Death

For a moment, the man, Elder Francis, did not know what to do.

After delivering this message, he had been ordered to leave. But was he truly supposed to abandon the last prince of their lineage—to let him die alone?

He had watched the young man before him grow, had witnessed, firsthand, the gradual stripping away of his life.

He had stood beside him through it all, had traversed countless heavens and realms in search of a cure, hoping, praying that something—anything—could change his fate.

And now, he was supposed to let him perish… so pathetically?

Unwillingness welled within his heart, but in the end, he sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable.

He gazed into Icarus' eyes and smiled.

"I hope you finally find rest and solace within its embrace," he whispered.

Elder Francis' body then began to dissolve into motes of golden light, his form scattering into the wind as he vanished, leaving Icarus alone just as the sun set.

The last rays of daylight stretched across the horizon, their final embers lingering for what felt like hours.

Emerald veins slithered across the surface of Icarus' jade-white skin, corrupting the flow of his blood, as dark runes began to pulse with a sinister light.

His already frail body withered further, his bones grinding to dust, his flesh thinning, his organs shutting down one by one.

A nauseating stench emanated from him. He sat in his chair, still rocking ever so slightly with the push and pull of the wind, his weight so insubstantial he was like a ghost.

By all appearances, he was already dead.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, its last light fading as the sky transformed into a star-filled tapestry, rivers of azure currents stretching into infinity.

And beneath their glow, Icarus' heart came to a stop.

Icarus Sanctus Belmont had died.

Or so it seemed.

'Now is a good time to start.'

Almost.

Red fumes rose from Icarus' body as his withered frame began to reverse—his flesh knitting back together, his bones strengthening, his vitality returning in real time.

"…[Burning Blood Oath]…"

For the first time, Icarus' voice rang through the air—melodious, a reflection of heaven's hymns, resonating like the purest chime of divine bells.

And the moment it did, a pulsating red rune appeared before him. Slowly, it drifted toward his forehead, embedding itself deep into his skull, searing into the very walls of his being.

For a moment, nothing happened, as if time itself had frozen.

Then—

The red fumes that had been rising from Icarus' skin condensed into sharp lines, snaking across his body like cracks in the earth, revealing glimpses of an endless abyss of molten fire beneath.

The Burning Blood Oath rune had a simple effect—it burned. It burned everything in exchange for power.

It was a rune so rudimentary that nearly everyone in the world knew of it.

RUMBLE!

The sky trembled.

Icarus' arms twitched, and then, slowly, he pushed himself up, his bones cracking and creaking with each movement.

His body swayed under the soft caress of the wind, unstable and fragile. Yet, it only took a few moments for him to adjust.

Though he could move, nothing else had changed. He was still blind, deaf, poisoned, cursed, and wracked with eternal pain.

But this much would be enough.

Icarus turned his face skyward, a smile spreading across his lips as he opened his blind eyes to the stars above.

"Will you still not free me?"

He spoke to the heavens as if expecting an answer.

None came.

"…Alright then."

The only reason he had waited until the day of his death to do what he was about to do was hope.

He had hoped the world would free him from the curse it had inflicted upon him—that it would take pity on him.

But it had not.

'So I'll have to do it myself.'

Icarus raised a hand.

Suddenly, across the endless plains that had been his prison since birth, countless Burning Blood Oath runes began to appear, etched into the ground in streaks of golden-red blood.

He waved his hand once more.

Hundreds of figures materialized, bound in chains.

These were corpses—the lifeless remains of countless Belmont soldiers, those who had perished in war, those who had died honorable deaths on the frontlines.

And today, they would serve a greater purpose.

'I can only hope they would be happy to help me,' Icarus thought, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second.

'But if not… I can only ask for forgiveness.'

A sigh escaped his lips as he allowed himself a moment to bask in the silence, in the tranquility of nothingness the world offered him.

His long white hair trailed behind him like a river of light, his robes billowing in the growing storm.

Then, he slowly brought his hands together.

And in an instant, the bodies strewn across the plains began to convulse, their forms writhing in silent agony as the souls within them—radiant orbs of golden light—were torn from their remains.

The freed souls surged skyward, forming a spiraling storm of energy, the winds howling as the air crackled with unbridled force.

The runes inscribed upon the land glowed fiercely, lifting off the ground and interlinking, bound together by bridges of raw atmospheric energy.

The wails of the fallen filled the night, their cries carried by the tempest as the skies darkened, the stars vanishing one by one, swallowed by an abyss that mirrored the earth below.

The rune seared into Icarus' skull glowed brighter—

Then—

BANG!

Lightning rained down from the heavens like celestial meteors, illuminating the blackened world in violent flashes. Time itself seemed to shudder, the storm of souls expanding, swallowing everything in its path.

Icarus slowly parted his hands, his hair blowing wildly in the raging winds. His smile faded.

What he had created was a formation—an intricate construct that wove together the energy of the world itself as its foundation.

Its purpose was simple.

A refinement of the Burning Blood Oath rune—A greater sacrifice.

But he was not planning to sacrifice the fallen soldiers of his clan.

No.

He had only needed them to momentarily empower the formation.

Because today would truly be the day of his death.

For the only life he intended to offer was his own.