Over and over, he drew lines through my name, each stroke twisting my body with sickening pain.
His mana poured into me, overwriting my very being. Every movement of his quill carved directly into my flesh, each curve and slash searing my identity away.
When the rite was finished, my name had vanished, replaced by a single character, one that meant death.
The black wings that had fought so desperately to shield me disintegrated into smoke. I collapsed, gasping, each breath shallow and ragged.
He stepped forward, fingers curling into my hair, dragging me upright. "You did well to survive this long," he said coldly. "But your death is already written."
From within his cloak, he pulled a crow. Its feathers shimmered with unnatural darkness, its presence heavy, oppressive, a token of fate.
My pulse quickened. That bird meant the end.
As his hand raised it toward me, I reached within my torn garments and pulled out my own. The act was slow, deliberate, each movement filled with defiance.
For a heartbeat, silence hung between us. His eyes widened. "Damn it, how the hell do you have that?"
I smiled through blood-stained teeth. "Go on. Do it."
The tension thickened. I could feel him measuring the weight of his next action, the crow trembling faintly in his grasp as if even it sensed the shift.
Finally, he scowled and released me.
"You're not worth the ending I had planned." His voice dripped with contempt.
Then, with a gesture that felt ritualistic, he tore out one of his own teeth and pressed it into my chest. The sensation was cold, heavy, wrong.
He straightened, gaze locking with mine. "Consider this my parting gift… or curse."
Black ink began to drip from his hands, running in rivulets down his arms, pooling at his feet.
It spread outward, curling like smoke in water. The air grew thick, and his form blurred.
A moment later, his entire body dissolved into a roiling cloud of ink, the mass churning as if alive before thinning into the wind and vanishing altogether.
[New affinity acquired: Ink!]
Snow began to fall, soft, cold, and silent. Each flake touched me gently, easing the pain with its quiet descent.
I laughed uncontrollably, my vision blurring at the edges. A one-time-use item… a reckless gamble to claim a new affinity so early in my journey.
[Nicholas had risked everything to obtain this new power. And he would wield it fully.]
A flash of red pierced the haze. Hands lifted me, Mirabel's voice echoing faintly, distant and muffled. Then, darkness swallowed everything.
***
Later, I awoke in a daze, the rumble of wheels beneath me.
I jolted upright from Mirabel's lap, coughing blood onto the carriage floor.
"How long was I out?" I rasped.
She gave me a worried glance before sighing. "Only a few minutes. I gave you some of my mana."
I smiled faintly. "Thank you for trusting me. Without that, it wouldn't have worked."
If Mirabel hadn't intervened, Barlah would have killed me, or fled, depending on the weight of his choice.
"You're lucky, Nicholas," she said softly. "Your soul was deteriorating. I had to part with a portion of my identity just to save you."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Trust me once more, my love. The power I just gained… it's worth it."
She didn't look pleased but said nothing. Instead, she leaned back, arms crossed.
I grinned and placed both hands on her lap. "Come now, don't be like that. Also, mind helping me with something?"
I sat across from her. She regarded me with intrigue as I slowly crossed my legs and released every drop of mana within me.
"You're going to enter your inner world?" she asked. "Is that wise? You haven't even reached the first wall."
I frowned. "Trust me, Mirabel. All I need you to do is contain my mana. I can't afford to lose any of it."
She sighed and snapped her fingers, forming a protective bubble of mana around the carriage.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
Within every being lies a series of walls. Each one marks a threshold of existence, twelve in total.
Breaking a wall doesn't simply grant more mana or strength; it refines everything.
Mind, body, and soul all ascend in harmony, pushing the individual closer to perfection.
Normally, interacting with even a single higher wall is impossible. But through intense cultivation and control, it becomes attainable.
As a child, my parents forced me to cultivate for days without rest.
That relentless training allowed me to reach and perceive beings whose walls were far above my own.
That was the true difference between Mirabel and me.
