The shadows of the night still cloaked the edges of the city of "Azalheim," but deep within the abandoned palace where "Helios" hid, something else stirred—something older than time and more grotesque than death. Cold, ice-like breaths seeped from the ancient walls, whispering in incomprehensible voices, as if feeding on his presence.
Helios sat in a corner of the darkened room, his hands covered in blood—not the blood of his enemies this time, but his own.
The curse's seal on his chest burned once again, pulsing like a second heart beneath his skin. A faint groan escaped his lips as he sank to his knees, trying to suppress the pain that tore through his ribs. But this pain was not just physical—it was pulling something deeper, something dark that had lain dormant within him since he touched the remnants of the dead god's sword.
"What is happening to me?!" he muttered, his voice trembling between gasps of agony.
Suddenly, a dim blue light slashed through the darkness of the room. From the center of the wall, a black mirror emerged, seeming to stare at him... no, it was calling to him.
A strange voice—a blend of childish whispers and the wails of slaughtered souls—spoke from the void:
"You did not choose fate... fate chose you, heir of blood steeped in sin."
Helios gazed into the mirror and saw his reflection distorted. It was not him... it was another version of himself, with red eyes and black cracks running across his face.
Then... the reflection spoke.
"Aren't you tired of running? Don't you long for your true power? Everything you try to suppress... is what will grant you the strength to shatter your chains."
Helios felt his heart slowing, as if the words were weaving an enchantment around his soul. A desire rose from his depths—primal, insatiable... a thirst for blood... for freedom.
Yet he stepped back, doubt tightening around his ribs.
"Who... are you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The reflection laughed, hollow and empty.
"I am... you. Without limits, without mercy... without weakness.
The silence that followed the reflection's words was heavy... suffocating. "Helios" stood face to face with himself—or what resembled him—trapped between the shadows of the past and the omens of the unknown. The mirror still emanated an energy unlike any magic he had ever known; it felt more like a primordial force, pulsing with deep-seated malice.
The reflection moved within the mirror as if the glass no longer separated the realms. Slowly, it extended its hand toward Helios, as if offering him one final bargain.
"Extend your hand... and let us remove the shackles forever. No more pain, no more loss. You will be the master of your fate, not its slave."
Helios hesitated, but suddenly... an image of "Asteria" flashed in his mind—her smile, the moment he saved her from the flames of "Irmenus." He recalled "Thorgal's" final words before his death:
"Your strength will not come from what you inherit... but from what you choose."
He closed his eyes, his heartbeat rising above all other noise.
"I will not be a puppet to the shadows... even if I am the shadow itself."
With a sudden cry, he hurled himself at the mirror, shattering it with his bloodstained fist. Glass exploded in crimson flashes, and the reflection's voice faded into the whispering dust:
"You will lose everything... everything..."
But Helios only heard the pounding of his heart.
As the light dissipated, he stood amidst the wreckage, his breath heavy, but his spirit light. For the first time, he had resisted. He did not bow to the temptation of power.
Yet that moment was fleeting.
From the settling dust, another shadow emerged—taller, broader, wearing a metallic mask that concealed its features, and a crimson cloak that seemed soaked in the blood of ancient wars. This was no illusion or mere reflection—it was a real entity.
"At last, you have stepped out of your isolation, cursed heir of blood... Now, the rituals begin."
The shadow raised its hand, and with it, the entire place trembled.
Helios realized he had moved from a battle within himself... to a war against an ancient force that had long awaited his arrival.
The air was no longer as it had been—it had become heavier, as if the walls of the ancient cell themselves were closing in on "Helios," trying to crush him before the battle even began.
The entity standing before him was no mere adversary. It was a specter from the past, as old as the Asgardian curse itself, manifested in a human body, wearing a mask that revealed nothing but the crimson glow flickering in its eyes.
"Who are you?!" Helios demanded, his voice sharp, wary.
The being let out a laugh devoid of mercy, deep like the wind howling through abandoned graves.
"I am the will of the bloodline... the voice of the ancestors who were erased... I am what you were meant to become."
The shadow extended its hand, and the ground beneath Helios trembled. Black apparitions emerged from the stone, whispering in a language unlike any spoken by mortals, slithering around his body like serpents.
But Helios did not retreat. His body was exhausted, true, but something else burned within him—a will to resist.
He raised his right hand, and a blue aura began to radiate from it. It was more than mere magic... it was the essence of the bloodline, pure, untainted by the curse of blood. In the next instant, light erupted from his body.
The shadowy entity took a step back and snarled in fury.
"You fool! You deny your heritage?!"
"I deny nothing... but I choose what I keep and what I destroy."
Then he shouted, "Let the first chain be broken!"
Light burst from his palm, scattering the shadows, tearing apart the specters that had coiled around him.
Helios felt something shatter within his chest, as though a layer of ancient shackles had fractured deep inside him. The pain was excruciating... but the sensation of freedom was stronger.
Yet the shadow was not defeated.
The entity lunged at Helios, a sword of bone materializing in its grasp—its curved edges pulsing with a blood-red glow.
With a swift motion, it struck the ground, splitting it open into a deep chasm from which red mist rose, carrying the scent of death.
"You will not escape, heir—the rituals have begun... and everything will end with your blood."
It was a declaration of war.
Chapter 13.5:
In the moments when breaths quickened and all eyes were fixed on Roy, standing at the heart of destruction, there were silent details unnoticed by anyone… untold, yet crucial to what was to come.
Before the fiery specter intervened to save Sera, and while it seemed that Roy had surrendered to his rage, there was an internal struggle brewing within him—his anger was not the whole story. In the depths of his consciousness, the image of a face he had long forgotten surfaced—a woman with silver hair and a sorrowful smile, calling him by a name he dared not remember. That was the moment when the "second part" of his being awoke—a form sealed by the curse of blood, yet one that had not yielded.
In another corner of the battlefield, where rubble lay scattered and walls had collapsed, "Orris" retreated slowly, shrouded in smoke. His escape was not as random as it seemed; it was carefully planned, for he carried with him a small black shard—a fragment of pure darkness—which allowed him to infiltrate the mind of one of the guards stationed there… planting a seed of doubt within the fortress itself.
Meanwhile, "Sera" lay beside the fiery specter, breathing heavily. She was not unconscious as everyone assumed, but rather trapped in a forced mental connection with the entity that had saved her. In that bond, she saw cryptic visions—ancient symbols, a celestial war long past, and a black banner fluttering over a sea of skulls… with Roy's name etched in blood upon one of the rocks.
As for the old priest, who had seemed absent from the battle, he was whispering incantations in a forgotten language. He was not praying for survival—he was unraveling ancient seals of protection placed on Roy as a child, preparing for something greater yet to come… something only he could stop.
As the survivors gathered in the hall, trying to grasp what had transpired, no one noticed that Roy's eyes had changed—one burned with fire, the other dark as the night.
And in the silence of the night that followed, fiery words appeared on the scorched wall of the hall, written in flames from an unknown source:
"This is not the beginning… merely the key to a nightmare waiting to be unleashed."