INTERFUSION
5 Years Ago:
A click echoed ominously as Mr. Richter, his weathered face etched with surprise, unlocked the hidden entrance to his sanctum. Inside, bathed in the dim glow of an oil lamp, a sight stopped him cold. His son, Alvin, and daughter, Juvia, sat amidst a chaotic sprawl of ancient tomes, their eyes glued to a single, forbidding volume. Its worn leather cover bore the cryptic inscription: "Soul Interfusion Pentagonum."
The air crackled with an unsettling tension. Richter's children, oblivious to his arrival, seemed possessed by an unnatural focus. Only when he called out their names, his voice laced with a tremor he couldn't disguise, did their heads snap up. Their youthful innocence seemed to clash violently with the arcane text before them.
Richter descended upon them, his every step heavy with a foreboding he couldn't explain. Settling cross-legged on the cold stone floor, he forced a smile that felt brittle. "What secrets are you two unearthing?" he inquired, his voice strained.
Alvin, with an eagerness that bordered on recklessness, thrust the tome towards him. "Is this 'interfusion' the power you use, Father?" The book, a leviathan of arcane knowledge, boasted a staggering 1505 pages.
Richter's touch grazed the cover, sending a shiver down his spine. "Indeed it is," he confirmed, his voice low. "But why delve into such knowledge?"
Alvin, his eyes gleaming with a desperate ambition, declared their desire to unlock their own dormant interfusion abilities. Richter's heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. They were far too young to even contemplate such a perilous path. Yet, their pleas were laced with an unsettling fervor. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Richter conceded to explain the very essence of interfusion.
"In its simplest form," he began, his voice heavy, "interfusion signifies the merging of two distinct entities – a fusing of their very essence to create a singular, potent force. The wielder of this power is known as an interfuser."
He paused, his gaze flickering to the inscription on the book. "Take me, for example. I am a copper interfuser. When I manipulate the elements, I can forge copper and tin into a new entity – bronze. This union, this interfusion, is the core of my power."
Juvia, her brow furrowed in concentration, interjected, "And what of copper and zinc, Father?"
"Their combined essence yields brass," Richter replied, a hint of unease creeping into his voice.
Alvin, a thoughtful glint in his eyes, posed a new question. "Father, is there only one form of interfusion?"
"Nay, my son," Richter responded, his voice laced with a newfound gravity. "The tapestry of interfusion is woven with countless threads. So vast is its potential that even I stand on the precipice of its full comprehension. There are interfusions fueled by the frigid embrace of winter, the ethereal touch of silver, the electrifying spark, and countless more."
The boy's voice, barely a whisper, echoed in the cavernous room. "Which is the strongest, Father? The most potent?"
A weighty silence descended. "Strength," Richter finally ventured, his voice measured, "is not a singular entity. It hinges upon the wielder, their mastery over this arcane art. However, some interfusions transcend the boundaries of mere elements. They tap into the raw power of energy generators, unleashing a force that surpasses mere material manipulation."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Interfusion isn't solely confined to the manipulation of elements. It can, as I've hinted, delve into the realm of energy generation. Here, the interfuser wields a device, a conduit, to channel and manipulate raw energy from various sources."
"As for your question, Alvin," he continued, his voice etched with a newfound urgency, "the pinnacle of interfusion's might lies in the art of conflagration. This power allows the interfuser to conjure fire from a multitude of sources – oxygen and fuel, the sun's radiant embrace, friction's spark, or even the raw energy of electricity. It is a rare gift, a power so potent that our very nation has a decree – only one conflagration interfuser may exist at any given time."
Just then, Alvin, his movements imbued with a chilling deliberation, reached for the book and flipped to its final page. Pointing a trembling finger at the inscription, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, "But Father, as the title suggests, it speaks of Soul Interfusion Pentagonum. What does it entail?"
The weight of those words hung heavy in the air. A palpable change swept over Richter
As Alvin's words echoed through the sanctum, a glacial dread washed over Richter's face. The playful facade vanished, replaced by a mask of ironclad seriousness. With a swiftness born of deep-seated dread, he slammed the book shut, the ancient leather groaning in protest.
He rose to his full height, his towering form casting an oppressive shadow over his children. His voice, usually warm and inviting, now resonated with a chilling finality. "This, my dears," he uttered, each word laced with a venom they had never heard before, "is knowledge best left undisturbed. It is forbidden, a perilous path that leads only to ruin. Remember this well, and heed my warning: never, under any circumstances, even contemplate attempting Soul Interfusion. It is a folly that has claimed countless lives, a gateway to a darkness you cannot even begin to fathom."
