The sky was silent—too silent. The ruins of the fallen city stood in dead stillness, the wind refusing to breathe through the cracked stones and broken spires. In the heart of this graveyard knelt a trembling lone figure, porcelain skin marred only by the streaks of crimson tears cascading down his face. His eyes bled profusely, rivers of thick blood spilling down his cheeks and pooling beneath him, soaking his once-pristine white garments.
The blood stained and spread, tendrils of crimson seeping outward, marking the earth with veins of unholy life. His mouth opened, but no sound came—only blood poured forth as if his soul were weeping through every orifice. His eyes rolled back, whites swallowed by darkness, leaving him blind to the mortal world. Yet the bleeding did not stop. It surged harder, as though the gates of hell had been opened inside him, and with every heartbeat, torrents of his own lifeblood poured from his sockets.
Agony rippled through his body, his spine arching violently as his trembling hands clawed at the blood-soaked ground. His body convulsed, his bones cracking as though his very form rejected the transformation forced upon it. Then his eyes returned. But they were no longer the eyes of a man.
The sclera had turned abyssal black, the irises burned crimson, and the pupils—white, like a stain of crimson as if the blood had seeped deep into his soul. The gaze that followed was no longer human. It was an unblinking, hollow stare that screamed of madness and ruin.
Then it began.
A grotesque, visceral convulsion rippled through his back, his flesh bulging unnaturally as if something monstrous was clawing its way out. The skin split open, tearing with a sickening squelch. Blood erupted forth, a geyser of crimson cascading like a waterfall. His screams were drowned by the overwhelming sound of his flesh being torn apart. Six colossal wings, soaked in blood, burst from his back—their size defied logic, each one extending far beyond mortal comprehension.
These wings were not feathers but blades of raw crimson flesh, veined with pulsing life. The edges dripped with blood, falling like rain, soaking the already saturated ruins beneath him. His body twisted unnaturally as the wings spread wide, casting an ominous shadow that swallowed the dying light.
His skin—once flawless porcelain—was now cracked and marred, as if molten veins of crimson had burned through it. The blood that had stained his flesh now solidified, forming intricate and jagged patterns that looked like fractures carved by the hands of a merciless god. These crimson cracks glowed with an eerie light, pulsating as though the veins of an unholy power coursed through him.
His hands and legs were no longer pale. They had been consumed by the same crimson that had flooded the ruins, staining them a deep, vibrant red. His long black hair bled into crimson, each strand dripping with power, and the tips—now silver—glistened like blades thirsty for carnage.
Two trails of blood remained, forever etched beneath his eyes—like tears that refused to dry. They burned against his hollow gaze, symbols of eternal suffering and madness.
The ground beneath him trembled violently as the blood that had flooded the ruins began to rise, swirling and converging at his feet. It formed a halo—a perfect circle of pure crimson. But this was no divine symbol. The halo pulsed, alive, breathing, as if the blood remembered every soul it had claimed. His fingers closed around it, and as he raised it above his head, it became one with him.
Crimson veins bulged around the halo, jagged and sharp—radiating a hellish glow. The air grew heavy, thick with the taste of blood and madness. As he rose, the world itself responded.
The sun and moon ascended simultaneously, as if pulled by some primordial force. One bled red while the other shone crimson, locked in an eternal, unnatural eclipse. The clouds twisted and warped, stained crimson as they coiled above the city like serpents preparing to strike. The red sky was no longer the domain of gods. It belonged to something else now.
An apocalypse was born.
And as the crimson angel ascended, he curled up, his knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them—like a forsaken child cradling its own agony. Two pairs of colossal wings wrapped around his form, shielding him from the world that had abandoned him, while the last pair held him afloat.
Then the eyes opened.
One massive, unblinking eye on each wing.
The sclera black.
The irises and pupils—both crimson, gleaming with madness.
An aura of unending madness and eternal condemnation poured forth, devouring all logic, all reason, leaving only chaos in its wake.
This was no holy angel.
This was the Crimson Angel—an unholy horror, a profane being born of agony and madness.
A creature gifted a heart and halo of crimson blood by the divine primordial horror…
The King of the Crimson Moon.
And the world, in its fragile mortality, shuddered as it witnessed the birth of a terror that defied existence.
In.
