PACT

Victorian London

Grey clouds lay over the city.

Rain lashes down, clinking like needles against the windows of a weathered Victorian manor.

Inside it the scent of wet stone mixes with cold candle wax and roses.

Their vines wrap like frozen serpents across the carved wall panels.

On the black-marbled floor, golden ornaments lie dormant—half-veiled by withered petals and freshly spilled blood.

At the tall window sits Lucil.

Blood trails across the glass where his hand rests, staining the pane rose-red.

He wears a long coat — white, trimmed in carmine.

Behind him lie two swords:

One, flawless cobalt, carved through with ruby glyph-veins.

The other, ivory white—its sharp edges and tip glowing blood-bright.

Three chains hang around his neck.

Two carry rose emblems.

The third is a medallion with a dragon emblem.

Across from him stretches a massive mahogany table.

Eleven Victorian chairs stand around it all empty yet still tense with unseen spirit as if the manor were abandoned a long time ago.

His trousers have extra pockets sewn into them.

The boots beneath are old, ragged and damp from the outside.

Lucil's left arm grows heavy.

A thin smile flickers across his face—

and fades.

"I guess I didn't make it…"

His coat grows heavier.

Then—

one drop.

And another.

The fabric can't soak any more blood.

The wound in his belly gapes deep.

Lucil breathes in.

Slowly.

He counts the drops.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Drop.

In that quiet moment a heavy iron groan—the main gate swings open.

Lucil lifts his head.

His voice cracks.

"If I'm going to die… then with a bang…"

He musters strength and raises his voice.

"Blood Bre—"

The word freezes vanishing into the air.

Silver stands in the doorway.

A diagonal gash splits his chest; blood falls from his chin to the floor.

His immaculate coat, once white with silver cuffs shining like frost in the light is now soaked — wine-red stains forming on it.

Across his shoulder rests a white-silver sword and its blade shining like the moon.

With every step he takes small pools of blood forming on the ground.

Lucil lifts his head — his now blue lips barely able to open.

"I won't resist."

Silver's eyes prowl the room, wary, breath rasping in his chest.

"Lunar Revelation" he mumbles in a hoarse tone.

He staggers closer then lets his shoulder slide along the wall.

Spectral shackles begin firing from the moon bursting the window.

Lucil raises his hands, a gesture balanced between surrender and dignity.

"Stop…" Silver's whisper cracks crushed by the thick silence.

"Stop—!"

A single harrowing command thundering.

The moon-chains dissolve instantly and collapse into frost-cold dust.

Despair slices new lines across Silver's face while blood seeps from his chin.

"What is this? Fight!"

"No."

Lucil's refusal is dry, final.

Silver doubles over coughing hard enough to spit blood on the marble.

"YOU TOOK SO MUCH FROM ME! EVERYTHING—ALWAYS! My family… WHY?!"

Lucil's mouth curves into the faintest smile — now an even deeper shade of blue.

"I won't fight you."

"HEY—what is this supposed to be?!"

"My time's almost up my dear enemy but if I don't take the step—who will?"

His trembling fingers draw a plain knife from his pocket; lightning flashes the room and the blade glimmers like restless mercury.

"Next time." he whispers "let's talk everything out."

Eyes closing he sets the cold steel to his throat — a hair-thin divide between now and never.

"I… I don't know if I can…" Silver's voice cracks, half plea, half denial.

Lucil collapses. His body hits the floor hard — yet the fresh drops of blood flutter into scarlet rose petals that scatter across the marble.

At that heartbeat Silver's chest wound deepens; he drops to one knee breathing heavily.

Outside the tempest splits the heavens apart. A full moon — high, pitiless — floods the hall with a crimson glow.

In his final breath Lucil says:

"You paint the moon blood-red every time… Silver…"

Silver's stare locks on Lucil's corpse. His shoulders tremble.

Blood runs down his body.

Slowly he shuts his eyes and as though the dark might undo what he's just seen.

"Yes… and I have taken just as much from you." 

Japan | Tokyo | Estate of the Red Dragon Clan

Sultry early-summer air presses through the window, mixing in with the dusty scent of worn tatami.

Lucil wakes up—and wrinkles his nose at once.

A sour downright bestial stench drifts from his crumpled T-shirt as though the sweat of every fight he's ever fought has soaked into the fabric and bred a life of its own.

"I hate it when everyone's right." he mutters in an annoyed tone.

He lifts an arm and sniffs. The smell clings to his skin and jacket like putrid blood.

A dull clunk breaks the hush; the door slides open and Mai bursts in, already wearing the black school uniform with a dark-red crocheted rose on her chest. Across it reads: Uria High School.

"Wake-up service isn't required today." Lucil says without looking up.

"Hmm… all set? Last day before summer break." She grins and pushes the door wider open.

Lucil peels the offending shirt away with two fingers as if it might fall apart.

"Sure. Go ahead—I'll take a shower."

Mai blinks, genuinely surprised. "You… practice hygiene?"

"Enough self-discovery. Time to start a new chapter."

"Image change?" she asks while smiling mischievously.

His gaze hardens. "Something more impactful. Wait for me—on campus."

Frowning, Mai heads for the stairs.

Lucil slings the reeking shirt over one shoulder and walks along the corridor.

Several clan members pass by glancing at him with visible disgust.

He reaches the bath just as Rei steps out her hair still wet and a simple white dress flowing to her ankles.

"Morning, Mom." he says.

Rei starts with surprise flashing in her eyes. "Oh… taking a bath?"

"Yes."

A flicker of amazement crosses her face. "You're actually taking care of your body."

