Prayer of Intoxication

"Creeeak--"

Avalon, Birmingham, the empty Sacred Heart Hospital.

The boundary between dream and reality had never been as blurred as it was now. The pungent scent of disinfectant that usually permeated the corridors had been replaced by a cloying, exotic fragrance. If one let their guard down even for a moment, their will would dissolve into the phantasmagoria and pleasure. Like layers of sheer gauze, it set an invisible obstruction for any who entered.

In the top-floor ward, the only door leading to the hallway was pushed open from the outside. A middle-aged doctor in a white coat hurried in, looking around anxiously.

He was impatient.

When his gaze shifted from the hospital bed in disappointment and landed on Horn, who was leaning against the window, his anxious expression transformed into astonishment, then delight.

"Thank goodness, Mr. Lancaster, you're still awake!"

"In this hospital, everyone—doctors and patients alike—has fallen into an inexplicable slumber. I knocked on doors all the way here, and you are the only one who responded!"

"Meeting you, it's truly wonderful!"

Blinking his scarlet eyes, the doctor rushed over with delight, as if to give Horn a warm embrace.

Utterly sincere.

And what greeted him was an even more sincere, even hotter projectile!

"Bang--"

Five short, sharp gunshots erupted in rapid succession, overlapping into a single roar. The erupting muzzle flash scorched the barrel red, yet the fivefold recoil—which the designer had never accounted for—could not shake the hands holding the weapon in the slightest.

Because a flame superior to any mortal element had taken control of the firearm, turning it into an extension of his fingertips.

[Flame of Destiny], ignited.

In less than a second, two shots to the head, three to the chest. The five scorching bullets arrived in unison, screaming as they bored into fragile flesh, fulfilling their innate mission.

A long-awaited reunion, this was a gift.

A small gift, but a heavy sentiment.

Meeting the enthusiastic gift head-on, the middle-aged doctor couldn't help but lean back under the surprise. His body, losing its center of gravity, was pushed backward by the kinetic energy of the bullets, with sprays of blood erupting from the impact sites.

"Thud--"

A heavy sound of impact echoed. Just like that, the middle-aged doctor, whose name remained unknown, fell backward. Within his unclosed, scarlet eyes, confusion and bewilderment still lingered.

"When did he..."

That was the final thought of this body.

Relaxing his fingers, which were numb from the vibration, Horn hadn't even had a chance to breathe a sigh of relief when his gaze toward the doorway froze.

Another young doctor hurried in from the stairwell, his gloves stained with undried blood. The stench of gore on his white coat was so thick it was almost tangible, as if he had just stepped out of an emergency room or a slaughterhouse.

Then, another, and another, one after another.

On faces that were male and female, tall and short, fat and thin, all wore the exact same expression of delight.

--Meeting you, it really is wonderful!

"To hell with all of you."

Rarely uttering a curse, Horn faced the crowd gradually gathering at the open doorway. He took a slow step back, then another, until the cold, hard sensation of an object pressed against his back.

He was already against the window; there was nowhere left to retreat.

Recalling the number of floors in the hospital and estimating his height from the ground, Horn decisively abandoned the thought of jumping. Instead, he gritted his teeth, raised the pistol—which had one bullet left—and pressed it diagonally against his own temple.

He would rather die than become a monster like them.

"Clap, clap, clap."

Faced with such a resolute scene, the puppets in their uniform white coats did not stop their advance. Instead, they wore gentle smiles and even began to applaud.

Just like watching a disobedient child, patient and indulgent.

Because tentacles formed from tangled flesh reached out from the ground, wrapping around the red-hot muzzle. Gently, slowly, cautiously, and irresistibly, they took the gun from Horn's hand, fearing the child might do something foolish.

If the setting were different, this scene could even be called tender. But now, there was only a nightmare-like sense of powerlessness.

His legs, which had wanted to jump from the window, were also tightly bound by the tentacles. In the dead silence, Horn looked down at the ground, stiff with dread.

Twisting, tangling, crawling, and writhing, the middle-aged doctor who had taken six bullets rose from the doorway in a bizarre posture no human could achieve. On his largely ruined face, the remnants of that delighted expression were still faintly visible.

Within the hollow skull, amidst the viscous, gelatinous mass, a deep brown eyeball that had been lurking there blinked as if waking up, turning unhurriedly toward Horn.

