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Icarus willed Drop of Ichor to manifest.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, golden sparks flickered to life, appearing one by one in the still air before him. They shot toward a single point, drawn together like metal to a lodestone. A radiant dot formed—a small, brilliant ember of divinity.
But it didn't stop.
More sparks followed. Thousands upon thousands, streaming into it like rivers of molten light. The air thrummed with energy, thick with something ancient, something alive. The glow grew, pulsing in rhythm with an unseen heartbeat. The cave brightened as the golden sphere of radiance expanded, filling the darkness with divine brilliance.
It was stunning.
Not blinding. Not harsh. Just pure.
The light spread across the stone walls, painting them in ethereal gold, turning the rough cavern into something otherworldly. It was the kind of beauty that defied description—one that words simply couldn't capture. It was divinity itself.
And at its center…
A single, perfect drop of liquid gold floated in the air.
Icarus stared, his breath slow and measured, his mind racing.
It was blood. That much he knew instantly. A god's blood.
Yet something was wrong.
His gaze sharpened, dissecting the memory before him, looking for the telltale signs that all divine lineages carried. He could always tell.
Divine Lineages were golden in color, just like divinity itself. But each one carried its own signature.
His mother's and grandfather's blood was like a burning sun—blazing, radiant, pure. A Sun God's lineage. He hadn't inherited it. though, He had "Flames of Divinity", but not the "Sun". He never understood why. Maybe it was the Law of Original Sin interfering. Maybe it was something else. But whatever the reason, it had made Asterion uneasy—and that was a victory in itself. Watching Asterion's smirk disappear had been immensely satisfying.
Ki Song's blood—a Beast God's Lineage—was different. Darker. Wilder. Golden, yes, but tinged with something primal, something predatory. It carried a hint of crimson, like a beast barely contained.
Anvil's and Mordret's blood—the War God's Lineage—was brimming with life. Pulsing with raw, relentless energy, a drive to grow. It carried the essence of evolution, of battle, of becoming.
Asterion's blood, The Heart God's Lineage was serene, calm… but hungry. The kind of hunger that ran deeper than flesh or power. It wasn't difficult to guess where that hunger was directed. Knowledge. Asterion was a monster, but his lineage was unmistakable in its silent, terrifying depth.
And then there was the Storm God's lineage, carried by the House of Night. Their blood was tyrannical, pure authority condensed into liquid form.
Icarus had thought this would be a Shadow God's lineage—the only divine bloodline that remained unclaimed. But he had been wrong.
This…
This was something else entirely.
Icarus had seen them all. He had felt them all.
Yet this?
This was nothing like them.
His fingers twitched. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his mind was racing. His eyes narrowed as he studied the floating drop of ichor.
It was pure.
Completely untouched by any god's traits. No fire of the Sun. No beastly hunger. No relentless march of war. No silent knowledge lurking beneath its depths. No tyrannical might or sinister stench of death...
It was divine.
But it was also… empty.
Like a blank page.
If all other gods' lineages were books, already written with their traits, their power, their identities—then this was a page yet to be filled.
This was like staring at an unwritten story.
Icarus frowned. His mind raced, trying to rationalize what he was seeing.
A god's blood that wasn't tainted by a god's essence?
Icarus swallowed, his throat dry. His heart thumped once, hard.
Was that even possible?
The implications sent a chill down his spine.
This was new. Unknown.
And that made it more valuable than anything he had ever encountered.
Icarus tore his gaze away from the floating drop of Ichor and willed the runes to appear. He needed to be sure. If his theory was correct, then…
His fingers twitched in anticipation. His breath was slow, measured—but his heart pounded in his chest.
The runes manifested before him, glowing softly in the dim cave.
Memory: [Drop of Ichor]
Memory Rank: Unknown
Memory Tier: Unknown
Memory Type: Unknown
His brows furrowed. That was… unusual. The runes provided nothing—no rank, no tier, no classification. It was like the Spell itself refused to categorize it.
A consumable memory, then. That much was obvious.
Still, he needed more. He focused, and the description unfolded before his eyes.
---
Memory Description:
[ And the Last Child of the Unknown learned a terrible truth. A deep-seated resentment burned in his heart. As the last shackle of Desire shattered and Hope slipped her chains, the Prideful Ruler of the Underworld called upon his siblings to wage war against the heavens.