Lucil breathes in—deep enough to catch a second wave of his own acidic perfume—then slides the door shut with a decisive bang.

Rei chuckles softly, shakes her head, and drifts away down the hall.

"He's still a mystery to me." she murmurs.

Inside white pillars rise from black-green marble tiles.

Dozens of golden dragon-head sculptures pour steaming spring water into the bath.

The steam illuminated by pale light forms a natural warm fog.

Lucil steps in and tosses the foul shirt aside.

Scars and marks run across his chest.

Along his back blooms a rose tattoo.

"It's about time," he says quietly, dull.

He unclips the two chains around his neck. Between his fingers flash the edges of the rose pendants—and the dragon medallion.

With a dull motion he cuts both palms. Blood drips steadily.

Then he cuts his throat with the dragon medallion.

He runs bloody fingers through his hair slicking it back.

The dragon amulet pulses—as if calling him.

He puts both necklaces back on and steps slowly into the basin.

The clear water turns scarlet; rose petals appear and float on the surface.

A scent of roses settles over the steam, which turns red.

Little by little the steam becomes a crimson mist as it slowly thickens.

Lucil's skin turns bluish and his gaze sharp with resolve.

Water spills over the edge with blood mixing into dark drops on the marble steps.

His eyelids sink. Anemia creeps forward.

At the edge of consciousness an ancient sound rises — a scream from a beast.

Lucil sinks deeper into the water.

Instead of death a domain forms.

He opens his eyes.

Before him rises a weathered stone temple with half overgrown climbing roses.

Statues of magicians lie shattered.

At the gate two more statues materialize:

One of a man in a fedora and black suit with a three-day beard.

The other — a likeness of Lucil.

Lucil laughs. "It's time my girl."

Within the illusion all Lucil's injuries have vanished.

He steps into the temple.

The area reveals itself, full of roses which sway with his movements — as if alive.

Slowly and unnoticed the rose red turns to violet.

As Lucil walks further as the roof of the temple vanishes — replaced by an abyssal night sky devoid of stars.

He smiles faintly and moves on.

The halls seem endless. Gradually he becomes weaker.

Lucil sighs "If you don't reveal yourself now… it will be my end girl."

He presses on. The surroundings shift into an eerie violet glow.

Eventually he sees his goal: first a mist in the violet temple and then a colossal dragon statue — its scales made of rose petals with thorns coiling around its legs, wings stretched out into the horizon.

At its base lies a wide stone step.

"There we go girl," Lucil says.

He walks forward, steps over the stone and places his hand on the dragon's cold face.

"Will you make a pact with me once more?" he whispers.

He sits cross-legged. The frost-blue of his lips shows how close he is to death.

Yet the dragon amulet on his chest burns, protecting him.

Lucil knows what he must do.

"LuSilfer, my dragon! Help me break fate! Be my avatar—LuSilfer! MY ROSE DRAGON!"

Silence. No wind, no rustling. Only trusting that his call will be heard.

The violet sea of roses begins to wither.

The petals drift toward him, turning to ash as they touch his skin and then ignite into glowing sparks.

He doesn't feel the pain.

He only smiles even as the withered roses begin to take his body.

He looks up at the sky, convinced, and closes his eyes.

A mighty beat of wings lashes the air—the sky itself shatters.

A thunderous scream — part storm, part feral roar— makes the temple tremble.

A cataract of pink-red fire crashes down obliterating the scorched roses and engulfing Lucil like a burning aurora.

On his back the rose tattoo glows up spreading and reshaping into a blossom with outstretched dragon wings.

The violet blaze floods the temple with blinding light.

The corrupted roses burn to embers.

The ground trembles as something lands.

Lucil opens his eyes — his pupils now etched with rose patterns.

A gigantic head looms beside him: scales layered like pink petals, pearl-white teeth and a glowing red eye.

Lucil reaches out and touches the warm scales.

The dragon exhales — a deep, rosy breath.

"Good girl, LuSilfer…"

LuSilfer withdraws to stretch her massive wings. Her body — a living cathedral of petals and thorns — tenses up.

She spits a pillar of fire into the sky. Sparks rain down like comets.

The temple glows violet-red.

"Thanks…"

The heat thickens.

With a soft beat of her marvelous wings, LuSilfer soars into the sky, circling the halls and scorching everything in violet flames.

Lucil straightens, cracks his stiff neck—krrk.

Behind the burning curtain a black shadow moves.

First a silhouette then a swelling behemoth: grotesque muscles coiled in reptilian scales.

A black mist forms beside it. A tall man of pure shadow appears.

"LuSilfer—this time I have no sword. Still a fist speaks louder than a thousand words." Lucil says dryly.

The violet flames gather around him like armor.

LuSilfer lands behind him and dissolves into rose petals.

Each petal strengthens him.

He grips his dragon amulet.

His rosen-tattoo glows. To the left and right of the rose tattoo a pair of wings appear as tattoos.

"The trail… I get it."

The shadow man watches.

Lucil's eyes burn ruby red.

He raises his left hand—his scarf materializes. He wraps it around his right hand.

He breathes in, lifts his gaze—an empty, deadly stare.

"I fight dirty. That's why I'm sorry."

The shadow pauses. Then it lowers its torso.

The behemoth draws claws of obsidian.

Black mist swirls around, trying to swallow the color from the entire world.

Lucil rolls his shoulders. A crack pops from his joints.

Rose-veins glow beneath his skin. The scarf ignites.

He clenches his fists — blood pearls transforming instantly into rose blossoms.

Stone trembles.

The air tightens, bracing for impact.

For a heartbeat there is pure silence.

And then—

both launch forward—