Faceless

Klaus sat in his citadel, his expression thoughtful, his sharp gaze fixed on the canvas before him. Streaks of paint stained his clothes, evidence of hours spent lost in creation.

In his hand, a brush hovered just above the portrait—one last stroke, one last touch to perfection.

The woman in the painting was breathtaking.

Exotic. Otherworldly. Almost unreal.

Her hair was as white as freshly fallen snow, a stark contrast to her dark, ink-like skin. Her crystal-blue eyes shimmered like the ocean at sunrise, holding a depth that seemed to pull the viewer in. She wore a flowing, elegant dress, draped around her form like liquid silk. And on her lips was soft, kind smile.

Klaus studied the portrait, his fingers tightening slightly around the brush.

A slow smile formed on his lips.

His mind drifted to the past.

A Few Years Ago...

Icarus ran, flickering from one place to another in rapid, desperate bursts. His breathing was ragged, his muscles screaming with exhaustion. The air around him warped each time he teleported, but no matter how fast he moved, the hunters were closing in.

Anvil. Or maybe Madoc. One of them had sent these killers after him.

He cursed under his breath and teleported again—only to stumble. His reserves were running dangerously low.

Then came the pain.

A sharp, searing agony tore through his soul as an arrow ripped through his shoulder. The impact sent him crashing onto the ground, his body skidding against dirt and jagged stone. He gasped, blood splattering from his lips.

A soul attack?

His vision blurred, his thoughts sluggish. Then, a terrible realization dawned, inside him something fundamental shattered.

One of his cores was gone.

The realization sent a wave of fury and terror through him. He was no longer a Titan. He had fallen. Now, he was a Terror.

He gritted his teeth, bile rising in his throat as he forced himself back to his feet. His fingers twitched, instinctively reaching to his wound, but the pain lanced through his nerves like wildfire. The bastards had come prepared, their weapons designed to carve through more than just flesh.

It wasn't fair.

He wasn't even Mordret, damn it! He wasn't some abomination that needed soul-destroying weapons to be put down. A regular weapons would've been enough!

Icarus ran. Again and again, he ran, killing when he had to, avoiding battle when he could. But he was bleeding, inside and out, and his body was giving up on him.

Frustration, exhaustion, and raw fury burned inside him. He turned, catching sight of the assassins closing in. Their shadows stretched over the land like death itself.

No choice.

He vanished again.

His vision swam as he stumbled into a cave. Cold stone slammed against his back as he collapsed, gasping. His fingers clawed at the dirt beneath him. He needed a plan. A way out. A solution.

He couldn't go on like this.

Think. Think. Think.

His chest heaved as the scent of blood filled his nostrils.

What could he do?

What was left?

Oh... Only that, huh?

Then, from the swirling mist of his failing mind, a presence emerged.

The spirit creature emerged from the haze, empty sockets gleaming with eerie light. A Ascended Tyrant. A being of vast knowledge, wielder of unorthodox arts. The power to raise the dead. To twist flesh and soul alike.

Lich.

His most trusted spirit. His final, desperate answer.

What he was about to do was madness. It would hurt worse than anything he had ever endured—worse than his soul being torn apart.

But there was no other way.

He met the Lich's hollow gaze and gave the mental command.

Lich tilted his head, watching him in silent understanding. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he traced runes into the dirt.

"Can't. Face. Necessary."

Icarus let out a breathless chuckle, his lips curling in something that wasn't quite a smile.

From his pouch, he pulled a corpse—the one he had sealed away for this exact purpose. His mind was clouded, his vision dim, but his hands worked without hesitation.

He sealed the cave, ensuring no sound, no presence would leak out. The Lich reinforced the barriers, securing them further. Their eyes met one last time.

Summoning a chain-type Memory, he cast a glance outside the cave. A stick, lifted by unseen force, floated toward him. He grabbed it, biting down hard.

The chains tightened around his limbs, pinning him to the ground. He couldn't afford to move. Not even an inch.

Lich raised a skeletal hand.

The first cut came slow.

Skin peeled.

Nerves shrieked.

The pain was beyond comprehension. It was not the sting of a blade or the ache of a broken bone—it was raw, searing, consuming torment. Nerves screamed as flesh ripped. His vision swam in red.

Icarus convulsed, his back arching violently against the restraints as his own flesh was ripped from his skull.

He bit down on the stick, hard enough that his teeth shattered it to splinters.

Pain unlike anything he had ever known crawled into his bones.

It sank into his marrow.

He screamed. A bestial, raw sound.

And yet— he laughed.

A twisted, breathless chuckle, bleeding through the agony.

A flaw. That damned flaw. Even now, his body mocked him.

Hours passed in a haze of torment. Twelve hours of screaming, thrashing, breaking apart and reforming in pain.

By the end of it, Icarus lay trembling, his body shaking violently from the sheer trauma of it. Tears of blood and agony ran down his face—his face…

Or what was left of it.

His face was gone.

In its place—only raw, exposed muscle, gleaming bone, and the jagged remains of shattered teeth. A living nightmare, sculpted from agony.

Lich had already moved on, working on the corpse. Stitching. Weaving. Reconstructing. Piece by piece, he reassembled the corpse, molding it, placing Icarus's stolen face onto it, a perfect replica of Icarus was created.

When Icarus finally regained even a sliver of awareness, he didn't hesitate.

Summoning her—

The Phoenix.

Blue and crimson flames flickered across her feathers, their warmth gentle yet brimming with power. She looked at him, Her gaze met his—warm and sorrowful.

And she understood.

She spread her wings and screeched, the sound shaking him to his very core.

The flames engulfed him, pure and cleansing.

The pain vanished. The agony of torn flesh, of severed nerves, of mutilation—it was all washed away.

But his face…

His face did not return.

The phoenix could heal him, but it could not undo what had been sacrificed.

His spirit creatures faded back into his soul, their presence vanishing as if they had never been there at all.

Icarus stared at his hands. And at last, the exhaustion, the torment, the madness— it all caught up to him.

And then—finally—he collapsed.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

[Your Aspect Legacy Mastery Level has increased.]

[You Have Received The Right To Claim A Legacy Relic.]

Aspect Legacy: The Divine Comedy

Legacy Description: No tree will grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.

In all chaos, there is cosmos. In all disorder… a secret order.

What is wisdom without foolishness, Oldest Dream?

The Divine Comedy Mastery Level: [2/7]

First Door: Opened

Legacy Ability: Sealing/Opening

First Relic: Claimed

First Legacy Relic: Devourer

Second Door: Opened

Legacy Ability: Faceless

Second Relic: [Claim]

Second Legacy Relic: ???

Third Door: Locked

Third Relic: Unearned...