His gaze, burning with an intensity that sent shivers down their spines, held theirs for a beat too long. Then, with a final, withering look, Richter spun on his heel and vanished out of the hidden entrance, leaving his bewildered children alone in the flickering lamplight. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, a dark promise of something sinister lurking just beyond the veil of forbidden knowledge.
DENMARK'S POLICIES
Still 5 Years Ago:
Denmark. Land of rolling green hills, Viking lore, and... a secret society controlling the very fabric of its leadership?
Sixteen-year-old Lisa Bernstein was a whirlwind of determination, training to become Denmark's youngest soldier. The daughter of the Prime Minister, Darren Bernstein, her childhood seemed idyllic at first. But that facade crumbled when her father died unexpectedly from a vicious disease. Even after his death, Lisa, known as "Leaina" for her unwavering sense of justice and courage, held her head high. Her father's absence shaped her into a tough young woman with unpredictable strength and unwavering loyalty.
Two years eclipsed, etching time onto the Bernsteins' lives. Lisa blossomed into a poised eighteen, while her brothers, Leviathan and Leonard, matured to twenty-one and thirteen respectively. Darren's absence loomed large, a constant reminder of the fragility of life.
Then, tragedy struck again. A crucial military meeting, convened after Darren's passing, brought a new storm. Leviathan, the eldest and a rising intellectual star, attended as the nation's newly elected General. The air crackled with an unseen tension. A mysterious figure, addressed simply as "Ours Truly," held court amongst the seasoned officers. Leviathan, certain of his ascension as Prime Minister after his electoral victory, felt a prickle of unease.
A stranger, a complete enigma named Matthew Anderson, was introduced. A bombshell detonated in the room. Ours Truly declared Anderson the next leader, stripping Leviathan of his presumed birthright.
Leviathan, his youthful fire igniting, roared, "What lunacy is this? The people chose me! Who are you to usurp their will?"
Silence descended, punctuated by the rasp of Ours Truly's voice. "Patience, youngblood. This nation isn't swayed by fickle elections. The power to appoint lies solely with me."
"What kind of tyranny is this? How can a stranger dictate leadership? Don't you dare support him!" Leviathan's voice echoed, defiance painting his face.
A ripple of unsettling smiles snaked across the room, leaving Leviathan speechless.
Ours Truly leaned forward, his voice a low hum. "Leviathan," he began, "this process has been woven into the fabric of our nation since its inception. Every leader, including your father, was hand-picked. You see, Denmark was born from a grand experiment, and the Prime Minister is the custodian of its continuation. This, my boy, is our unyielding policy."
Leviathan's breath hitched. "An experiment?" His mind reeled.
"Indeed," Ours Truly continued, a glint in his eye. "However, Leviathan, if the allure of power still beckons, the seat awaits you. But be warned, the path comes with conditions."
Leviathan, caught in the whirlwind of ambition and confusion, found himself yearning for answers. The experiment, the conditions - they were keys to unlocking a truth shrouded in secrecy. His voice, steady now, broke the silence, "Tell me about the experiment. And the conditions."
DUNGEON OF SINS
In the sterile confines of the hidden chamber, Leviathan and Ours Truly faced each other, a tense tableau. Gone were the throngs of officers, replaced by a suffocating silence.
Leviathan, his voice laced with suspicion, pierced the quiet. "Unveil your mission, Ours Truly," he demanded. "And speak plainly of these conditions you dangle before me."
A sly smile played on Ours Truly's lips. "Astute, Leviathan. You possess a keen intellect, perhaps more than you realize. Now, tell me," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "have you ever heard whispers of Soul Interfusion? I bet you're aware as you, yourself are a silver interfuser, aren't you?"
In the sterile confines of the hidden chamber, Leviathan and Ours Truly faced each other, a tense tableau. Gone were the throngs of officers, replaced by a suffocating silence.
Leviathan, his voice laced with suspicion, pierced the quiet. "Unveil your mission, Ours Truly," he demanded. "And speak plainly of these conditions you dangle before me."
A sly smile played on Ours Truly's lips. "Astute, Leviathan. You possess a keen intellect, perhaps more than you realize. Now, tell me," he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "have you ever heard whispers of Soul Interfusion? Perhaps even dabbled in the art of a Silver interfuser yourself?"
