It wasn't that Creed was a coward.
Not really. Not in the way the word usually meant.
He had run headfirst into an unexplored rift as a stage 1. He'd dueled with beasts three stages stronger than him.
He could he said to be both crazy and courageous.
But right now?
Creed was flying like a man who had just been told his pants were on fire and that the flames were made of taxes!
Why?
Because Creed knew one soul-chilling, very specific, absolutely plot-altering fact about himself.
He was cursed!
Not the "bad luck" kind of curse where your shoelaces snap or your crush ignores your texts. No.
This was the "a beast king with the power of a thousand nightmares wants to erase your entire family tree" kind of curse.
As he streaked through the skies like a panicked comet, he looked at the back of his left hand.
There, half-hidden under his gloves but still faintly pulsing, was a black mark, so subtle it looked like a birthmark to anyone else.
But not to him.
