SANCTUARY [Nobledark | Progression | Apocalypse]

Vol. 1 - Chapter 110: Ice And Flame



For Henry, this year was both a sentence and a gift. Every day, he had to face the toll of his ordeal and the burden of a secret he couldn't share. But at the same time, every moment he spent with Sophia became more precious than ever. He translated this appreciation into meticulous care, each action became a silent, unspoken farewell.

Every morning, he woke up early, before the first rays of sunlight had a chance to creep through the window. But he didn't rush out of bed to the training grounds as he used to. Instead, he would turn to watch Sophia sleep. He watched her gentle, serene face in the faint morning light, her long eyelashes fluttering with every breath, and sometimes, the unconscious smile that bloomed on her lips in a beautiful dream.

He tried to engrave that peaceful image deep into his mind, so it would become his companion and warmth during the lonely, dark months to come. Every line on her face, every soft strand of her hair, he wanted to keep forever. Only after watching her for a long time would he gently and carefully get out of bed, without making a sound, and begin his rigorous training.

In the afternoons, when work at the Investigation Bureau and the Cathedral was finished, he no longer let Sophia walk home alone. He always waited for her at the Cathedral gate, from where they would walk together on the familiar streets of Aerion.

Their hands were always intertwined, a silent but incredibly strong bond. He listened to her talk about everything, with such attention that even Sophia was sometimes surprised. He listened to her talk about the ancient scrolls she had just finished organizing in the library, about Luna's adorable mischief, about Laura's recovery and baby Jacob's growth every day. He didn't miss a single detail, listening not only with his ears but with his whole heart.

"What's wrong, Henry?" Sophia once asked, leaning her head on his shoulder as they sat by the river, watching the sunset. "You've been acting strange lately The way you keep looking at me, are you afraid I'm going to disappear?."

Henry just smiled, a hint of sadness in it. He gently stroked her hair, his voice warm. "Because you're so beautiful," he replied, trying to hide his true feelings. "I'm afraid if I don't look closely, you'll be even more beautiful tomorrow, and I won't recognize my girlfriend."

Sophia laughed, pinching his arm lightly. "You're always so smooth." But in her heart, she felt a warmth and a slight sense of unease. She could feel that his love was more passionate and intense, but also deeper and more melancholic.

And their nights, in the small, cozy apartment. He would kiss her passionately, wildly, using the physical intimacy to drive away the fear of separation that haunted him. His kisses were no longer gentle, but a desperate, possessive assertion that they still belonged to each other.

But there were also nights when they would just hold each other in the soft magic light. Henry would gently caress Sophia's face, using his fingers to memorize every single line. He would whisper her name in the darkness, a prayer and a silent promise.

"I just want to hold you like this forever." Sophia would then burrow deeper into his arms, feeling his warmth and the beat of his heart, feeling a complete sense of safety. She didn't know that every hug, every kiss, was a farewell.

Henry was trying to live a whole lifetime in just one short year. He was trying to love her with everything he had, to make up for the long years of separation and deceit that were to come. Every moment of happiness was a priceless gift laced with the bitter tang of his deceit.

These sweet, warm memories, he understood, would have to be his only companions on the dark, lonely path that awaited him.

A year, three hundred and sixty-five days of physical and mental exhaustion. Throughout that year, Henry lived a double life. On the outside, he was a dedicated investigator at the Bureau, a loving friend and partner.

But on the inside, he was a lonely man preparing for his own departure. Once a month, he extracted a part of his life force and aether, enduring the pain to nurture a false self, a soulless shadow of himself. His body was often tired, but his will was forged to be stronger than ever.

The Celestial Accord's mission in Aerion had also come to an end. Under the command of Grand Master Mythris, countless small and large Black Societies were mercilessly purged, and the capital's order and security were gradually restored, although the scars of war were still visible. The day they left was also the day "Henry" was stable enough for his plan.

Their final meeting took place in the secret garden behind the Alliance's temporary headquarters. Mythris stood with his back to Henry, his silver-white robe fluttering in the wind. He had perfectly contained his Demigod presence, appearing as nothing more than a handsome young man lost in thought.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"A year has passed quickly," Mythris said pensively. "My mission in Aerion is over. Tomorrow, I will leave."

He turned. "And yourself is stable enough. It can maintain a vegetative state for a long time without your constant nurturing." Henry said nothing, only nodded. The moment he had both longed for and feared had finally arrived.

Mythris walked closer, giving Henry a small ring. It wasn't made of gold or silver, but of a kind of jet-black, polished bone, with an ancient, simple Rune carved on its surface that emitted a weak spatial energy.

