Darkness peeled away.
Kael opened his eyes.
Night stretched endlessly above him, heavy with smoke and the stench of blood. The field was soaked crimson, trampled grass flattened beneath countless footsteps. The air trembled with lingering mana, sharp and suffocating—the residue of a massacre that had already ended.
Kael slowly turned, his breath catching.
Two children lay on the ground not far from him.
Blood pooled beneath their small bodies, soaking into the earth. One had black hair matted with red, his chest rising only faintly. The other lay twisted beside him, pale and unmoving, his breaths shallow and uneven.
Kael took a hesitant step forward.
Then another.
As he knelt beside them, his eyes widened in shock.
It was him.
The younger version of Kael lay there—broken, barely alive.
And beside him… was John.
Both children were drenched in blood, bodies battered beyond what any child should endure. Kael's hands trembled as he reached out instinctively, only to freeze.
A presence descended from the sky.
Kael stiffened.
An old man landed silently upon the field, robes fluttering as he surveyed the bodies. His eyes passed straight through Kael, as if Kael did not exist at all.
The man crouched and placed a hand on each child's chest.
He sighed.
"This one is still alive," the old man muttered, referring to young Kael.
With careful movements, he lifted Kael's injured body into his arms. Mana gathered beneath his feet as he rose into the air without another glance—leaving John behind, breath shallow, body cooling against the blood-soaked ground.
"No—" Kael whispered.
He rushed forward and dropped to his knees beside John.
"Wait… don't leave him."
Kael reached out—
His hand passed straight through John's body.
Transparent. Weightless.
Useless.
John's chest barely moved. His lips were blue, his fingers cold. Kael tried again, desperation clawing at his chest, but no matter how he reached, he could not touch him.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Kael turned.
Figures cloaked in dark robes emerged from the shadows—Demon Cultists. They moved methodically, dragging the remaining survivors, checking bodies with cold efficiency.
One cultist knelt beside John and pressed fingers to his neck.
The man shook his head.
"This child is valuable… but what a waste. He's dead."
Suddenly, John coughed.
Blood spilled from his mouth as his body convulsed.
The cultist stiffened. Without hesitation, he signaled the others.
"He's alive. Take him."
They lifted John roughly and dragged him away.
Kael could only watch.
The world shattered.
-----------------------------------------
The scenery twisted violently, folding in on itself like broken glass.
Kael found himself standing in an underground basement.
Cold stone walls. Iron bars. The air thick with rot, blood, and despair.
Children filled the cells.
Some had red hair.
Some had red eyes.
All of them were thin. Pale. Bruised.
Kael turned slowly, dread settling deep in his chest.
Then he saw him.
John—around twelve years old now.
No longer bleeding. No longer broken.
But worse.
His body was skeletal, ribs visible beneath thin skin. His eyes were dull, hollow. He lay on a narrow stone bed, barely able to move.
Beside him lay a girl with red hair, imprisoned in the same cell. She was just as thin, just as pale.
She reached out and held John's trembling hand.
"Did you hear?" she whispered softly, careful not to alert the guards. "Our comrade… Kael… was chosen as the Hero."
John's lips curved into a weak smile.
"I heard too," he murmured. "He'll come and save us."
The girl nodded faintly, clinging to his hand.
Kael stood frozen outside the cell.
They were waiting for me.
The realization struck like a blade through his chest.
Kael turned his gaze fully to the girl's face. Something about her felt familiar—too familiar. But no matter how hard he searched his memories, he couldn't place her.
The scene shifted again.
Screams filled the air.
Kael watched in horror as the cult continued their experiments—extracting blood from living children, carving into flesh without anesthesia, removing organs while their victims still breathed.
Kael staggered back, bile rising in his throat.
"Stop…" he whispered hoarsely. "Please… stop."
The world did not listen.
He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to endure it anymore.
When the screams faded, he slowly opened them again.
John stood before him—older now. A teenager.
He was no longer thin. No longer pale.
He wore the robes of the Demon Cult.
Kael stared.
John's expression was empty, lifeless. The cultists spoke to him as an equal now, treating him like a comrade instead of livestock.
But there was nothing behind his eyes.
No anger.
No hope.
No light.
Another shift.
The day the Demon King fell.
The cult gathered, chanting, wailing in grief. Offerings were laid out, blood spilled in mourning.
Everyone mourned.
Except John.
He turned away and walked toward the basement.
Kael followed.
The cells were still occupied.
Children still imprisoned.