The six Demons assembled vast armies and led them against the gods, but they were not immediately defeated. The war was furious and merciless, realms consumed by flames, torn apart by battle. Lesser gods took sides. The Demons recruited more allies—mortal champions who had suffered under the tyranny of the Empire, ancient creatures banished to the darkest corners of the Underworld, those with grudges against the divine, even the harrowing Nephilim.
And among them… stood a mysterious group that called themselves "Nine."
The Last Child of the Unknown, the Demon of Destiny, the Prince of the Underworld—Nether—was not the first to wage war against the gods, but he was the first to make them bleed.
This drop of divine blood was spilled in that war, a war that would be remembered as the Doom War. The "Nine" seized the divine blood and committed the ultimate blasphemy, forging something that should never have existed, using the purifying power of the harrowing Nephilim. This blood is their creation, and the undeniable proof of their defiance.]
Icarus froze.
His mind reeled as he processed the words before him.
He knew about the Doom War. He knew about Daemons, Gods, and the Nine. But this? This was new.
The Nine had done something this insane—and succeeded?!
His pulse quickened.
But that still didn't tell him what the Drop of Ichor could do.
His gaze drifted back to the radiant droplet, still floating in the air. If he consumed it…
…Would he change?
As if answering his thoughts, Spell Spoke in his mind. It sounded now emotionless as it should've been and yet—somehow—bitter.
[You have acquired a Drop of Ichor. Do you wish to consume it?]
His fingers clenched. He was too weak right now. The golden light from the Memory would definitely attract Nightmare Creatures—or worse, assassins. He didn't have time. But he also wasn't in any condition to fight.
His jaw tightened.
High risk, high reward.
He inhaled sharply.
Then, with unwavering resolve, he spoke.
"Do it."
For a moment, silence.
Then, the Spell whispered.
[… You cannot consume Drop of Ichor.]
Icarus blinked.
He stared.
His eye twitched.
What.
His gaze snapped downward as a new set of runes appeared.
Completion Rate: [0%]
Icarus sat there for a second, completely still.
Then his face twisted in sheer exasperation.
"What the fuck?!"
His mind screeched to a halt.
He had just built himself up for this?! The Spell had practically handed him a golden ticket to gain divine lineage, only to rip it away at the last second?!
His eye twitched harder.
"Why the fuck did you raise my hopes up then?!"
He clenched his fists, shaking with irritation.
And in the depths of the cave, the Spell remained silent.
Icarus exhaled, long and slow. His shoulders slumped slightly.
Then he let out a quiet, deadpan laugh.
"Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Fuck you too, Spell."
Icarus dismissed the Drop of Ichor, and with it, his last hope.
Well, shit.
Injured. Exhausted. His face was gone.
And the one thing that could have saved him? Completely useless.
Worse—the golden light had practically screamed "Come kill me!" to every enemy in the area.
He was going to die. End of story.
How wonderful. How delightful. Truly a masterpiece of fate.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
His mind raced.
What now?
He was an Awakened Terror.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that no other Awakened could stand against him.
Hell, even Masters would fall.
But that was the problem.
His enemies weren't just one or two Masters.
There were ten.
Along with thirty elite Awakened warriors.
He had reduced their numbers but those who remained were enough to kill him.
If he were at full strength, he could massacre them.
But he wasn't.
His reserves were dry.
He barely had enough soul essence to fill a single core.
And the bastards were hunting him like a wounded beast.
Icarus forced himself to focus. His gaze landed on the corpse beside him—
A perfect copy of his body.
Wearing his face.
A decoy. A flawless plan.
But if they found him before the trap worked—Everything would fail.
He would fail.
His thoughts spiraled.
What do I do?
What, what, what, what, what—
Think, goddamn it!
His breathing steadied. His hands clenched.
No. Stay calm. You still have a chance.
"I need to get out of here. As soon as possible," he muttered. "And hide my presence..."
The Lich will take care of that.
Once they found the corpse, the hunters would assume he was dead.
The chase would end. They would leave.
I'll fool the entire world.
Icarus forced himself up, leaning on a newly manifested staff. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored them.
One step.
Then another.
"Let's get out of here."
His face was blank. Emotionless. But his mind was sharp—focused only on escape.
Then—
A voice emerged from the darkness.
Smooth. Amused. Waiting.
Icarus froze.
His breath caught.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Slowly—too slowly—his eyes widened.
"Yes, you definitely should."
And just like that—
Everything fell apart.