level_main_14-10_beg

All the eye can see is death.

Endless killing. Life takes life. Fields of corpses, soaked in blood.

The first Nachzehrer learned his purpose when he rose from the ashes of battle.

'I am the end of all things.'

'Penetrate.'

The incantation pierces the Nachzehrer like a lance.

It happened so fast that it was almost impossible to see its trajectory, as though it had taken effect by the time the word left the lips.

A smooth hole appears in Nezzsalem's chest.

There is no change in his expression. Withered branches reach down from his staff, reach into the hole in his torso, and fill in the gap.

How could this be?

In this battle alone, the young Banshee has casted dozens of Arts that were not of Sarkaz origin.

Ravel, the greatest Arts master of Gaul.

His life's work made the guns of Gaul's ships mighty, and he was famous in all the nations, before the Witch King made his own name known throughout the land.

In that war, there was an instant when the ships of Gaul ripped apart the lines of death like a sharp sword, before death swallowed them.

Why do I see a shadow of him in your Arts?

Your words can't kill me.

The voice that calls me is louder than your incantations by far.

...I can hear it.

The dirge of the fallen echoes within you.

Thousands of war altars, spread across the battlefield.

They absorb what life leaves behind when it dies.

The culmination of the power stands before Logos.

The most powerful Nachzehrer, and the most terrible war altar.

Nachzehrers witness death.

We take in all who were brave, friend or foe. In the endless cycle of life and death, they will be remembered and honored.

Cowards deserve only dust.

Tell me, my foe—is it a young hero who stands before me, or a despicable traitor?

Your judgment does not interest me.

This is not where the power of words lie.

Logos once again gathers power in his palm.

A second wound appears on Nezzsalem's body, stretching from the shoulder to his chest.

The incantation does not dissipate. It fends off the branches trying to close in, and prevents the energies of the dead from repairing the Nachzehrer's body.

Shredded cloth rises and falls, covering the new wound, and countless old scars.

What is this?

Death may feed the Nachzehrer, but the Banshee can put death itself to rest.

You are no longer the sole master of war, Nezzsalem.

You're more gifted in incantation than any Banshee I know, Laqeramaline included.

A shame, though.

Why do you not sing for the dead, if you truly mourn them?

Elegy cannot actually put the dead to rest.

Neither the living nor the dead will find true rest, as long as war continues.

Preposterous!

You have vanquished the Damazti and banished the Vampire. You, a sovereign of the Royal Court, have Royal Court blood on your hands.

You dare say it is all because you are avoiding war?

Is your rebellion the only reason you stand in my way?

The Nachzehrer floats up in fury. The branches underneath him disintegrate, and decay fills the canyon.

The Banshee's chanting does not give ground.

Born in death, fueled by war, and nourishing death.

The life of the Nachzehrer is as war itself.

Cities and kingdoms rise and fall, but the fate of the Nachzehrer never changes.

Once, a Nachzehrer clan, tired of the cycle, put down their swords and staves and went into the depths of the wastes, far from civilization.

Their powers declined rapidly in peace, and they soon became prey for others, fading away in a forgotten corner of the land.

There is no other way to ensure the continued existence of the Nachzehrers.

The great rock of war sits above our heads on the slopes of time. All we can do is to push it with all our strength.

Such cycle has continued for thousands of years.

Until—

We promise a war, Nachzehrer King—

About the future, and nothing else.

My best students, the young twin royals. I taught them the laws of war. They stood before me and told me—

We can end the monotony of war and break the rigid cycle.

We can push the rock to the top of the mountain and build a splendid palace with it.

This war will be my blaze of glory.

It must not end here!

That was a long time ago.

Now, a young Banshee stands before me.

How could they be so alike?

I fought alongside Laqeramaline for decades, across cities and plains. We buried the armor of Victoria and the guns of Gaul beneath the walls of Kazdel together.

In the same battle, I helped Theresa take the heads of thousands of Leithanian casters.

They were the heroes of Kazdel, its greatest warriors.

Laqeramaline entrusted you with the future of the Banshees. Theresa considered you one of her best students.

But you hid at Rhodes Island, sheltered the King of Sarkaz, and sneaked into Londinium like a thief, content to sabotage the cracks in the battlefield...

War will not end the suffering of the Sarkaz.

All I see is you dragging everyone into the abyss.

So you chose to run.

Many years ago, I said to Theresa that war was unavoidable. If it did not come to Londinium, it would come to Kazdel.

