Aitken was pleased. No—he was elated.
The final piece of the puzzle had been set, and the image that unfolded before his mind's eye was more than mere triumph; it was transcendence. As he strolled through the main avenue of Tamoru's capital, his crimson robes billowing gently in the noon breeze, he was flanked on all sides by citizens crying out for his attention. Children waved, some running after him with makeshift trinkets in hand, gifts of innocent reverence. Parents bowed or dropped to their knees, begging for miracles—healing of diseases, blessings for bountiful harvests, or salvation for their suffering kin.
Aitken gave none of it a second glance.
Their worship was merely a shadow of what was to come.
He walked with purpose, his golden-threaded cloak trailing behind him like a banner of victory, toward the massive altar rising in the center of the city—a colossus of marble, obsidian, and shimmering sapphire, built not by slaves or workers, but by the people themselves. Citizens labored day and night to complete the towering monument, their hands bleeding and their backs aching, yet they smiled as they worked, overcome by a divine compulsion they could not explain.
They had no idea they were building their own end.
They had no clue that this altar, this majestic gift to the heavens, was a vessel for their collective sacrifice—a tether between this world and the divine will of Noir, god of Death.
And it was not the only one.
Scattered across the Nine Great Provinces and the Twenty-One Lesser Realms that made up the mighty nation of Tamoru, fifteen similar altars were under construction. They rose from city centers, deep valleys, mountain plateaus, and coastal temples—monoliths reaching skyward like fingers of prayer, or perhaps of despair.
Most citizens didn't even know why they were building them. They had been told it was for peace, for protection, for purification. And so they obeyed, believing they were serving a righteous cause. That blind, obedient faith pleased Aitken more than any sacrifice could.
He ascended the marble steps of the Great Temple, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone. It had once been a place of open worship for all gods—an interfaith sanctuary—but now, it had been repurposed. The Apostles of Death had claimed it as their headquarters. And within its hallowed halls, only Noir's name was whispered.
The temple was a masterpiece of design. Towering white pillars lined the interior, each carved with scenes of divine conquest, the cycle of death and rebirth, and the countless souls who had crossed the veil. The ceilings stretched far above, painted in hues of blue, gold, and jet-black, portraying the cosmos collapsing into Noir's eternal embrace. The sunlight that filtered through the stained glass windows painted the floor in divine colors—violet, crimson, silver.
Dozens of priests in death-white robes moved in silence. Their garments were trimmed in dark thread, and bone masks covered their faces. They knelt in rows, chanting prayers not for the living, but for the souls that had been claimed and those soon to be offered. Their tones were soft, melancholic, reverent. It was a sound that didn't mourn—it welcomed. Their hands moved rhythmically, drawing runes in the air that shimmered for a second before vanishing like mist.
Aitken passed them with a nod, descending deeper into the temple's underbelly. He moved through arched corridors dimly lit by candles that burned with black flame, then through a series of sealed doors guarded by sentinels in armor etched with the symbol of the Apostles—a hand reaching into the void.
Finally, he reached the lowest level: the Sanctum Mortem.
The air here was colder, denser. Ancient symbols pulsed faintly on the stone walls. The hum of restrained spiritual energy echoed like a second heartbeat.
In the first chamber, suspended by jagged blood-forged spikes, hung a boy—his body wracked with pain, trembling, yet still alive.
Itekan.
Despite the horror he endured, his body was mostly whole. Every gash, every tear, every broken bone had been healed. All but one—a massive hole through the center of his chest, where his heart should've been. Blood no longer flowed from it, and yet he lived.
Aitken admired the resilience.
"Still conscious?" he asked, voice calm as he stepped into the light. "It never ceases to amaze me how easily your shadow spirit heals you. I wonder… is it limitless? Or does it simply lag behind your suffering?"
A tall man in the corner of the room, face hidden behind a black iron mask, let out a low chuckle. He bore the same glowing tattoo as Aitken—a sigil of binding that marked them as Apostles. The dark room pulsed with a dim violet glow, cast by the blood-spikes that bound Itekan.
Since the boy's abduction, his shadow spirit had been working without pause, endlessly regenerating him—both body and mind. It was the only thing keeping him from total madness. A marvel, really. Avery, by contrast, hadn't lasted long. Ten minutes, maybe. And then he broke.
Avery had believed the Apostles would help him slay his father—a tyrant who had scarred him deeply. He had known the cost. He'd known Aitken's methods. Aaron had begged him not to go through with it. Had warned him, tried to protect him.
Aaron was dead now. Because Avery hadn't listened.
Because Aitken had planned it that way.
The next chamber was quieter, darker. In it, lay the final prisoner.
A man—not quite alive, not quite dead. His body was beaten to the point of unrecognizability. Eyes missing. Skin pale. Muscles torn. Yet, not a single drop of blood had spilled. Not one.
His body didn't run on blood—but on raw SE.
His SS which was boundless, nearly infinite, kept him alive, and his SE never ran out. No matter what they did, no matter how much they extracted, his spiritual core simply regenerated. The Apostles were currently using his energy to power the entire temple, yet the only physical sign of drain was his slow, steady loss of color. As if light itself were bleeding from him.
Aitken narrowed his eyes.
There were mysteries in this world—even for him. But this man was different. Dangerous. Untouchable. If anything happened to him, the consequences would be unthinkable.
Kime would not let them go, he had called him " his property."
And even they knew not to touch Kime's property that's why they had waited until the trainees had left Kime's territory before they attacked, or else none of them would have escaped with their lives.
Aitken let out a low hum—his favorite tune: The Roadside Grill—a carefree melody from a different life, long before death became his companion.
Then it happened.
A deafening rumble. The floor beneath his feet lurched. The walls groaned. Candles snuffed out, and a violent tremor shook the very heart of the temple. From above, shouts rang out. Stone cracked. Glass shattered.
Buildings collapsed like pebbles. Mountains flattened with no ends. Valleys tore open leaving abysses in its wake.
A presence had just torn his way into the nation, past it's defences—and it demanded to be known.
Aitken's head turned sharply. He and the masked Apostle exchanged a glance.
The tremor didn't stop at the temple.
It swallowed the entire nation of Tamoru.
He felt it in the deepest parts of his being—not just the power, but the fury. Wrathful, ancient fury.
"The Legend…" Aitken whispered, a trembling smile forming on his lips. "Carpathia has arrived."
This was the plan. He had known it might come to this. But not so soon. Not like this.
The barriers placed by the three High Apostles—meant to buy them hours—had lasted less than a minute.
For the first time in years, Aitken's blood ran cold. An involuntary reaction. An impossible one. He had control over every molecule of his blood—even at the atomic level. Yet he shivered.
On the blood spikes, Itekan stirred. His voice, hoarse, broken, barely audible, rose like a whisper in the storm.
"D-Dad…"
Spiritual Energy -- SE
Spritual Sea -- SS
Spiritual Signatures -- SST