Leviathan recoiled, a flicker of unease crossing his features. "The name is familiar," he admitted grudgingly, "but knowledge of such forbidden matters holds no allure for me."
Ours Truly's smile widened, devoid of warmth. "Forbidden, you say? Yet, knowledge is power, Leviathan. Power you'll sorely need if you wish to ascend the throne."
A knot of apprehension tightened in Leviathan's gut. "What do you mean?" he pressed, his voice barely a whisper.
"The coveted prize of Soul Interfusion," Ours Truly purred, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling fervor. "You've likely heard the whispers – pronouncements of its failure. But whispers, my dear Leviathan, are often laced with deceit."
Leviathan's heart hammered against his ribs. "Are you suggesting...?"
"Indeed," Ours Truly confirmed, his voice dropping to a reverent hush. "A way exists to achieve the impossible. For generations, the Danish bloodline, Kings and Prime Ministers alike, have toiled in the shadows, their combined efforts focused on entering the fabled Dungeon of Sins. There, they seek a pact with a power beyond comprehension – the Devil himself."
Leviathan's breath caught in his throat. "This is madness! I understand not a word of this cryptic charade."
A hint of steel entered Ours Truly's voice. "Then allow me to enlighten you, young prince. Soul Interfusion, in its purest form, signifies the creation of a soul – a tapestry woven from five distinct threads: Rationality, Appetite, Sense, Emotions and the fifth component that is unknown till now."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "This final piece, the key to unlocking true success, has remained frustratingly out of reach. Those who have dared to attempt Soul Interfusion have invariably met with a gruesome fate, their very essence ripped asunder. But," he continued, his voice laced with a chilling confidence, "we, the guardians of this ancient legacy, have unearthed a path forward. A way to enter the Dungeon of Sins and forge a pact with the Devil himself."
Leviathan's mind reeled. "A pact? What does the Devil demand?"
Ours Truly's lips curved into a chilling smile. "That, my dear Leviathan, is a question best left unanswered… for now. However, be warned, years have passed since a worthy soul emerged from the Dungeon, their pact with the Devil unfulfilled."
Terror gnawed at Leviathan's resolve. "Must I partake in this… Soul Interfusion… to become King?"
Ours Truly's gaze held his captive. "The path to the throne, I'm afraid, is paved with sacrifice, Leviathan. But fret not, the true nature of the conditions will be unveiled on your coronation day."
Leviathan, caught in the snare of ambition and a web of terrifying secrets, could only nod in a daze of horrified fascination. The weight of the decision pressed down upon him, a chilling premonition of what was to come.
DESIRES WEAKEN RELATIONS
The hallowed halls of the Folketing buzzed with anticipation. Leviathan, poised for his ascension as Prime Minister, stood before a sea of faces – dignitaries, parliamentarians, and his own bewildered family. He raised his hand, reciting the oath, each syllable laced with a burgeoning sense of power. Just as he reached for the Prime Minister's seat, a figure materialized from the crowd – Ours Truly.
"Hold, Leviathan," Ours Truly boomed, his voice echoing through the chamber. A hush fell over the gathering, the air thick with unspoken tension. Leviathan, his brow furrowed, turned to face him. "The seat, my dear Leviathan," Ours Truly continued, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes, "comes at a price."
The Bernstein family, blissfully unaware of the hidden machinations, exchanged confused glances. But the seasoned chairmen and military officers – privy to the dark secrets – wore masks of grim understanding.
"The condition," Ours Truly declared, his voice ringing out, "the very price of this coveted seat, is a life… or rather, several. No Prime Minister of Denmark can have blood ties. Any existing relations… must be eradicated."
His words exploded like a bomb, shattering the facade of normalcy. Leviathan's eyes widened in horror, mirroring the dawning realization on his family's faces. Lisa, his fiery sister, gasped. Karolin, their mother, her gaze pleading, locked eyes with him. Even young Leonard, his youthful innocence shattered, seemed to shrink back in fear.
"What… what are you saying?" Leviathan stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "You're asking me to kill my own family?!"
Lisa, her voice laced with disbelief, cut through the stunned silence. "Conditions? What conditions? Leviathan, what is this about?!" Despair and betrayal flickered in her eyes, once filled with unwavering admiration for her brother.
Leviathan, caught in the snare of his ambition, remained silent. The weight of this horrifying secret gnawed at him, his silence a stark admission of his involvement.
