest with Sparda crest on it

William:

"Bet you are Morningstar baby!"

William crack open the chest, lies there a Silver Chain Wisp with a sharp thorn mace on the end of it—the mace made of silver and tampered with holy water, a slight touch against monsters skin could explode them.

So now William's weaponry is completely ready.

He ascend the steps from the vault, blade on His back, Wisp on his belt, name in His heart, and ghosts at His side. Nocturne hums against His spine like a hungry choir. The forest beyond the manor seems to bow away from His path.

The hunt begins again.

But you are no longer just a hunter.

You are a storm waiting to happen.

The land is thick with the scent of old power. William felt it every step of the way:

A legacy dragging behind Him, like a shroud. Only this time, He wear it like armor. Nocturne hums at His side, feeding His resolve.

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