Pitch darkness appeared before his eyes. From it emerged tall figures with long grey hair, clad in dark armor. In their long hands, they held large terrifying swords. They were inexorably approaching the warrior.
The Cursed rose from the throne, and the sword appeared in his hand. The battle began. Their blades were crossing and parting. The enemies moved strangely. They were delivering a series of strikes and moving aside, diving into the impenetrable darkness at the edges of the faceless space. They kept appearing in another place and attacking from there. When the Cursed's sword slashed through their vulnerable spots, black blood splattered, but the enemies did not die. They kept disappearing into the impenetrable darkness. For some time, the Cursed failed to kill a single opponent. This gave rise to certain thoughts.
The Cursed tried to move into the impenetrable darkness, but he could not reach it. It seemed to slip away from him, always remaining just beyond his reach. Only by using vampiric speed did he manage to break through the black impenetrable veil and see white vessels standing on tall marble pedestals. He struck the first vessel with his sword and shattered it to pieces. At once, a stifled low wail swept through the dark space. Another strike of the sword against the next vessel. Again, a wail rang out. The creatures were dying one after another. He moved along the entire perimeter of the space and destroyed all the vessels. Then the darkness disappeared, and he saw the throne hall again.
The Cursed sat on the throne, which became filled with a glow. His vision changed; it began to perceive ghostly, semi-transparent figures moving through the castle. They had the same evil faces as the monsters depicted on the walls.
The Cursed rose from the throne and made his way into the depths of the castle.
Each tower had its own separate door. With his new vision, the Cursed could see which doors were guarded by flying ghostly sentinels. All of these doors led to traps. Only behind one door was there no one. He went up the stairs behind it and found himself in the upper room of the tower. Night reigned outside the windows. A chest stood by the wall. He opened it and saw a spiked gauntlet.
"Is this the ancient weapon?" the warrior thought.
He took the gauntlet, examined it from all sides, and then put it on his left hand. He felt new powers ignite within him. Wild and unrestrained.
As he was leaving the castle, the ghosts were parting before him.
He was able to test the gauntlet on the road toward the army of the dead. Several dead creatures jumped out from the forest trees.
He raised his left hand, and suddenly the gauntlet came to life. It brought all his fingers together, aimed his palm at the horrifying creatures. Then it made a commanding gesture. Several energy charges shot from the space above the creatures and tore them apart. They did not manage to reach even half the distance to the warrior's horse.
The panorama of the castle siege by the dead resembled a grim horror. The dead creatures covered the castle walls like a terrible disease, creeping farther and farther toward its vital center. New forces gathered from behind. The army of the dead seemed endless. Somewhere behind them sat a tall, terrifying figure on a horse—the Lord of the Dead.
At that moment, the Cursed started it all. His left hand rose into the air. The iron gauntlet came to life on its own. It made a short commanding gesture. In the night sky above the army of the dead, a titanic circle of fire formed. From it burst numerous streams of fire, and with a terrifying roar they fell upon the maddened army of the dead. They were burning and destroying the creatures by the hundreds. Watching this terrifying scene, the Cursed understood why someone had once named this ancient weapon the Tears of Heaven. All the falling fires of destruction looked like fiery tears pouring down onto the dark ground.
The elimination of the army of the dead happened quickly. Within moments, nothing remained of them. On the large, damaged battlefield, only dying, smoldering fires were left. On the castle walls, the defenders were finishing off the remaining dead.
The Cursed turned his gaze to where the Lord of the Dead had once stood. He, too, had been erased from the face of the earth. The road to the mysterious estate was now open.
Once again, he found himself before the enchanted lake. This time, it was surrounded by white mists. But something was different. Behind the lake, among the forest, there was no estate.
The Cursed sat on the shore and was looking into the clear waters of the lake.
"Where was the cursed estate, and how could it be found?" he thought.
He had no doubt that it existed somewhere, because all these mysterious structures led to a single goal—one source from which all evil in the Ancient Lands originated.