"How heartless, Mr. Lancaster. To fire so decisively without even giving me a chance to prove myself—did you not consider the possibility that you might be wrong? Or do you simply not care even if your judgment is flawed?"

"--At what point did I start to show a flaw?"

"Was the timing too coincidental? Was the greeting too enthusiastic? Or... did you know from the very beginning?"

"How strange. As a mere mortal, you shouldn't have been aware, nor should you have even been awake."

"As expected..."

From the wounds still oozing with viscous blood, scarlet threads extended, methodically covering the bullet holes, replacing the torn flesh and the non-functional vocal cords. The massive mouth that spanned half his face opened and closed, praising him with an aged, hoarse voice that sounded like a nightmare come to life:

"--It is just as I thought! Truly worthy of the noble blood, truly worthy of the Path of Sunset! No wonder that fool Belloc died at your hands. The mystery of [Blood] is, indeed, endless!"

Believe that? As if! If that were really the case, I wouldn't have ended up in such a miserable state. I would have long since used my status as a royal relative to summon warships and cannons, and invited you to taste the power of a full-scale bombardment.

With a belly full of grievances and nowhere to vent, Hohen remained silent, struggling blindly.

The tentacles wrapped around Hohen's joints tightened a fraction more, binding him firmly. That sticky, hoarse voice sounded far from satisfied, continuing to speak of surprises and gratitude.

"No matter what, Mr. Hohenheim Lancaster, you cannot escape. It must be fate guiding me, letting me encounter you just at this moment, Mr. Hohenheim."

"How could a Burnt Offering be complete without the [Ember]? I was on the verge of losing hope, and you—you, who appeared right before me—have completed the final piece of my ritual's puzzle, ensuring that my long efforts were not in vain."

"To encounter such a suitable talent, truly, the heavens are smiling upon me!"

"Fate can go to hell, (Avalon profanity), (Chinese profanity)."

Blinded by the heartfelt confession of this perverted old man, Hohen could no longer hold back. He used the only part of his body capable of free expression to vent a stream of beautiful hometown profanities at the enemy before him.

Waving his hand, Saliba, who was in high spirits, magnanimously forgave Hohen for his small, desperate offense. He signaled the nurse beside him to bring the anesthetic and picked up the syringe himself.

Then, as his body was forcibly moved, Hohen felt a chill on his neck, his vision went black, and he passed out on the spot.

Watching with satisfaction as the parasites he brought lifted the tightly wrapped Hohen with their clumsy limbs, Saliba withdrew his attention from his temporarily constructed shell and turned toward more critical matters.

Deep beneath the Sacred Heart Hospital, within a ritual site that had long been prepared.

Hanging up the landline phone, Frank Mills removed the badge from his chest—the one representing his status as Deputy Chief of the Birmingham branch of the Prevention and Suppression Bureau—and tossed it casually into the Blood Pool before him, watching expressionlessly as it slowly sank into the viscous scarlet.

Just like his own life.

As if some distant, stale, and unpleasant matter were being brought up again, Frank vaguely remembered his original wish, the reason he had embarked on the path of the [Heart].

Back then, the young man holding a scalpel and hemostatic forceps only wanted to use this power, derived from an unceasing heart, to extend the lives of others by a minute, then another.

Until wounds were healed, diseases were dispelled, and life was prolonged.

Holding onto this desire, the progress of Frank's First Mark, [Arrow Puller], was unstoppable. He received the commendation of the [Tigris Teaching Seat] and became a [Surgeon].

Promoted to the Second Mark before the age of thirty, Frank was full of ambition, yet deeply felt the scarcity of medical resources. Thus, he accepted an invitation to be stationed at the newly established branch of the Prevention and Suppression Bureau in Birmingham, to treat those rarer injuries and combat those more tangible diseases.

And so, time passed.

The war that swept across the entire Western Continent began—

"A war will be constantly described and constantly recalled until it becomes art and the past." This is what a man of letters would say, but standing in the trenches, Frank could only see vivid death.

Death, death, death, death.

Gunshot wounds, crush injuries, dying of infection, dying of suffocation.

Everywhere he looked, there was death.