John stopped before one cell.
Inside lay the same red-haired girl—thinner than before, barely conscious.
She stirred as John knelt beside the bars.
"The Demon King is dead," John whispered. "Kael… must have time now. He'll come and save us."
The girl smiled weakly.
Kael's breath hitched.
They didn't know.
They didn't know that Kael had lost his childhood memories.
That he had collapsed after the battle.
That he would never come.
Time passed.
Rumors spread.
Hero Kael is dead.
Kael watched as the cult celebrated, laughing and cheering.
John stood still.
Frozen.
His face empty as something inside him finally shattered.
Their hope died that day.
Years passed in a blur.
Kael realized the truth then—John never truly joined the cult by choice. He pretended. Bowed. Obeyed. Smiled when ordered to smile.
All to survive.
All to protect her.
Then came the new experiment.
The cult spoke excitedly of creating monsters—using cursed children as vessels.
Kael understood the moment John's hands began to tremble.
Female curse children were restrained.
Violated.
Impregnated with demon infants.
Kael felt his knees weaken.
The girl—John's only light—was among them.
John collapsed to his knees as he watched her being dragged away, her screams echoing through the stone halls.
Later, when John reached her cell, she was already pregnant.
"I don't want this child!" she sobbed, clutching his hand desperately. "Please… help me. You must help me…"
John said nothing.
He couldn't.
Because he was still a slave.
And Kael stood there, watching, realizing far too late—
This was the curse the Glass Lotus carried.
Not power.
But waiting.
And the cost of being forgotten.
The girl stopped looking at John.
At first, it was subtle—her eyes drifting past him, her grip loosening when he held her hand. Then, one day, she no longer reacted at all. She stared only at the stone wall before her, as if the world had already ended.
Her despair settled deep.
The child in her womb grew larger with each passing day—unnaturally so. Her belly stretched far beyond what a human body should bear. Kael could see how she suffered: the way her breath shook, how her fingers clawed weakly at the cold stone floor at night, how silent tears slid down her cheeks without a sound.
John watched helplessly from behind the bars.
Every day, he stood there.
Every day, he said nothing—because there was nothing left he could say.
Then came the words that shattered what little hope remained.
One of the cult leaders laughed as he examined her swollen stomach.
"It's a success," the man declared.
John's blood ran cold.
Successful.
It meant the demon had fully taken root.
It meant the child would be born as a monster.
It meant she would not survive.
John staggered back, gripping the bars until his fingers trembled.
Still—he could do nothing.
The day arrived.
The cult gathered in a wide underground chamber, torches lining the walls. Every cultist was present, their faces lit with fanatic anticipation. They stood in a circle as the girl was dragged forward, her body shaking, her breathing shallow.
John stood among them.
Powerless.
She screamed as the labor began, her cries echoing endlessly through the stone hall. John clenched his hands until blood dripped from his palms, nails biting into flesh.
Their eyes met.
She cried openly now, tears streaming down her face as she looked at him—pleading, terrified, betrayed.
"I'm scared…" she sobbed.
John couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
The infant was born.
Kael stepped closer, heart pounding.
Black hair.
Golden eyes.
The baby cried—a sharp, inhuman sound that sent chills through the chamber.
The girl did not die from childbirth.
That mercy was denied her.
The cultists seized her while she was still conscious. She screamed as they tore into her chest, ripping out her heart while her body still lived. Her blood was poured over the infant as an offering, soaking into its skin.
Kael froze.
As the blood touched the child, the infant's body twisted violently, bones cracking, flesh reshaping. In a horrifying instant, the baby grew—changed—until a familiar form emerged.
Kael's breath caught in his throat.
Varyn.
So that was it.
The demon they implanted into her womb was meant to create Varyn.
John's life shattered completely after that day.
Kael saw him walking through the halls like a ghost, eyes hollow, steps empty. Every day, John returned to her cell out of habit, standing before it as if expecting her to still be there.
"She's not here…" John whispered to the empty space. "She's not here…"
Kael's chest ached unbearably.
John's shoulders began to shake.
"This is all my fault," John muttered.
Kael stiffened.
Then John lifted his head, rage finally igniting through the emptiness.
"No…" His voice grew sharper, louder. "This is all their fault!!"
Something broke inside him.
John moved with purpose after that.
Kael watched as he slipped into Varyn's study chamber late at night, hands steady despite the fear clawing at his chest. He stole several forbidden scrolls—ancient texts describing rituals to create demons from the dead.
