The Immortals

Birmingham, the original site of Sacred Heart Hospital.

The sun hung low, the twilight sky a mix of gold and purple, casting long, slanted shadows.

In the distance, a clamor arose as the police, always "fashionably late," busied themselves cordoning off the scene and pacifying the bewildered public. Even those bold or curious enough to approach were politely "dissuaded" by agents belonging to the Prevention and Suppression Bureau.

Because dangerous knowledge must be sealed, and the existence of the extraordinary must be kept secret from mortals.

Within the ruins that were once Sacred Heart Hospital, inside a deep crater scoured out by the Styx, an alien aura was spreading.

How awkward.

Facing Veronica, who was earnestly trying to grant him a quick death, Horn sucked in a breath of air that hadn't yet lost its scorching heat. Too rushed to even check his loot, he shrieked like a panicked gopher:

"No, no, no! I can still be saved!"

"Without the aid of a ritual or the restraint of a seal, the residual, rampaging spirit within you will only lead you down the path of an Abomination."

Veronica shook her head, looking at Horn's still-scarlet eyes with pity. While he was still lucid, she explained, "Even if something were to be reborn through your husk, and even in the best-case scenario where some remnants of your original soul were preserved, it could no longer be considered the original you."

"So, just lie still. It won't hurt much..."

Facing the branches that made his chest feel cold even before they descended, Horn could no longer worry about blood loss or the depletion of his spirit. He exerted his final ounce of strength, straightened his body, and ignited a flame from within his soul.

It was as if yesterday were relived, a cycle of fate repeating.

Black flames ignited from within his blood, burning away all the rooted corruption and uncontrolled mutations, turning them into swirling ashes that drifted lazily in the air.

In an instant, the lingering poison of Saliba was effortlessly purged, leaving no hidden dangers behind.

Clean and efficient.

"Huh?"

Only then did Veronica notice the abstract, winding tattoo that had emerged from Horn's back along with the flames, resembling a totem.

No, that wasn't it; there had never been such a scorching tattoo in this world. What manifested the essence through his skin was the fiery pulse surging within his veins!

First Seal: [Blood Scorcher]!

Wait, seriously, man?

Are you telling me that someone can turn from a spare part into a bug during an Apostle's ascension to Immortal, eat and take from his reserves, trade blows with the power left behind by the Hours while beating him up, and casually snag a seal on the way, officially becoming an Apprentice of the Ember?

I didn't have such a grand spectacle back in my day!

Still, it's good that he's alive.

Dispelling the sharp branches in her hands, Veronica pushed aside her lingering doubts. She simply watched as Horn, his face flushed with an unnatural redness, collapsed once more.

After experiencing a series of ups and downs—mostly downs—Horn, having squeezed out his very last drop of reserves, finally fainted as he had wished, finding solace in a dreamless, deep sleep.

His expression was peaceful.

Hey, brother, you look like you're dead.jpg

Looking at the hospital that had just been blown to pieces, Veronica fell into deep thought.

Should she just make do and bury him right here?

Within the ruins, inside a clean room that had "coincidentally" escaped the aftermath of the battle—a place where even the swirling dust dared not approach—a woman with wine-red hair sat with her legs elegantly crossed. She no longer wore the inconspicuous nurse's outfit. Her slender fingers, encased in red silk gloves, held a stemmed glass loosely, letting the crimson liquid swirl as she examined the mirror before her with keen interest.

Her full lips parted slightly as she took a small bite of a fluffy cake held to her mouth by her other hand, grinding and chewing it with her pearly white teeth.

"Back in the eighteenth century, people would eat a slice of this cake in the morning, paired with Madeira wine from the Madeira Islands; warm and rich, rugged yet fragrant and soft, the vivid taste accompanied by the chirping of lapwings and goldcrests..."

"But now, it is the twentieth century. We have afternoon tea. We no longer drink fortified wine at ten in the morning. There are no more lapwings, no more goldcrests. Yet, this cake remains delicious. Praise be to the almond."

"Do you still remember the fragrance of red wine and almonds? Do you still remember the taste of Madeira cake? Without distinction and perception, how could you fail to recognize joy and pain? Do you regret abandoning your flesh to continue until now?"

Amidst her curious questions, the mirror surface seemed to awaken. Light slid across it, providing a response that could not have been clearer.

"No existence has ever truly wanted to be completely changed. The Luminiferous and Azoth are held in equal awe, yet none who have been changed have ever chosen to turn back."

"Lady Tryphon, didn't you also abandon your former self to climb to your current realm?"

"Tsk... don't lump me in with you, Lars."

Receiving a retort that wasn't particularly pleasant, Tryphon frowned in displeasure and replied bluntly:

"Weren't you the one who contacted me first? Say what you have to say and be quick about it; don't disturb me while I'm enjoying my meal."

The light twisted, leaving neat lines of text on the mirror surface, clearly and concisely articulating the doubts of the entity known as Lars Westergren.

"What I do not understand is why you would push such a useful pawn toward Birmingham, a place of no consequence, even going so far as to attach the [Restless Blood], an irreproducible [Relic of the Hours]."

"For someone on the path of blood and taste, an Immortal qualified to play the [Vigilant Storm] could even help you take a further step, truly entering the [Crimson Church] to enjoy this supreme glory alone."

"Could it be related to the [Path of the Sun]—uh..."

Setting down her wine glass, Tryphon reached out and flicked the mirror. Watching the surface flicker like a faulty lightbulb, the text that hadn't fully manifested became dizzy and formed a large "!", she couldn't help but laugh with delight.

"You're overthinking it, little Lars. The seal of the Cup was pioneered by me; precisely because of that, I know the hardships of the path of the [Cup of Insatiable] better than anyone. Now, I am more favored by the [Flower Artisan], and I am rejoicing in it."

"Stop obsessing over your Path of the Sun; what is meant to come will come, whether it be dawn or dusk. Compared to a sun far beyond the horizon, I am more curious whether you will still attend next year's Christmas Gathering."

The words fell leisurely, and without waiting for Lars to reply, Tryphon pressed a slender finger to her lips, winked one eye, and made a gesture for silence.

Beep--

With that, all the text and strangeness vanished, and the glowing mirror returned to its original, unremarkable state, leaving not a trace of the exchange between the two Immortals.

Having teased Lars one last time, a smiling Tryphon looked into the distance, watching Veronica, who held her thumb and forefinger together to carve a deep, dark portal leading to who knows where in the air, and the black-haired youth with a peaceful expression held horizontally in her arms as she prepared to step through.

She could not help but feel a sense of anticipation.

Scion of the Plantagenet, which history, which ending, will you ultimately choose?