Too many lives were thrown into the Wheel of Strife, consumed meaninglessly, becoming the firewood of war, just to make that meaningless, impure flame burn even brighter.

The life saved on the first day would die on the second; the life saved on the second day would not live to see the sun of the third. The Phlogiston Bombs dropped by bombers shattered the soldiers' sanity, while alcohol, cigarettes, and even more alien things crudely pieced it back together. This cycle continued for four full years.

Sending the lives he had saved back into the meat grinder of the battlefield over and over again, kneeling in the trenches dug out by behemoths, listening to the whispers of the dying, Frank—about to be promoted to the Third Mark, [Healer]—lay among the corpses. In his futile exhaustion, he looked up at the starless night sky, illuminated by the ceaseless fire of day and night.

He was more lost than he had ever been.

"I was once a child who thought of himself as a doctor. I thought I would become a hero, so I went to the battlefield. Until just now, a bullet hit my passionate heart. Mother, I am lying in a trench now; I cannot come home today."

Enemies, allies, companions, and finally, himself.

What, in the end, can truly endure?

And so, the riddle posed by the [Gate of the Stag] became increasingly inscrutable with the change in Frank's state of mind. The Third Mark, once within reach, now seemed so unattainable.

If one cannot even heal oneself, what right does one have to heal others?

Is anything I have done meaningful?

And now, the question that had plagued him for so many years seemed to finally have an answer.

"I cannot save everyone, nor does everyone need to be saved."

"Life born from error is destined to return to nothingness. Only pleasure and pain can lift us from our fated end. The Great Mother never forgets any Sacrifice."

"Use your blood to let me rise higher."

"No matter the cost, no matter who has to pay it."

Scanning the [Blood Thirsters] who were sleeping soundly under the influence of a large batch of high-quality [Sedative Potion] he had purchased, Frank revealed a sincere smile. Amidst the flickering candlelight, his neat teeth glinted coldly.

"Drip."

Crimson liquid dripped onto the ground. The splashing echo bounced around the narrow ritual site, finding no exit, only creating a ripple on the surface of the Blood Pool.

Releasing his jaw, Frank opened his mouth. Ignoring the blood already overflowing from his mouth, he relied on this familiar pain to recall the words that the Lord had once taught him amidst blood and intoxication, spitting out blurred Fuchino Language with a tongue that had been nearly bitten through.

"Enjoy your soul to the fullest!"

The moment his words, nicknamed "Words of Desiccation," rang out, the scent of alcohol and revelry inexplicably permeated the air. The [Blood Thirsters], who had been sleeping soundly under the effects of the [Sedative Potion], opened their scarlet eyes, unconsciously repeating these hoarse and seductive words with screams and gibberish.

"A crimson soul, thick and soft, wrapped in a cocoon of velvet texture, bright as the sun, vivid as blood. Ruby, pomegranate seed, fruit of Eden, the eyes of a white rabbit!"

"Sincere desire flows beneath that layer of fluff. Countless thread-like thoughts weave joy, covering the torrent of desire, holding them as the Red Cup once held humanity. Holding a spoon made of senses, digging inward, watching desire be pierced, spilling out overflowing enthusiasm that fills the mouth. They bloom in my mouth."

"Its sweetness is not merely a pleasure of the tongue, but magma capable of melting a person, sweeter than all joy, fiercer than all wine! Compared to this, those are but little tricks to fool the senses, only serving to make one numb and decadent!"

"Spreading within, piercing through bones, soaking into muscles, traversing every meridian, as scorching as furnace flames, as surging as a tidal wave. Flowing past all taboos and fears, casting aside the entwined shackles, the most primordial self emerges!"

"It may come from afar, perhaps from memories buried deep within my bloodline, or perhaps at some moment a lifetime ago, a split second I never perceived, I had already been deeply touched by it. Perhaps only in a dream."

"The deepest sweetness comes from this clear consciousness, from the total awareness of every instant. When completely immersed in this boundless fullness, I know deep down that all troubles and anxieties will vanish like smoke, regardless of history, regardless of eternity."

"Because at this very moment, the only thing that exists is this endless revelry and intoxication!"

[The process of the Rite of the Cup usually involves the participation of shrill screams. We must recreate these sounds as much as possible to obtain the pulsing power they provide.]

[Prayer of Intoxication!]

[Opening Ceremony]