Our Family Has Fallen

Judge by deeds, not by thoughts; judge by thoughts and there is no flawless person.

You helped me, so I can help you too. That’s how friends are made—by helping each other. Interests are the strongest bond of all.

"That mark on your face is tied to the Church. Judging by your appearance, you’ve suffered persecution from the Church. I can promise you this: as long as you follow Hamlet’s rules, then the Church won’t be able to take you away within my domain."

Lance’s words, in a sense, limited the man’s range of movement. It seemed he had no intention of letting such a unique Transcendent slip away.

He didn’t mind showing his strength either, taking out a vial of Panacea and handing it over.

"Drink it, and you’ll gain a marvelous power."

The man stared at the potion, clear as water, a bit hesitant. But when he looked up and met Lance’s gaze, a strange trust welled up in him.

Yes... someone like this has no reason to harm me.

The man took the Panacea and, after a brief hesitation, downed it in one gulp. Before he could even register the taste, a wondrous force surged through him; the torture-wrought wounds all over his body were smoothed away at a speed visible to the naked eye.

Most notably, the exaggerated old sigil on his face was filled in with flesh and blood, and hair rapidly grew where half his scalp had once been burnt bare, the flesh charred and melted away.

Only, during the process the man’s state grew somewhat strange. This wasn’t healing so much as torment—a struggle to suppress the agitation boiling in his heart.

Lance didn’t indulge him at all, directly calling down Bless to suppress it. Whatever anomalies there were, he forced them all back down.

In just a few short breaths his hideous visage changed completely. It was clear that, if he were "normal," he would be rather handsome, with something of a scholar’s air about him—he was only missing a pair of glasses.

The man himself of course felt the oddities in his body. The decadence and despair he’d sunk into suddenly gave way to a spark of hope. He looked at his hands, then couldn’t help but feel his face, and the places on his body that had once held such painful memories.

And now... they were all gone.

"I can sense a unique power lurking within you. Tell me about it. Perhaps I can do something for you—even help you break free of that nightmare."

"I’m nothing more than a puppet controlled by a monster lurking in my blood. What right do I have to accept such help from My Lord...?"

The man couldn’t find words to describe just how incredible the Lord’s help was, but all the suffering he’d endured along the way seemed to have finally come to an end here in Hamlet.

"I can see your kindness. And a kind man should not have to suffer such cruel torment."

Lance, all righteous conviction, voiced his affirmation, shattering the last psychological defense in the man’s heart.

"An act of Alchemy created my divided self—and it was the beginning of all my nightmares..."

The man stared into the distance, dazed; his hollow gaze seemed to sink back into the past.

Lance hadn’t expected him to actually be a researcher by trade—no wonder he carried that scholar-researcher kind of aura.

Only, the road he’d walked was no easy one. He hailed from a small Extraordinary Family, small enough that only he and his father remained. As for his mother, the only impression he had was of a vague, green-haired woman by the sea.

From a young age he received a good education and lived in comfortable wealth. A sound childhood became the bedrock of his character.

When he grew older, he was taught precious Alchemy, and under the influence of his surroundings gradually joined his father’s work and research.

It was an Alchemy workshop, producing various potions and other strange things. At first he was responsible only for odd jobs and cleaning, but his Innate Talent quickly began to show.

Immersed in research, he grew rapidly, achieving results even more astounding than his father’s.

But soon disaster struck. His father, in the prime of life, suddenly collapsed during an experiment. On his deathbed, he told the son of their family’s former glory.

Unfortunately, Extraordinary Talent is like a lottery—unless your numbers are large enough, or you have some unique inheritance, family-based Extraordinary groups are highly unstable, especially under the Church’s crushing blows.

"Our family has fallen..."

His father was deeply gratified that another child with Innate Talent had been born at last, but by then the once strict father had already let go of his obsession, and instead urged him to give up Alchemy.

Because those who meddle in such things rarely die old. He’d watched his own father and relatives fall one by one on the experimental table. It felt like a curse.

Hearing from his father how their family had gone from splendor to decay, this man—who once only wanted to restore their honor—finally compromised with reality. He did not want his son to walk the same path.

But what’s a youth if not hot-blooded?

His father’s death hit him hard, especially hard for a genius.

With his father’s restraint gone, he launched even more radical research in pursuit of "Truth."

But things were not so simple. His father might have lacked Extraordinary Talent, but he could manage the family assets and conceal their identity.

For a man whose mind was filled solely with research, such things didn’t exist. Long-term immersion in research had left him somewhat autistic—perhaps more like social anxiety—making him poor at dealing with people.

So he quickly sank into debt troubles.

More importantly, he should have held Supernatural Power in reverence, not pursued it endlessly and without restraint, to the point of touching things he never should have touched.

During a particular experiment on a strange full-moon night, something went wrong—and then... nothing. No after.

He couldn’t remember what happened that night. All he knew was that when he came to, most of his clothing had been torn off his body, the manor was engulfed in flames, and everything lay in ruins.

Realizing something was terribly wrong, he fled. As expected, the servants who had escaped the manor called in the Church.

He was someone who had barely set foot beyond his own front gate; how could a man like that hope to outrun the Church’s Judges?

Not to mention he was locked in a constant struggle with something inside him for control of his body. He was soon captured by the Church and thrown into the Tribunal.

Inside, he suffered every kind of torment. Those people delighted in torture. The scars on his body dated from that time.

Perhaps the prison guards assumed that, bound by so many devices, the man would be powerless to resist. But another "it" lurked in his body, and then once more the full moon rose high.

Perhaps because of the chains’ suppression, this time he did not lose consciousness. Instead, he watched as an onlooker from within his own body as that demon broke its chains, tore apart those tormentors, and escaped.

So, yes—revere Supernatural Power.

Using the equipment’s effects, he quickly wrested back control of his body and ran, tireless, into the dense forests and wilderness, until he blacked out.

When he woke, his condition was both terrible and strangely good: his injuries had nearly all healed.

Only then did he notice a half-devoured bear corpse nearby, shredded as if by a far more powerful beast, its bones bitten through.

This time he’d learned his lessons. After all, he’d picked up tricks from seasoned old-timers in the Tribunal. He went straight to a river, wiping away his scent and tracks.

Then began the long game of hide-and-seek—evading the Church’s pursuit, blending in with refugees, his face covered with a rag torn from a corpse’s clothing.

Had it been another time, the Church would likely have caught him. But with disasters breaking out everywhere, the Church’s own larder was running bare.

So he followed the refugees, first to Totnes, then on to Hamlet.

On the way, he realized that the curse had granted him greater strength and regenerative power, and an ability to digest almost anything. He could eat wild fruits and grasses poisonous enough to kill ordinary people and remain perfectly fine. Without that, he’d probably have starved in the wilds.

But that power came with a price—the aftereffects of his transformations continued to torment him.

"It whispers without end, whether I’m awake or asleep. This nightmare never stops. Next time, I might not be able to regain my humanity..."

He could feel his consciousness grow weaker with every transformation. Even the equipment on his body was becoming less and less able to suppress it. He feared that one day he would never wake again, becoming a true monster.