Theresa agreed, but continued to hope that there could be another solution.

Her choice led to a new war. Its consequence was the death of the King of Sarkaz.

I witnessed her death. All Sarkaz should honor her.

What about you?

What can you bring the Sarkaz aside from these meek words? What do you want to bring the Sarkaz?

He points his staff at the ground.

The scent of decay rushes out, overpowering the barrier of incantations.

(Growls)

The dirge of the myriad souls grows louder.

The power of the incantations is weakening. He feels his fingers, lips and tongue go numb.

The fury does not come only from the ancient Royal Court sovereign before him.

It is also coming from his own blood.

I told you.

Duq'arael. I witnessed with my own eyes...

...My death?

You and the King both know you can't kill me.

With your help, I've come to an... interesting place. It is not all nothingness beyond history.

But I continue to gaze at you beyond the veil.

You have come so far, little Banshee... you and the Outblood King seek the drop of blood that I left behind.

The Blood of Teekaz... the pure blood that I coveted.

You believe that you can prevent calamity from occurring again by destroying it.

It's true.

'True'. Destroy the altar, put a temporary stop to the Cunabula of Suffering, allow the Victorian nitwits to cling to life a bit longer. How boring.

Who is the one that's short-sighted and foolish here?

You feel it, don't you? You're closely linked to the altar. Right here, right now, your power is being boosted by it.

It was never one drop of blood or a single person's call that awakened the Cunabula of Suffering.

Originium is the response to the call of all Sarkaz, living and dead. No exceptions.

...The murmur of the myriad souls is omnipresent.

The lament of the dead will not stop.

The Sarkaz are bound by the past from the moment of their birth, never to be freed, even unto death.

You witnessed the myriad souls the first time you sang an elegy... Laqeramaline proudly described your talent to us.

This talent was the seed of dissent.

You feel pain, not just for others, but for yourself as well. You may detest the path I walk, but you could not help but feel sorrow for me sake.

I feel sorrow for how you're trapped by the past.

Such arrogance... I should try to kill you again.

But instead, I will bless you.

The slaughterer and the slaughtered... they are all part of the cycle.

I am here because of you.

Logos does not smell any blood.

The incantation easily impales the Sanguinarch's body, causing only a few small ripples.

Your blood is still linked to my elegy.

Of course... of course. You stand with me, no matter how much you resist.

We are all sovereigns of the Royal Court, after all... the oldest bloodlines of the Sarkaz.

I should be glad that you could conquer me, for it proves that you are stronger, and more worthy of carrying the fate of the Sarkaz, leading them on your path.

The Sanguinarch of Vampires laughs, turning around and disappearing into the cave.

His silhouette fades away amongst the Originium crystals, but his voice continues to echo in Logos's ear.

Bless you, Aefanyl, my vanquisher.

Assimilate my blood. Utilize my power. Let your hatred of me fuel your battles!

You will walk in my place and witness in my stead how far the flames of Sarkaz vengeance will burn.

I...

Refuse.

Nachzehrer, Vampire, we all hear the same cry.

The fate of the Sarkaz is caught in a cycle, and I am no exception.

I am part of what I'm fighting.

The fury of the Sarkaz burns within my veins and my viscera.

Words turn into fire, descending from the sky to ignite every seed on the earth.

Incantations burn at Logos's fingertips, on his lips, in his chest.

Originium crystals grow furiously around him, and the crying of the dead becomes even louder, ready to accept him and devour him at any time.

He no longer rejects the power in his blood. The Vampire has guided the flames of the Sarkaz to him, and he has embraced the fire.

'The abyss lies before us. We can fill it with flesh, and burn the remnants with blood.'

If the only way to bring new life is to burn away all the decay, then I will be both flame and fuel.

This is where my blood belongs, that I have chosen.

Flames consume the entire canyon.

The only things left are the incantations that the young Banshee has written his entire life, from a very young age.

They surround Logos loyally, his sword and shield.

If war is the only way to achieve the dream, and new life can only emerge from death...

I shall bring death.

I shall welcome death.

I shall ignite my past with blood, not for vengeance—

But for the day when this fire will burn away what shackles the Sarkaz, through the decay that covers the land.

A bone whistle sounds.

Logos knows that it is merely the echo of the bone whistle in the Valley of the Banshees, the night he set out for Babel.

From death comes new life.

The death knell rings.

For the Royal Court that would rot, past and future, and for himself.