Then he ran.
The cult base faded behind him.
John's first destination was the village near the orphanage.
When he arrived, his steps slowed.
The orphanage lay in ruins.
Collapsed walls. Broken doors. No signs of repair. No flowers. No offerings.
As if no one had cared enough to remember.
John entered the rubble, heart pounding painfully in his chest. He descended into the hidden basement.
Kael followed.
Bones littered the ground.
Small skeletons lay scattered inside the cells, frozen in their final moments—hands reaching through iron bars, fingers clawing at nothing. Children who had never escaped. Children who had waited.
John collapsed to his knees.
"No… no… no…" he sobbed, tears pouring freely now. "We were still here… we were waiting…"
Kael knelt beside him instinctively.
"I'm sorry," Kael whispered, voice breaking. "I didn't know… I didn't know."
But John couldn't hear him.
Kael reached out.
His hand passed through John again.
Useless.
Then John reached into his robe and pulled out one of the stolen scrolls.
Kael's eyes widened.
"Don't," Kael pleaded desperately. "Please… don't do this."
John began to chant.
The air grew cold. Frost crept across the stone floor. The ground trembled violently as black mana surged outward.
Kael watched in horror as the bones around them began to move.
They rose.
Ghouls clawed their way out of the remains of the children—twisted, malformed, screaming without sound.
John stood, eyes burning with grief and hatred.
"Kill them," he commanded.
"Kill those who abandoned us."
"No!" Kael shouted. "John, stop! This isn't what they would want!"
But John could not hear him.
The ghouls obeyed.
They followed John as he walked forward, the darkness swallowing everything in their path.
Kael tried to run after him, tried to grab him, tried to scream—
But he never existed in this memory.
The world collapsed into darkness.
And Kael was left alone with the weight of it all.
-----------------------------------------
Reality crashed back into place.
Kael staggered as the darkness peeled away, the battlefield reforming around him—the shattered ground, the lingering smoke, the scent of blood and corrupted mana still thick in the air.
He looked down.
John lay collapsed at his feet.
"John—!"
Kael dropped to his knees and reached for him, but the moment his fingers brushed John's shoulder, John flinched violently and slapped his hand away.
"What… what did you do to me?" John rasped. His voice trembled, hoarse and broken.
Kael froze.
John's appearance was changing. The warped aura surrounding him receded, his body returning to its original form. The black veins beneath his skin faded, but the damage remained—blood streamed endlessly from his nose and ears, and his body convulsed as he coughed, dark red splattering onto the cracked ground.
"I… I didn't do anything," Kael said quickly, shaken. "I swear."
John glared at him, disbelief and fear flickering across his face.
Beside them, the torn remains of a scroll lay scattered on the ground—shredded beyond repair. The forbidden magic had consumed itself.
The ghouls were gone.
Only piles of ash and decayed remains were left behind, crumbling quietly as if they had never truly existed.
John followed Kael's gaze.
His breath hitched.
Tears welled in his eyes and spilled freely down his cheeks.
"So this is it…" he whispered, voice shaking. "We suffer… until the very end."
Kael bit his lip hard, guilt clawing at his chest.
"I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I should have known. I should have understood sooner."
John turned sharply toward him.
"What do you mean?" John demanded, eyes wide. "What are you talking about?!"
Kael hesitated.
The memories were still vivid—the girl, the cells, the experiments, the waiting that had never been answered. Kael's throat tightened.
"I…" His voice faltered. "…I saw everything."
John's breath caught.
Before he could respond—
Elric felt it.
The battlefield went unnaturally still.
She turned sharply, eyes locking onto Kael and John. The cursed aura that had filled the area was fading. The fight had ended—or so it seemed.
"Kael!" she called, staring toward them.
The air twisted.
A black void tore open behind John, swallowing the light around it. Space itself bent inward, screaming silently as a vortex formed.
Kael and John both stiffened.
From within the darkness came laughter.
Low. Mocking. Familiar.
Kael's blood ran cold.
"No—" he breathed.
Before John could even turn around, a shadow burst from the black hole with terrifying speed.
Fangs sank into John's neck.
Blood sprayed.
John screamed.
"JOHN!" Kael shouted, lunging forward.
The figure latched onto him like a beast, claws digging deep. Golden eyes gleamed in the darkness as the attacker lifted his head, blood staining his lips.
Varyn.
He was alive.
The black hole pulsed behind him, laughter echoing once more as the true nightmare revealed itself.