The Immortals

Birmingham, on the site of the former Sacred Heart Hospital.

The sun hung low in the sky, and the evening clouds were gilded in purple and gold. Shadows stretched long across the ground.

Distant commotion rose. The police, as always "arriving late," busied themselves sealing off the scene and calming the bewildered crowds. Even the bold and the curious who tried to approach were politely "turned away" by agents of the Prevention and Suppression Bureau.

Because dangerous knowledge had to be contained, and the supernatural had to remain hidden from ordinary people.

In the ruins of what had once been Sacred Heart Hospital, inside the pit scoured out by the Styx, a strange presence was spreading.

How awkward.

Faced with Veronica, who sincerely wanted to put him out of his misery, Horn sucked in a breath of hot air that hadn't yet cooled. He didn't even have time to check his spoils before squealing as frantically as a groundhog:

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

"Without a ritual to guide it or a Mark to restrain it, the remnant of rampaging spiritual energy inside you will only send you down the path of an Abomination."

Veronica shook her head, gazing at Horn's still-crimson eyes with pity. While he was still conscious enough to understand, she explained, "Even if something uses your body to be reborn, and even if, in the best-case scenario, it retains some remnants of your original soul, it still won't be you anymore."

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

Faced with the branch poised to descend, which had already left his chest feeling cold, Horn couldn't spare a thought for blood loss or spiritual exhaustion. Summoning the last of his strength, he sat up and kindled a flame within his soul.

It was like yesterday all over again, or fate repeating itself.

Black flames flickered to life in his blood, burning away all the rooted corruption and uncontrolled mutations, turning them into ashes that drifted lazily through the air.

In an instant, Saliba's poison was casually purged, leaving no trace behind.

Clean and swift.

"Huh?"

Only then did Veronica notice the abstract, winding tattoo that had appeared on Horn's back along with the flames, like a totem.

No—not a tattoo. Nothing in this world had ever been so hot. What showed through the skin was the searing pulse racing through his veins!

First Seal: [Blood Scorcher]!

Wait, what?

So you're telling me someone can go from being a spare part to a walking bug during an Apostle-to-Immortal ascension ritual, help himself to the guy's reserves, and, while beating him to a pulp, find time to cross paths with the power left behind by the Hours and bring back a Mark—officially becoming an Apprentice of [Ember]?

Even I didn't make that much of a splash back in the day.

Well, at least he's fine.

Veronica let the sharp branches in her hand dissipate. Though she still had plenty of questions, she put them aside for now and watched Horn, his face flushed with an unnatural rosy hue, fall back down.

After one wild series of ups and downs, and then more downs, Horn had finally used up his last reserves and passed out as he'd wished, finding comfort in a dreamless, deep sleep.

His face was peaceful.

Dude, you're so dead. jpg

Looking at the hospital that had just been blown apart, Veronica fell into thought.

Maybe she could make do and bury him right here?

Amid the ruins stood a clean room that had, by sheer "coincidence," escaped the shock waves of the battle. Even the drifting dust seemed afraid to approach it.

No longer dressed as an unremarkable nurse, the woman with wine-red hair sat with her legs crossed elegantly. Her slender fingers, wrapped in red silk gloves, loosely held a long-stemmed wineglass. She let the crimson liquid swirl as she examined the mirror before her with interest.

Her full lips parted slightly. She took a small bite of the fluffy cake offered to her by another hand, then ground and chewed 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 fortified wine from the Madeira Islands. Bold and heady, rough yet mellow, its lively flavor accompanied by the cries of snipe and firecrests..."

"But now it's the twentieth century. We have afternoon tea. We no longer drink fortified wine at ten in the morning. There are no more snipe or firecrests. But this cake is still delicious. Praise almonds."

"Do you still remember the fragrance of wine and almonds? Do you still remember the taste of Madeira cake? If you have no sense of distinction or perception, how can you tell pleasure from pain? Have you ever regretted abandoning your flesh to live on?"

At her curious questions, the mirror seemed to awaken. Light slid across its surface, delivering a reply clearer than any spoken words.

"Nothing that exists truly wishes to be changed completely. [Luminiferous] and [Azoth] are held in equal reverence, yet none who have been changed have ever chosen to turn back."

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

"Tch... Don't lump me together with you, Lars."

Stung by the less-than-pleasant retort, Tryphon frowned in displeasure and replied bluntly:

"Weren't you the one who contacted me first? If you have something to say, get on with it. Don't interrupt me while I enjoy my food."

Light twisted across the mirror, leaving neat lines of writing that clearly laid out the questions of the being named Lars Westergren.

"What I don't understand is why you sent such a useful pawn to an insignificant place like Birmingham, even going so far as to attach [Restless Blood], an unreproducible [legacy of the Hours]."

"For someone who has embarked on the path of blood and flavor, an Immortal qualified to play the role of [Vigilant Storm] could even help you advance further and truly take your place within the [Crimson Church], claiming that supreme glory for yourself."

"Could it be something to do with the [Path of the Sun]—uh..."

Setting down her wineglass, Tryphon reached out and flicked the mirror. Its surface flickered like a faulty lightbulb, and the half-formed words spun around in a daze, finally arranging themselves into a large "!"

She couldn't help laughing with delight.

"You're overthinking it, little Lars. I invented the Cup Mark, so I know better than anyone how difficult the path of the [Cup of Insatiable] is. These days, the [Flower Artisan] favors me more, and I'm quite happy about it."

"Stop obsessing over your [Path of the Sun]. What's meant to come will come, whether at dawn or dusk. Rather than the sun, so far away, I'm more curious whether you'll come to next year's [Christmas Gathering]."

Her words came to rest. Without waiting for Lars to reply, Tryphon raised a slender finger to her lips, winked, and gestured for silence.

Bip—

All the writing and strange phenomena vanished. The glowing mirror returned to its ordinary, unremarkable state, without a trace that the two Immortals had ever communicated.

Having teased Lars one last time, Tryphon's mood lifted. Smiling, she watched from afar as Veronica pressed her index finger and thumb together, drawing a deep, unknown doorway through the air. Veronica was about to step through, carrying the peaceful-faced, black-haired young man in her arms.

Tryphon couldn't help but feel anticipation.

Descendant of the Plantagenets, which version of history will you choose? Which ending?