All.
It's.
Entirety.
××××××××××××××××××××××××××××
Lumian jerked violently back from his seat, breathing heavily, his eyes reflecting only one emotion—terror. It was as if he had witnessed a nightmare, no… something far more dreadful. He looked up, meeting the expectant gazes of his cohort, their expressions demanding answers. But it was Enma, their captain, whose piercing stare anchored him in place.
"So, what did you see, Lumian?" Enma's tone was steady, but there was an undercurrent of urgency. "What can we expect? What's the power of the enemy? How can we—"
"Stop." Lumian cut him off sharply, his voice trembling yet firm.
Enma's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes narrowing at the uncharacteristic boldness of the once-timid Lumian. But Lumian's next words sent a chill down his spine.
"Don't." Lumian's voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight it carried was undeniable. "Don't even think of trying. Don't dream of it. We. Can. Not. Defeat. This. Being."
Silence hung heavy in the air as Enma's confusion gave way to disbelief.
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said, Enma." Lumian's gaze fell, his voice dropping to a near-murmur. "Don't try. Don't attempt. Don't even hope." He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "It's utterly impossible—beyond the realms of possibility. I… I doubt that even Sujin-sama would survive an encounter with that terror."
A deathly stillness gripped the room as his words sank in.
"Then what do we do?" Enma's voice, though calm, held an edge of tension.
A glimmer of unsettling confidence flickered in Lumian's eyes as he straightened, his lips curling into a sinister smirk.
"Fortunately for you, Enma…" He spoke softly, but his words echoed with eerie finality. "I'm a Seer, well-versed in altering fate. What I saw… was merely the history of the future, as the old man would say."
His gaze darkened, the smirk fading as a chilling certainty settled over him.
"We just need to prevent the birth of the Crimson Angel."
He leaned back, his tone almost casual.
"No big deal."
LITTLE DID THEY KNOW THAT THIS EVENT WASNT DUE TO SOMETHING AS MUNDANE AS FATE BUT SOMETHING MUCH MORE... A DREADFUL THING INDEED. THEIR ENCOUNTER WITH THE CRIMSON ANGEL WAS SET IN STONE.
Lumian's words echoed through the dimly lit chamber, the oppressive silence pressing down on the gathered warriors like an unrelenting weight. Enma's usually composed expression faltered, his sharp eyes narrowing as he searched Lumian's face for any trace of doubt—but there was none. His certainty was unnerving.
"Prevent the birth of the Crimson Angel…" Enma murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his tone laced with uncharacteristic unease.
"Easier said than done." A gruff voice broke the silence. It was Kael, the battle-hardened strategist, his arms crossed and his jaw clenched. "You're telling us to stop something that's already destined? How do you plan to change the course of fate itself?"
Lumian's smirk deepened, but this time there was a flicker of something beneath it—fear, or perhaps… resignation.
"I never said it would be easy." His voice was laced with a cold resolve. "But the future I saw… it's not a future where any of us survive. And if we do nothing…"
He trailed off, but they all felt it. The weight of his unfinished words was heavier than any spoken sentence.
"We die," Enma finished for him, his tone now sharper, his jaw clenched as he processed the grim reality.
"Not just die," Lumian whispered, his eyes momentarily glazing over as if he was seeing something far beyond their reality. "We cease. As if we never existed."
A chilling breeze swept through the chamber, though no door or window had opened.
"Then we change the course," Enma declared, his voice now firm, his resolve solidifying. "Tell me, Lumian. What must we do?"
Lumian's gaze flickered toward him, his eerie smirk fading.
"We have to act before the first fracture in reality forms. Before the Crimson king's essence seeps into this world." His voice grew quieter, barely above a breath.
"And that…" He paused, a cold chill crawling down his spine as he spoke the words that even he dreaded.
"...starts with killing the vessel before it awakens."
Silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
"And who…" Enma's voice was barely above a whisper, though his eyes bore into Lumian's with intensity.
"Who is the vessel?"
Lumian's expression darkened, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was struggling to speak.
"Someone… we know," he finally murmured.
The air grew colder.
"Someone among us."
The weight of those words crushed any remaining hope in the room. The path they were about to tread was darker than any of them could have imagined. And little did they know…
Fate had already begun to unravel.