"This ring will allow you to summon that body to any location you want, at the most appropriate time. Just channel a little aether and your will into it." Henry took the ring. It felt heavy in his palm, a weight not just of matter, but of deception, of a tragedy about to unfold.

"Remember your promise, Henry," Mythris continued, his voice becoming serious. "Starting tomorrow, when we leave, you will be alone. My protection will no longer be there. Beleth, with his hunger for your Mystic Sense, will never stop searching. Every step you take must be cautious."

He placed a hand on Henry's shoulder, a rare gesture that carried trust and a warning. "Remember why you are doing all this. Your power is hope, but it is also a curse. Don't let it consume you."

Henry looked up, straight into the Demigod's eyes. The fear and hesitation of the past year seemed to vanish, leaving only an unshakeable resolve. "I am ready, sir." His voice was low and firm.

Mythris nodded, a flicker of satisfaction on his serious face. "Take care, Henry. I hope the next time we meet, you have become someone even I have to be wary of."

With that, he turned and left, without another word. His figure slowly dissolved into the air, a mere wisp of smoke, leaving Henry alone in the quiet garden, with the fateful ring in his hand and a future full of challenges ahead.

He accepted the fact that Henry Strike of the Investigation Bureau was about to die. A new journey, a new war, a new identity had begun.

In the immense hall of Iskadra's castle, the silence was colder than the eternal ice that had built it. Everything here was carved from millennia-old ice, from the transparent, crystal-like walls that reflected the dim light of the deadland, to the pillars that rose, the fingers of a petrified ice god.

Laurent sat alone on the ice throne at the end of the hall, a solitary figure amidst the grandeur and emptiness. His jet-black armor was an ink stain on the white ice. He rested one hand on the intricately carved throne, his temple pressed against his clenched fist, staring into the empty space, lost in thought.

Suddenly, a low, warm voice, a sound that was out of place in this environment, echoed from the walls behind Laurent's ice throne. "It's been a long time since I've seen you so pensive, Laurent. What's bothering a man who calculates everything in the palm of his hand?" Laurent smirked, a bitter, sarcastic smile on his lips.

He was not surprised by the voice. "I just saw the reflection of myself many years ago," Laurent replied, his voice low. "A young man, full of passion, and with noble ideals. But..." He stopped, a silent sigh escaping him. "That young man is not like me. He doesn't have a choice."

The warm voice let out a soft, teasing laugh. "Oh? So if you were in his shoes, what would you choose? The vast world full of heavy responsibilities of the Sanctuary Enclave, or your small but warm homeland, the Kingdom of Zephyros?"

Laurent didn't have to think. The answer was already in his mind. "If it were me," he said, his voice resolute and cold, "even if I had to choose a hundred times, a thousand times, I would still choose the Sanctuary Enclave."

He leaned back, his eyes looking up at the sparkling ice vault above. "But that young man is not like that. I know if he had a choice, he wouldn't choose the world, and he wouldn't choose the nation. He would choose his family, the people he loves most. That is why the Sanctuary did not give him a choice. Not everyone is like you and me, Frost King."

The Frost King's cheerful, hearty laugh echoed again, chasing away the heavy atmosphere. "Ha ha ha! You are right! Human emotions are truly complex and unpredictable." Laurent turned his head, looking into the empty space where the Frost King's spirit was.

"I have always wondered," he said, with a hint of sarcasm, "you, a king of ice who used your own soul to seal Inferno, are now having your soul slowly burned by fire, an eternal torment. So why can you still be so cheerful?" The cheerful atmosphere suddenly vanished.

His laughter stopped, replaced by a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand years of loneliness and suffering.

"Aren't you just like me, Laurent?" The Frost King's voice became deeper, carrying a sense of empathy and sadness. "You were once the Sword of Zephyros, the legendary Divine Monarch Larsus. You carried the power of Fire and Light, a symbol of hope for an entire nation. Now, you are Laurent, a member of the Sanctuary Enclave. You wield the power of Ice and Darkness, condemned to live in solitude and bear the reputation of a cold-blooded traitor."

The Frost King paused, his voice seeming to pierce into Laurent's soul. "I, the Guardian of Ice, am now having my soul burned by the fire of hell every day. And you, the Keeper of Flame, have deliberately submerged yourself in eternal ice."

"We, Laurent, are simply two pathetic souls, two cursed souls forever trapped in this deadland of Iskadra." The Frost King's final words echoed for a moment before vanishing, leaving only the lonely figure of Laurent in the icy hall, a dead hero, a living traitor, and a doomsday prophecy slowly coming true.

***

The Keeper of Flame shall succumb to an eternal frost.

The Guardian of Ice shall be consumed by an unholy fire.


Tip: You can use left, right, A and D keyboard keys to browse between chapters.