The Nadyr Prince
In a vast yet empty plain of rising and falling emerald hills, beneath the shade of a grand Sakura tree, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of butterflies, a young man sat in a wooden rocking chair.
His appearance was simple—almost too simple—as if he were the painted image of mortality itself.
His long white hair, pure as freshly fallen snow, cascaded down his back, pooling around him in a shimmering sea of silk. Despite his towering frame, his body appeared frail and emaciated, resembling that of a starved giant, a being whose very existence seemed like a contradiction.
Peeking through his half-closed eyes were swirls of pink and silver, accented by faint hints of crimson that flickered like dying embers.
His face, sculpted with an eerie perfection, bore an unreadable expression. One could easily become entranced by his beauty, yet feel a creeping unease at the inhuman quality that radiated from him, as though he were not a man, but a statue imbued with a strange, unsettling life.
His flowing white robes fluttered softly in the breeze, enhancing the illusion of serenity, while an innocent smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
He was a reflection of peace—a symbol of freedom. Yet, ironically, he represented everything opposed to it.
He could not hear, nor see, nor feel. He could not smell the fragrant blossoms around him, nor the damp scent of the earth beneath his feet. He could not move. All he could do was sit in a world of endless darkness and think.
And now, mere hours from his eighteenth birthday, Icarus stared at the unseen gates of the underworld with a calm heart, unfazed by his impending death.
He had known since his first cry that today would be his last. Why fear it?
Unlike many who would rage against the gods above or curse the ancestors below for bestowing such a fate upon them, he remained indifferent.
No, indifferent was not the right word—grateful was.
He had been born as the third heir of the world's most powerful lineage, the Belmont Lineage, and had received every form of care an entity like him could ask for.
Every possible treatment for his affliction had been explored, and every single resource available to the Belmonts had been used and tested in an attempt to change his fate, yet nothing had worked.
If the heavens truly wished to reclaim his soul, who was he to refuse?
Strangely enough, as this thought drifted through Icarus' mind, a soft chuckle escaped his lips.
"After all these years, none of us have managed to uncover the mystery of your being." A voice echoed, brimming with power and vicious mockery. "I suppose all those treasures wasted on you served a purpose after all."
A few meters away from Icarus, a young man stood, draped in flowing, layered robes of deepest black.
His long hair, dark as the void between stars, cascaded down his back, while his pupils burned with an auspicious amethyst glow—so tantalizing that the world itself seemed to twist under its magnetic pull.
He was tall, his body rippling with strength, his heavenly visage marred only by the mocking grin that played across his lips as he gazed upon the so-called Nadyr Prince.
"Come on, answer," he coaxed, smiling. "I know you can talk."
He strode forward, closing the distance between them before crouching down to meet Icarus eye to eye. "Am I not worthy of the prince's angelic voice?"
"I'd hoped that on your last day, you'd bless me with its melody, but I suppose I'm not worthy." His voice carried a note of false melancholy, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I heard it was so beautiful that the heavens parted when you first spoke."
"Is it true, bastard?"
He laughed. "I heard your mother was so ashamed—so disgusted—by the poison that dripped from your hands upon birth that she ran. Is it true?"
"I also heard your father refuses to look upon you… Oh my, how tragic. Is that true as well?"
Icarus' half-open eyes blinked once, his innocent smile widening just slightly.
The man before him froze.
His pupils trembled, and for a moment, boundless anger erupted within his heart.
The skies darkened, arcs of chaotic lightning slashing through the greyed-out heavens, as a crimson mantle of aura ignited around him, just as an overwhelming net of pressure descended upon the plains.
But just as quickly as the young man's aura had flared, it collapsed.
A palm softly landed upon his shoulder, carrying no weight, no force, and yet, upon contact, a loud crack echoed through the air.
The young man winced in pain.
"I believe this is enough, Heir Siegfried."
The man behind Heir Siegfried was clad in a pristine white changpao, the fabric hugging his refined frame. He was bald, sporting a thick, well-groomed black beard, and his gaze burned with a deep crimson light.
His expression was stern, devoid of emotion, yet the presence he invoked was… majestic.
"You dare touch me?!" Heir Siegfried roared, but his next words never formed. Instead, blood gushed from his lips, staining the grass below.
"Greet your father for me."
And just like that, Heir Siegfried vanished, his blood disappearing along with him.
The man who remained turned his gaze upon Icarus, standing still for a few moments before sighing and shaking his head.
"I don't know how he managed to enter, but… I'd like to say it won't happen again, but…" His words trailed into silence.
"Your father has sent me here with a message—his final words to you."
He raised a palm, and within it, a small jade stone appeared. Silky white energy gathered around him, flowing into the jade as runes of boundless complexity burst into existence, arranging themselves into intricate, interconnected formations that shimmered with ethereal light.
"Here it is."
The man tapped the jade, and the message began to play.
The voice paused, letting the silence settle like a weight upon the air.
The man holding the jade suddenly frowned, his brows knitting together as he tried to understand the words spoken by their patriarch.
He had already found it strange that the Belmont Patriarch would not come to see his son directly in his final moments, but this… this made even less sense.
This did not sound like a father bidding farewell to his dying child.
It almost sounded like… the opposite?
The recording ended.