Liberi Reader

How dull.

Did you think this would anger me? Offend me?

Did you think I would kick your corpse in anger? Curse your insolence?

I'm not going to do any of that, Lettou. René Lettou.

Insignificant man... same as the land itself in my eyes, an annoyance.

Did you think this act could give meaning to your pathetic life?

Still so conceited, Lettou.

I won't give you another thought, not so much as a momentary glance.

The Sarkaz, my people, have abandoned their past for too long.

They hate, they curse, they swear revenge upon our enemies.

So disappointing.

My people have forgotten even the origin of their bloodline, forgotten the names of our ancestors.

They mate in numbness and sorrow, giving birth to generations of hideous, mixed-blood offspring.

They throw themselves into the shadows of the nomadic cities, hiding in the streets, begging invaders for food.

I have lost interest in Victorian blood, and the Sarkaz who are satisfied with it... they infuriate me even more.

From the moment Sarkaz first called themselves Sarkaz, from the moment this 'world' alienated them—

It's enough to drive one mad with rage.

I look to the Military Commission's Major, a Sarkaz.

Theresis has arranged so many children to wander outside the court in this system of his.

She bows her head, the nerves have gripped her.

But at least these mixed-blood children understand how to resist, which compensates somewhat for their ignorance.

Hollow murmurs echo throughout the space.

Dead silence.

Its intelligence has long been stripped away. Only an empty shell remains to react.

The ashen Kazdel, sent to its doom in Diαbolic flames.

They sweep through the tents of all the clans.

I can hear the roar of the flames, I can hear the lamentations of the flames.

Why are we still surrendering? Why are we still weak?

Are you satisfied with this?

Are you satisfied?!

Then I, on your behalf—

My ancient kin kneel and weep in the ruins.

The King of Sarkaz is dead.

The King killed the King.

I know he is just a ripple in the illusion.

I know this is our unchangeable history.

The sun is rising, and the first rays of blood red have already spilled through the damaged cave of the waystation.

A new day.

But this day will be different from all the sorrowful days that have come before.

Enough dark clouds have accumulated atop the spire known as The Shard.

The foolish Victorians see this storm as nothing more than a spear to be thrown.

How shallow, their inherently corrupt nature, always inclined toward conflict.

I close my eyes, feeling the Arts Circles composed of blood-red crystals, feeling all the blood that has flowed through this land since the war—No, since we degraded ourselves into Sarkaz.

They tremble at my mercy, they boil at my call.

A drop of blood drips from my eye.

It flows down my face.

......

......

Such a distant voice answers me.

It's as if I could reach out and touch it.

That door, long buried in dust and smoke, is slowly loosening.

The storm over Londinium is playing a new movement.

Hm, it seems, something is missing...

A loud noise.

How many years have these hollow skeletons gone unfilled? Four centuries? Five?

At the time, I was not yet master of the Crimson Court.

At the time, I could still hear the arrogant whispers of the putrid War King, I could hear the sounds of the Arch-liar of Djall, torturing the night away.

At the time, even if the Vampires were hostile to them, these mighty souls surging with hatred and faith made my heart swell.

At the time, the Sarkaz were already a scattered people with no home to call their own. But at the time, I could see the remnants of their proud souls.

A sea of blood devours the curse.

The Black Crown appears over the outblood's head.

A black spear pierces my scapula.

Ah... fresh blood gushes out. The King of Sarkaz has opened a wound for me.

This is the blood so preciously bestowed to me and my ancestors for millennia.

I carefully select the blood of my choice.

The masters of the Crimson Court have a responsibility to, day after day, wipe away even the most minute hint of impurity.

But the reason we are so pure is not that this bloodline has never been lost, never been defiled.

But because—

I've finally found it.

A drop of blood.

It has been passed down through the millennia—

Teekaz blood.

The land falls silent, the rivers stagnate, the air moans.

The entire world turns solemn.

As I reach out my hand, it floats slowly in front of me. It does not drip.

It only goes up, up...

Teekaz blood is now gone from our world.

Blood crawls over the bones—

Bloodstains emerge from the decay.