A divine power, one that could only be called upon in this realm because of my weakened nature.
A power that ruled the concept of mercy. Zadkiel, the Mercy of God.
"Sleep, little void. Crave the relief you cling to, for you may live and breathe endlessly. And endlessly sleep within my eternal mercy."
His voice echoed, low and infinite, and I was already falling.
My eyes drifted shut, and in this forced slumber, I felt a peace unlike any waking moment. Sleep for me was always strange.
Calm, serene even. But this was different, weighty, oppressive, binding.
Much like Kivana draws strength from the Dream, I draw mine from the Astral Sea.
It is tied directly to the Trinity of Self, my truer self, the most authentic version of me.
My blood is its tide, the water in which all things vanish. When I sleep, I may summon that water as my tears.
Even if it was only a weaker incarnation of that despicaple sea, it would still bring about great destruction.
[Nicholas was a person that if he were to cry in his sleep, would end the world, and all others. This was the catalyst in which the Central World is found.]
The Central World. I had always known this place as home, yet never truly understood its significance.
Only now did the name settle upon me with weight, recognition.
The Central World was not just my home, it was the origin of everything. An interesting development.
I had only used this ability once before, in a crucial moment when Nicole tried to steal my glory.
That was also when she revealed her own power.
These sinful ideas, these powers that bind us… mine may be among the deadliest.
And now, in this dream, I began to weep. Tears fell, and then I stood.
[Nicholas was a lucid dreamer; in fact, it could be said I was also a sleepwalker.]
My eyes opened. Zadkiel stood before me, radiating an unnatural, consuming black light.
From my eyes pooled water, each drop trembling the very foundations of the world.
[He was crying. Oh, and when he cries, it would only be his mother who could abolish him.]
I trembled and moved, shaping my tears into a weapon that tore through reality and logic alike.
Coating Sotergramma, my blade, with my tears, it became fully actualized.
The world itself began to fray and decay.
I shut my eyes and hurled myself into the Astral Sea. Basking in its glory, I poured all my remaining strength into waking.
My body erupted in pain as I tore myself back to consciousness.
[Nicholas was a madman, risking his entire existence purely for others, a selfish bastard trying to change his ways.]
My eyes opened. I lay on the floor as Zadkiel lowered a black sword of light to my neck.
"Good idea, wasn't it?" he sneered. "Even affecting you is difficult when you resist, but…"
He pressed a hand over his left eye and laughed manically. "That weakness of yours… is my strength!"
The blade lowered. I assumed I would have to craft an impossible, illogical plan.
But no. Someone else acted.
A man stepped forward. He wore a white doctor's coat, gold-lensed glasses catching the light.
His long black hair, streaked with gold, was tied into a neat bun.
Caramel skin, sharp black eyes, burly frame. He gripped the black blade of light and shattered it with one hand.
He sighed. "In this completely illogical world of ours, why do you still struggle, my king?"
He turned to me with a sly smile. "I am Ri'Ishtar. I assumed you would need my help."
Zadkiel grimaced and leapt back as Ri'Ishtar helped me rise.
His hands moved with precision, healing flesh and bone, knitting me back together.
To my surprise, my illness had not surged.
Zadkiel had not lied. Using the power of my sin, I could negate the poison of the canvas. I would need to study why later.
For now, there was still a greater threat, and I did not want Ri'Ishtar's power involved.
Before he could speak, I placed a hand over his mouth. "New law. Never use your Regalia around me."
He chuckled. "I will follow it. But defeating him without it… will be difficult."
I wiped the blood from my lips and stepped forward. Zadkiel narrowed his eyes, irritated by my vitality.
"You healed me well," I said. "As expected of the greatest doctor and surgeon in the world."
He stepped back, cautious. "Then show me the power of my famously lazy, weak king."
He moved, summoning another blade of black light. But I had already coated the battlefield in spiritrons.
His Regalia was devoured, swallowed by the depths of my power before it could even form.
We clashed, blades striking with force that shook the air. We moved like rivers crossing, winds twisting in a storm.
Each blow grazed death. Each parry defied it.
And I learned. Each strike revealed his rhythm. Each step, each subtle shift in his muscle gave him away.
He tried to invoke magic. I unfurled my aura of ink, deconstructing his spell and draining his mana.
At the same time, I lunged forward and, with the power of death, pierced his heart.
His eyes bulged as he was hurled back. I stepped down, raising a wall of darkness to halt him, and swung.
His head flew from his shoulders and landed in my palm.
I lifted it, smiling faintly at his dying eyes.
"Find your way back to Hell. Back to your truth. But this time, remain damned."
He tried to speak, but only dust emerged.
His body withered, collapsing into nothing. He fell into the pits of Hell, forever denied the grace of light.
I turned to see Ri'Ishtar smiling, a finger pressed to his lips. "Damn, that was quite the display of power."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "I assume you know why I'm here."
He nodded and reached into his coat pockets, pulling out a small vial, reddish-blue in color. "For you. And one for your son, assuming you have one."
I extended my hand and took it from him, feeling the subtle hum of its magic beneath my fingers.
The craftsmanship was meticulous; layers of protection and alchemy woven together. Its purpose was clear even if its intricacies were not.
Ri'Ishtar's eyes flickered, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I prepared it carefully. Just as I did the one for him. Handle it with care."
I nodded, storing it securely. "You made sure everything is ready, even when I didn't ask."
"Preparation is everything, Nicholas," he said calmly.
I let his words sink in, weighing the vial in my hand. Yet the vial felt stable, deliberate, a small anchor of order in chaos.
I stored the vial securely and glanced down at Miraculum, who rolled toward my feet, spreading his arms.
"I don't like the dark very much, not when Cassio isn't here with me," he murmured, a small shiver passing through him.
He looked frightened, so I would need to be sure to add light to my inner world, as much as this body could handle.
[The Central World was going through many changes, thus marking the second singularity.]
I flinched. Before my very eyes, Miraculum began to bleed, crimson trickling from his lips as his eyes widened in shock.
In that instant, everything seemed to stop.
I had predicted countless possibilities, prepared for innumerable problems, yet this, the one I never wanted to face, had come to pass.
I prayed silently to God that he would not suffer from my illness.
After all I had learned, I had convinced myself such a thing was impossible.
But now I saw it clearly: cracks forming around his eyes, his breath ragged, uneven. My chest tightened.
Ri'Ishtar immediately sank to his knees, pressing a hand to Miraculum's chest, channeling his healing mana, but it was futile.
The nature of the illness was devastatingly simple, yet absolute. It decayed the soul, the mind, and the body.
It exhausted the fundamental building blocks of existence.
Such a corruption could not be healed by conventional means.
He poured his mana into Miraculum's veins again, desperate, precise, yet the sickness persisted.
"Shit," Ri'Ishtar muttered, his voice low and tense.
"He has your illness too. I mean… I prepared for this, but still. Such a potent sickness."
He reached into his coat, retrieving another vial, and tipped its contents into Miraculum's mouth.
I focused my gaze on his soul, watching the intricate interplay of energies, analyzing the poison coursing through him.
The Canvas was a toxin, insidious, foreign, relentless.
Yet the vial did the impossible.
It introduced a counterforce, subtle but absolute, a sanctuary of potency beyond this world: Heaven itself.
Ri'Ishtar was weaving holy magic, infusing it into raw mana and life energy to resist the Canvas, to reinforce Miraculum's essence.
[Nicholas held his breath and smiled. This was the remedy.]