The inner world is the vessel that contains these walls. To perceive it, you must first break the initial barrier.
[Nicholas began cultivating, gathering his mana and shaping it with precision.]
After a time, I reabsorbed all the mana I had released, binding it to myself with absolute control.
In the next instant, the first wall shattered.
A surge of energy coursed through my body, refining every sense, every fiber of strength. My thoughts sharpened.
My vision deepened. My spirit blazed. Every aspect of me evolved as if the world itself bowed to my new state.
Then I saw it, my inner world.
A dark blue sky scattered with stars stretched endlessly above. Pillars of ink and shadow rose to infinite heights, surrounding a blue sun that hovered silently overhead.
The air shimmered with falling roses, black, wilting petals that faded the moment they touched the black, sand-like ground.
It was a perfect reflection of my power, though I couldn't yet access it fully.
I stood and stretched.
In my past life, I could never have imagined reaching this place. But now, it was within reach.
I raised my palm and summoned my Regalia.
A slow smile spread across my face as it took shape, shifting and flickering with depthless shadows.
This power had always been within me, buried beneath layers of weakness and delay.
For as long as I could remember, my progress had been a struggle, not from lack of determination or potential, but because of my illness.
The very thing that poisoned my body also clouded my connection to this gift. I could never fully manifest it or wield it freely.
Every attempt felt like grasping smoke. My mana would twist, falter, and collapse under its own weight.
The Regalia resisted me, not out of malice, but because I wasn't ready.
Now that I'd shattered the first wall, now that I could walk within my own soul, I felt free.
I could finally train with it openly, learn its shape, its rules, its boundaries. And more than that, I could push beyond them.
A single black petal floated down before me, one among the endless cascade of wilting roses that filled my inner world.
I reached up and caught it between my fingers.
Its texture was soft, almost fragile. But beneath its delicate surface lay weight, meaning, memory.
Carefully, I peeled the petal open like paper, its layers unfolding with unnatural precision.
I summoned a small orb of ink into my other hand, its swirling liquid glistening with violet shimmer. I pressed the petal into it, letting the ink soak through.
[Nicholas was about to achieve something illogical, something that defied the limits of what he was now.]
The moment the petal was drenched, something shifted.
A flood of memories surged into me. They weren't mine. Not entirely.
I saw myself sitting in an endless white void. Everything was quiet, still, blinding.
Before me, a single sheet of paper rested atop an invisible desk.
I was etching, with trembling hands. The lines were crude yet precise, something instinctive guiding them.
Then I looked up.
There was no horizon. No ceiling. Only void.
From that emptiness, something looked back.
A scream tore from my mouth, raw and primal. The sound vanished the moment it left me, swallowed by the white.
I felt my body convulse in the memory, the paper burning away with black fire.
The void closed in.
And just like that, I was back.
I staggered forward, gasping.
My Regalia pulsed violently in my hand, its shape warping with new complexity. It had evolved.
Dark Alter, for all its strength, had always been a burden. It devoured mana at an unsustainable rate.
Worse, it gnawed at the roots of my illness, turning every use into a gamble. The more I relied on it, the more my body broke down.
But now, after all this time, I had something new. A power I could wield without fear.
Barlah's Regalia had once allowed him to attack names, those in which contained your very being. Only through ink magic.
He could erase meaning, overwrite purpose, a terrifying ability honed through years of mastery.
In the end, he passed it on to me, not by choice, not entirely, but by blood.
At the time, I was too weak to bear it. The legacy burned in me, fractured and wild, as if the ink itself didn't know whether to obey me or destroy me.
But Barlah had done more than share his blood.
He'd left a fragment of himself within me,his structure, his will. The blueprint of how to use it.
Now, that fragment aligned. The strain eased.
And with it, I could do more than strike names.
I could rewrite magic. Reconfigure spells as they were cast. Alter meaning itself.
The ability had a name: Scriptor.
And now, it was mine.