My Regalia revolved around a single theme: darkness. Or perhaps, more precisely, nothingness.
Its first manifestation was the black rose, a symbol of decaying life, of rebirth through ruin.
With it, I could reshape the world's shadow, bending reality in subtle, unseen ways, reflections shifting in the corners of truth.
But more than that, I could persist, move forward even after failure.
This application, however, was something else entirely.
Within every being, god or man, monster or mortal, there flows a current of blood.
The body, even beyond flesh, still obeys systems, hidden patterns that echo the origin of the cosmos. My Regalia allowed me to seize those patterns. To corrupt them.
To taint them until I became something far more than a plague. I embraced it.
The Black Death was pushed back toward the river, now black with my mana, its waters soaked into my skin like ink seeping into parchment. Slowly, it began to mirror my own condition.
I cracked my neck and shaped the dark water into a perfect clone. It lunged forward, moving as I moved.
The Black Death tore through it with ease and reached for me, but I had already vanished from its sight.
Spinning behind it, I slashed down, severing its arm. A torrent of water surged from my outstretched hand, slamming into its side and hurling it across the field.
I followed through, turning with the motion and driving my blade deep into its chest.
Beams of white light surged from its eyes, but I wove through them, ducking low, relentless and silent.
Leaving my sword embedded in its torso, I slipped around to its back and latched on, my fingers digging into its spine.
Swirling mana gathered around the wound as the river itself began to spin, a vortex forming at its core.
Then came the detonation.
A burst of force rippled outward, and the Black Death convulsed. Its body unraveled into mist, dissolving into the wind, leaving behind only rot and ruin.
I stumbled forward, collapsing into the river. The black water rose to meet me, folding over my form like a grave.
There, beneath the surface, I found peace, however fleeting. A moment of clarity in the dark.
Then came the true darkness. Not the kind that haunted or frightened, but something deeper, older, and infinite.
A primordial silence that whispered through the marrow of my soul.
[Nicholas had emptied himself entirely. Every ounce of strength, every trace of will, spent.]
I reached out blindly, grasping for a voice, a shape, anything that could remind me I was still alive.
[But the end is inevitable. That truth had begun to bloom within him, cold and vast.And yet… the world laughed at it. Reality refused to let the story end.]
In that abyss, something moved.
A great bird, forged of black flame, fell through an endless sky. Its wings were cracked, its feathers burning, yet as it descended, it shone brighter.
Its light was not golden nor holy, but dark, radiant, and absolute.
The image twisted, and I understood. It was not falling.
It was descending.
A phoenix of shadow, reborn not from fire but from the ash of oblivion.
Its descent was not death, but coronation. The fire of the void itself made flesh.
The flames seared across my chest as my heart began to beat again, slow at first, then faster, until it thundered like a storm.
A rhythm unlike any before.
I rose.
The river flowed around me as I staggered toward the shore. My back felt heavy, unfamiliar.
And only when I lifted my gaze to meet Nicole's eyes did I understand.
I had wings.
Black, feathered, vast, and smoldering at the edges, burning with the same dark flame that fell from the heavens.
Nicole smiled faintly, rubbing her chin with quiet amusement.
"Little brother," she said softly. "It seems you were just brought back to life."
Before I could respond, black roses began to fall from the sky.
Like ash and snow, they drifted gently to the ground, silent, haunting, and impossibly real.
My lips trembled, and at last, I surrendered to the dark.
I hadn't expected my body to reject another application of my Regalia so violently. The toll was heavier than I imagined.
It seems I'll need to recover that artifact from my past life, or grow strong enough to wield this power as it was meant to be used.
For now, I must focus on rebuilding my authority as king, and dismantling the Golden Authority piece by piece.
After some time submerged in the darkness, I managed to pull myself back to wakefulness.
When my eyes opened, Mirabel was lying across me, softly snoring. The sun had already risen, its light spilling gold across the horizon.
I sighed and slowly sat up, careful not to wake her, stretching my sore limbs.
I definitely hadn't expected to summon the wings of darkness so soon.
It seems I'm evolving in more ways than one.
The wings of darkness must be used sparingly. They grant me the ability to return from death, but only if that death is absolute, undeniable, and witnessed by fate itself.
The effect won't trigger if I survive through conventional means or magic.
In other words, I must die in a way that cannot be reversed, not by man, god, or angel.
Its limits remain unclear, but one truth endures: unless my death is true, I cannot die.
Not that this ability is particularly glorious. At best, it is accelerated regeneration, a defiance of finality. Useful, but not divine.
I suspect it will evolve with time, yet anything fueled by faith feels hollow. To rely on that would be to shackle myself to illusion.
I made my way to the bathroom and stripped down, studying my reflection in the mirror.
Most of my wounds had healed, but the illness still clung to me like rot.
Black cracks traced along my skin, faint veins of corruption pulsing with borrowed life as they drank from my own.
I sighed and turned on the water, letting it scald. Steam filled the air, heavy and consuming.
In the time I spent away from the kingdom, seeking the truth behind the Golden Authority, I came to understand much.
Gabriel—he was one of the only true angels I ever met. He likely faked his death and ascended again, returning to Heaven.
His report will ignite a war far greater than any before, a conflict between Heaven and Earth itself.
And I will not be a bystander.
To change the course of that war, I must defeat Fertical.
The Golden Authority will play its role, Heaven's hand reaching through mortal veins. Their priests, temples, and wandering saints already prepare the world for their arrival.
Their first targets will be two major kingdoms: Uthopia in the far south of the central continent, and Camelot to the west.
Camelot, standing alone upon a western island, is overrun with dragons, demons, and beings far more ancient.
It remains the only kingdom brave, or foolish, enough to endure there.
King Arthur once held the monsters at bay with a sealing spell that cost him everything.
He now slumbers beneath his throne, preserved in eternity, a guardian dreaming the world's edge.
A tale eerily similar to the creation of Anstalionah.
He could wake, if he wished, though like me, he seems content to dream.
This forest too was once a nest of great beasts. The first king, Nighdallah, purged them all, carving order from chaos and shaping the land into civilization.
The central region became our capital, Anstalionah's beating heart.
If war is to come, as it must, I will see to it that Anstalionah becomes the first target.
To begin such a bold gambit, I will start with the Church.
I turned off the water, stepped out, and reached for a towel. As I opened the door, I froze.
Mirabel stood in the hallway, watching me with a tilted head and an unreadable smile.
"Ah, you're awake," she said cheerfully. "You've been asleep for an entire week."
I stiffened.
[Nicholas was troubled. Such a duration hinted at irregularities, ones even his eyes could not see.]
I stepped back, tightening the towel around my waist.
[He knew something was wrong. Mirabel was not one to act casually, especially not while smiling through grave news.]
She grinned wider, baring her teeth. "No need to worry about me. Saint Satire came to visit you."
[Nicholas was truly afraid.]