Ours Truly, sensing his turmoil, spoke in a voice dripping with chilling clarity. "Ah, I see you haven't enlightened your family about the true nature of this… arrangement."
Leviathan's world began to crumble. Lisa, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and fear, demanded answers. "Levi! What's going on? Why haven't you told us anything?"
The tension in the chamber crackled with an unbearable intensity. Minutes stretched into an eternity as Leviathan wrestled with his conscience. Finally, Ours Truly, his voice laced with impatience, broke the silence.
"Leviathan," he said, "your indecisiveness grows tiresome. Choose, young Prime Minister. Family… or power?"
Karolin, her voice thick with emotion, reached out to her son. "Levi," she pleaded, "Don't even consider it! This is madness! Just walk away!"
But Leviathan, lost in the intoxicating haze of ambition, seemed impervious to his mother's pleas. His gaze remained fixed on the seat of power, a tangible representation of his ultimate desire.
Silence stretched, thick with the weight of his impending choice. Then, after what felt like an age, Leviathan lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over his stricken family. A flicker of pain crossed his features, a fleeting acknowledgement of the sacrifice he was about to make.
He turned to address the expectant throng, his voice hoarse but resolute. "A man," he declared, "strives for both his goals and his loved ones. But when these paths diverge, one must choose. I cannot forfeit my dreams, my destiny… however cruel this price may be. Power… power outweighs family ties. I choose to become… the Prime Minister."
Those words, each syllable dripping with cold betrayal, pierced the hearts of his family. Lisa, tears streaming down her face, stared at him in disbelief. This wasn't the brother she knew, the one who stood by her side through thick and thin. He was a stranger, consumed by an insatiable hunger for power.
A heart-wrenching sob escaped Karolin's lips. Her own son, the child she had nurtured and loved, had condemned them to a brutal end.
Ours Truly, a cruel smile playing on his lips, wasted no time. His chilling command echoed through the chamber: "Soldiers! Eliminate the transgressors."
Leviathan whirled around, witnessing the horrifying culmination of his decision. Two gunshots shattered the silence, followed by the horrifying thuds of his mother and brother collapsing onto the cold marble floor. Blood stained the pristine white, a stark reminder of the price he had paid for his ascension.
In that frozen instant, time seemed to warp into an eternity of torment for Lisa. Paralyzed by grief, she stood transfixed, her gaze locked on the lifeless forms of her mother and brother. The crimson stain blossoming on the pristine marble floor mirrored the blossoming horror in her heart.
A metallic click shattered the oppressive silence. A soldier, face devoid of empathy, aimed the weapon at her. Just as his finger tightened on the trigger, a soul-wrenching cry tore from Lisa's throat, a torrent of raw emotion that defied articulation. Tears streamed down her face, a counterpoint to the burning fury that simmered within her.
"Leviathan!" she rasped, her voice trembling with a potent cocktail of sorrow and rage. "This throne you covet so dearly will become your personal hell! A life steeped in ceaseless agony, every breath a desperate plea for oblivion! Your only companions – misery and despair! Remember this! You will never, ever earn my forgiveness!"
A silent war raged within Leviathan. His heart, a tormented prisoner in his own chest, mirrored her anguish. He had crossed the Rubicon, yet a sliver of humanity clung to him.
"Stop!" he roared, his voice thick with a desperation that mirrored his sister's. Ours Truly, an enigmatic specter, met his gaze, a silent reminder of the chilling pact they had forged.
"All blood ties must be severed," Ours Truly's voice echoed, devoid of warmth.
Leviathan, his head bowed in a posture of defeat, muttered, "I... I can't let them kill her."
With a newfound resolve, he spun on his heel, his own gun clutched in a hand slick with sweat. His eyes, once filled with ambition, now flickered with a horrifying desperation. And with that he said, "I'll kill her myself."
"Lisa," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. The weapon, an instrument of his ultimate betrayal, pointed accusingly at her.
"Forgive me," he whispered, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek.
Then, in a horrific display of twisted loyalty, he squeezed the trigger. The bullet, a harbinger of his shattered soul, found its mark, lodging itself in Lisa's abdomen.
"Even if you ever could forgive me, Lisa," he whispered to himself, his voice wracked with self-loathing, "I doubt I ever could."
ESCAPING FROM DEATH'S GRIP
Lisa's eyelids fluttered open, battling the encroaching darkness that threatened to claim her. Her body, a ravaged battlefield, lay immobile. A searing inferno pulsed at the site of the wound, a crimson tide staining the marble floor. Panic clawed at her throat, but she forced it down. Dying here, a nameless victim in this macabre charade, was not an option. Her family wouldn't forgive such a surrender. Revenge, a primal fire, ignited within her.
