"Crimson Pact Arts.", I chanted, enveloping myself and the surrounding in a crimson aura.

Now it was time for the sacrifice.

Sacrifice of a part of my memory.

But which one?

I had decided upon it, the moment I thought of using my memory as sacrifice.

A part of memory, I can regain anytime I want.

Because, it is etched in this Broken Sword Of Caesar.

The regression timelines, I had observed.

Of course, I would forget those timelines completely and even about my goal, but I can regain them through this sword.

And that would be the time when I have activated this sword completely.

I closed my eyes, and visualized the memory I wanted to sacrifice, and then I stated the pact of two choices.

The crimson aura deepened, swirling like a storm around me, seeping into the ground and the air alike.

My breath stilled. In my mind's eye, I grasped the memory—fragments of the regression timelines, the paths I had walked in lives I barely remembered, the truths I had uncovered and buried.

And then… I let go.

It was like tearing out a piece of my own mind.

The world shimmered.

My chest tightened, and a hollow emptiness expanded within me—as if something important had just been erased.

A silence echoed in my thoughts where once there had been clarity.

My purpose blurred, my reasoning frayed at the edges.

But I held on.

Because I knew this much—this was necessary.

And the sword in my hand vibrated faintly, as if acknowledging the offering.

A faint red glow pulsed along its cracked edge.

Now, the pact.

My voice was low, steady. A whisper laced with power.

"I offer you two choices.", I declared aloud, eyes fixed in crawling monstrosities ahead.

"Remain still for 10 hours starting for now, or March towards the Southern Forest of Grisha."

Direct killing someone through this pact is not possible.

So, I applied the indirect method.

If they choose the first one, that is to stay still for 10 hours starting from now, then they would be burnt to crisp by the sunlight, as it would be morning by that time.

If they choose the second one, then the magical beasts inside the forest would take care of them.

Well, that is, if they are capable enough to make any choices.

Fortunately…

It worked.

The pact settled into place like iron bars around the minds of the thralls.

The crawling, twitching abominations halted mid-step—flesh still bubbling from the electricity earlier, eyes glowing faintly red—but unmoving.

Bound.

Trapped between two options, neither of which they could comprehend, yet forced to obey.

It was the cruelty of the Crimson Pact Arts… a cruelty I chose willingly.

Ten hours of stillness…

Or walk straight into death.

I stood there, breathing hard.

The aura around me dimmed, retreating into the hilt of the Broken Sword of Caesar, now faintly pulsing like a buried heart.

The hollow in my chest widened for a moment—I couldn't remember what I had forgotten, but I knew I had paid dearly for this stillness.

The moment of calm was eerie. Not a snarl. Not a step.

Just silence.

And then came the sound of knuckles banging on crystal.

Monica.

Still inside the defensive barrier I had activated before.

She was shouting, face pale, expression flickering wildly between horror, confusion, and something softer—relief.

When I turned to her, she almost collapsed, pressing her palms against the barrier's inner wall.

"You...you stopped them? How?", she looked perplexed, but more importantly she was relieved, I think.

" There is no time to explain. I need you to act on my behalf from now on, as it seems that this barrier is rejecting me from entering. Do you understand?", I asked in a serious tone, huffing irregularly due to sheer exhaustion from using the technique.

"...Y-Yes.", she said firmly, understanding the gravity of the situation.

"Now, your first task is to find the Saintess candidate, and bring her here, near this gate."

***

The broken building reeked of dried blood and damp ash.

The sky above flickered with reddish clouds as if the world itself was mourning.

What once might've been a chapel now stood hollow and shattered—its floor soaked with blood, its walls clawed and caved in, and corpses of women, naked and mutilated, lay scattered like forgotten dolls.

A gust of mana burst through the stillness.

Crash!

Laurel, the vampire, was hurled across the space, her body smashing through broken beams and rubble.

She skidded, bloodied, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle.

A trail of crimson followed her like a painted line of destruction.

Aster stood at the center of the storm, chest rising and falling.

His blade crackled with raw mana, its edge jagged from overuse.

Beside him, Astoria wiped her bleeding lip, strands of her hair fraying out like wild fire.

Her wind-summoning glaive shimmered with the residue of their combined technique—Cyclone Arc Flash—a maneuver that channeled Astoria's wind manipulation and Aster's sword force into a thunderous blast.

They had fought together like one body, one instinct, one breath.

Laurel groaned, coughing blood, her face pale yet oddly smiling.

Her blood mana was depleting. Her form wavered—neither fully vampire nor fully human, a grotesque mix.

She twitched as if her body itself wanted to die.

Aster looked at her, his blade trembling in his hand—not from fear, but fury.

"You did all this?" he asked coldly, gesturing to the corpses, the horror around. "You were a student. One of us. And this is what you chose?"

Laurel gave a dry chuckle.

Then, she laughed—loud and wild, as if Aster's words were the funniest thing she'd heard in centuries.

"Go..." she coughed blood, "...to the church's basement."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"You'll understand everything."

And then, her body slumped. Unconscious.

Aster stood still, fists clenched, veins bulging on his arms.

He couldn't stop looking at the broken bodies littering the floor.

Rage swelled inside him, but helplessness dulled its edge.

He let out a guttural scream and slammed his foot against the ground—cracks spread through the stone like a web of frustration.

"That's enough, Aster," Astoria whispered gently, gripping his shoulder.

The tension was broken by a slow clap.

"Bravo," a voice said lazily, echoing off the broken walls. "What a fine mess you've made of my little student."

They turned.

From the smoke and ruin, a tall figure walked out, high-heeled boots clicking softly against rubble.

As her face came into view, both Aster and Astoria froze.

"Valerys…?" Aster breathed. "You're—"

"Your homeroom teacher. Yes." Valerys smiled, brushing some dust off her dark robe.

But something was off.

Her presence was colder than usual.

Her gaze—no longer human.

It was then that Aster understood.

She was like Laurel.

But worse.

"You're one of them," Astoria muttered, stepping back.

Valerys didn't deny it.

She just looked at the two of them with something like amusement... and pity.

"You humans... love your stories, your heroes, your saints. But when truth comes clawing at your door, you pretend not to see the blood dripping from your own hands."

She stepped closer, arms outstretched as if presenting a stage.

"This is not about vengeance, dear children. This is history returning. This is fate."

And then she smiled—gentle, cruel, hollow.

"In the Age of Blood, no lie can hide,

Beneath the moon, the dead shall rise.

The Night King's voice, a crimson tide,

Will wash away your sacred ties."

Her voice softened into a whisper as she sang the second stanza like a lullaby:

"Reborn from chains and buried flame,

No god, no king shall speak his name.

Your world will burn in red acclaim—

And only blood shall stake its claim."

A chill crept through the ruined chapel.

Valerys turned away as if she had already said too much.

"Tell your little Saintess, Ariana, if she survives… to run. The Church won't protect her anymore."

And with that, she vanished into the mist, leaving only silence—and the trembling weight of a prophecy that had just begun.

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