Chapter 167: Chapter 12
Orpheus sat in the little boat, his trembling hands clutching the paddles.
His breath rattled in his chest, his body still broken from the endless desert, yet he forced himself upright.
He closed his eyes, and in the dark he saw her face—Eurydice, smiling as she once had beneath the sunlit fields.
That vision steadied him, lit a fire in his hollow chest.
Charon’s silent form loomed nearby, watching with eyes like two pits of burning coal.
The ferryman raised his skeletal hand and pointed forward. "The second trial begins. Five rivers. Endure them all, as the souls do, and survive. Only then will the heroic spirit guide you onward."
Orpheus nodded, swallowing the dryness in his throat, and dipped the paddle into the water.
The boat glided forward, slipping into the first current.
It was the river he was on, the River of Styx.
The water hissed like acid against the wood of the boat, black and boiling.
As the current swallowed him, voices began to echo all around.
Bitter, endless curses clawed at Orpheus’ ears, filling his head with venom.
He saw visions of friends betraying him, of Eurydice spurning him, of gods laughing at his weakness.
His heart boiled with rage, his hands clenched until his nails tore his skin.
"No... no... this isn’t me," he rasped, shaking his head violently.
With a thought, he materialized his lyre he had hidden, then he plucked a trembling note.
The sound was soft but pure, cutting through the venomous whispers.
Hatred lashed at him like a storm, but the note anchored him. Slowly, the rage ebbed, and the river spat him out into the next.
The River of Acheron.
The current turned icy, freezing to his very bones.
Every breath was agony, every muscle screamed.
He looked down and saw his flesh blistering, torn open, bleeding endlessly.
"AAAHHHH!!!"
His screams mingled with the cries of countless souls drowning in pain.
His body convulsed, begging him to give up, to sink beneath the surface and end it all.
But Orpheus gritted his teeth.
Through the blinding torment, he whispered her name. "Eurydice... For our promise... To see you once again... This is nothing...!"
He forced his broken arms to row, each pull ripping his muscles apart.
Still, he moved forward, until at last the agony dulled, and the river gave way and sent him to next.
The River of Cocytus.
A pale mist rose around him, filled with the sound of endless lamentations.
The voices were sharp, tearing at his soul. Every word reminded him of his failures, his cowardice, his powerlessness.
He saw Eurydice dying again, over and over, bitten by the serpent, falling into darkness, her hand slipping from his.
His own voice joined the chorus, wailing in despair.
Tears streamed down his face, but even as the sorrow tried to drown him, he played.
His lyre’s mournful notes rose in harmony with the wailing, weaving grief into beauty.
The cries softened, resonating with his song until Cocytus’ sorrow passed him on to the fourth river
The River of Phlegethon.
Flames surged like waves, the river burning yet flowing as liquid.
His skin blistered, his hair singed, smoke choked his lungs. The heat stripped him raw, melting flesh from bone.
Yet still he clutched his lyre.
His music faltered, but he found strength in its strings. Even amid fire, beauty could exist. Even in hell, his song could live.
He rowed through the inferno, each stroke an act of defiance, until the fire dimmed and darkness embraced him once more.
Finally, he arrived at the last river.
The River of Lethe.
The final current shimmered with pale, silvery light. The air grew still, and suddenly, Orpheus felt peace.
No pain, no sorrow, no fire.
Only quiet and peace.
He felt his memories drift away—his name, his life, Eurydice’s face.
The ache in his chest eased.
His suffering seems to be coming to an end.
"Is this... freedom?" he thought, his hands falling limp from the paddles.
The current beckoned him deeper, promising release.
Forgetting was bliss.
Forgetting was peace.
That was what is echoing in his headt.
But in the faintest echo, he heard her voice.
Eurydice, calling to him, gentle and soft.
His hand trembled as tears burned his eyes.
"No... I cannot forget. Even if it breaks me, I will let go of you."
With a final, desperate cry, he struck his lyre.
The melody was jagged and broken, but pure. The sound clung to him like chains, anchoring him in his love.
The river raged, trying to tear his memories away, but Orpheus held on.
With a final stroke of his lyre, like a man splitting the sea in half, he ceased all power making him forget.
And then—silence.
The current eased, and the boat drifted free.
The second trial has been completed.
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Exhausted beyond measure, Orpheus collapsed, lying motionless at the bottom of the boat.
His body was shattered, his soul raw, but he was still himself.
Charon’s eyes glimmered faintly. The ferryman inclined his head. "You have endured. The rivers did not claim you. Now... the heroic spirit shall guide you to the third trial."
Just then, a thick mist engulfed them for a moment, and from it, a figure made itself known, walking out of the mist as Orpheus stared with caution.
First came the shape of a man’s broad shoulders, then the gleam of bronze-like armor that shimmered with spectral light.
His presence alone pressed against the air, sharp and commanding, like a man who has been to countless battlefields.
When the heroic spirit stood fully formed upon the river, Orpheus’ eyes widened in disbelief.
He looks so familiar!
The figure placed a hand over his chest in salute, his voice steady, resonant, carrying both pride and sorrow.
"I am Kaerion, once general of King Herios, sworn brother to the first champion of Hades."
Orpheus’ breath caught in his throat.
His trembling hands gripped the edge of the boat as if the spirit might vanish if he blinked.
"Kaerion...? The Kaerion?" he stammered.
Stories of him had been told since Orpheus was a child—the mighty general who never lost a battle, the steadfast guardian who defended humanity after Herios’ passing, the warlord whose strategies were still studied in secret scrolls across kingdoms.
The spirit’s eyes, glowing faintly with a warrior’s fire, softened at Orpheus’ awe.
"So, my name still endures," Kaerion murmured. "That is good. Humanity should never forget its own strength."
So he really is Kaerion! He really does look like the statues! Orpheus had seen so many of them.
And a Heroic Spirit huh...so those beings really do exist and not just made up words by the patron of heroes to motivate mortals to start acting like heroes.
Just then, Kaerion glanced toward Charon.
The ferryman gave the slightest nod, his coal-flame gaze unwavering.
Kaerion’s attention returned to Orpheus, sharp and piercing.
"You have endured the rivers. Hatred, pain, sorrow, fire, and even the call of forgetfulness could not break you. That is why I stand before you now."
Orpheus swallowed hard, his exhaustion making his body feel like lead.
Still, he straightened his back, trying to meet the general’s gaze with the dignity Kaerion deserved.
The spirit extended his hand—not offering comfort, but a challenge.
"The second trial is behind you. The third begins now. Stand, Orpheus of Thrace, and prove whether you are worthy to walk the path once trodden by my king."
The air immediately grew heavier, the world itself seeming to hold its breath.