The chamber, once teeming with life, was now a tableau of death. The lifeless forms of her mother and brother lay silent companions in the unfolding horror. With a herculean effort, Lisa reached into her pocket, the movement sending fresh waves of agony through her. A cloth, flimsy against the torrent of blood, was pressed against the wound. Standing was an impossibility, the very thought a symphony of pain. Death, a skeletal hand, seemed to tighten its grip with every passing moment. Despair threatened to engulf her, but a flicker of defiance, a phoenix from the ashes of her shattered world, refused to be extinguished.
Then, a sound pierced the suffocating silence – the creak of the chamber door. Her hand instinctively reached for the gun, a meager weapon against the unknown. But as the figure stepped into the light, relief washed over her – Edgar.
"Lisa! Lisa, you're alive!" His voice, a lifeline thrown across the abyss of despair. Hope, fragile but tenacious, bloomed in her chest.
"Yes, Edgar," she rasped, her voice a mere whisper against the roar of pain. "Alive… for now."
Without hesitation, Edgar knelt beside her, his presence a beacon of strength. "We can escape," he declared, urgency lacing his voice. "There's a hidden passage, an exit leading to Damsholte, a village near Marienburg."
A flicker of determination ignited in Lisa's eyes. Escape. A chance to survive, to plot her retribution. "I agree," she croaked, her voice gaining strength with each word.
With a gentleness that belied the horror they had witnessed, Edgar scooped her up in his arms. Together, they stumbled toward salvation, a testament to the indomitable human spirit, vanishing into the bowels of the hidden passage. Their escape, a defiant act against the tide of darkness, offered a glimmer of hope in the midst of despair.
Damsholte, with its anonymity and safety, became their sanctuary. There, under the watchful eyes of strangers, Lisa received the medical attention she desperately needed. Though the physical scars might heal, the emotional wounds would forever serve as a chilling reminder of the price of ambition and the unwavering spirit of vengeance that now burned brightly within her.
THE WORLD OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS
Two months had bled into Leviathan's reign as Prime Minister. The initial euphoria of power had curdled into a nagging unease. Then, like a phantom reappearing, Ours Truly materialized before him.
"Leviathan," his voice rasped, a chilling reminder of the pact they had forged, "the time for the experiment has arrived."
A knot of apprehension tightened in Leviathan's gut. "What exactly is required of me?" he managed to ask, his voice betraying a tremor of fear.
Ours Truly leaned forward, his eyes glinting with an unsettling fervor. "The grand opus, the Soul Interfusion," he declared. "But heed this warning, young Prime Minister: a single glance back at the whispers of the past will seal your fate. Approach the dungeon with unwavering resolve. Once inside, confront the entity that dwells there – the Devil himself – and agree to its every demand. But remember," he emphasized, his voice dropping to a low growl, "Im warning again . . . don't look back or else you'll never be able to return back. One backward glance, and the path back will vanish into oblivion."
With those cryptic words hanging heavy in the air, Ours Truly ushered Leviathan into a desolate chamber and vanished, leaving him alone with his mounting dread.
Taking a deep breath, Leviathan etched the intricate pentagram of Soul Interfusion on the floor, his body becoming the nucleus of the symbol. Squeezing his eyes shut, he focused on the five pillars of a human soul: rationality, appetite, senses, and emotions. He inhaled deeply, and a moment later, the pentagram began to bleed.
As the crimson ebbed, a wave of exhaustion washed over him, plunging him into unconsciousness.
He awakened to a world devoid of color – a chilling expanse of white stretching endlessly in all directions. Panic clawed at his throat as he realized there was no escape, no boundary to this sterile prison. Just then, a dark shape materialized in the distance – a foreboding structure that resonated with the description of Ours Truly's "Dungeon of Sins."
Leviathan stumbled towards it, his resolve hardening with each step. But just as he took his third stride, a voice shattered the silence.
"Leviathan," it echoed, a heart-wrenching plea laced with accusation. "Why did you abandon us?"
The sound froze him in his tracks. His heart hammered against his ribs as he recognized the voice – his mother's.
The voice, tinged with an unbearable sorrow, continued its assault. "Were we a burden, son? Why didn't you fight for us? You are no longer worthy… Come back to us."
Each word felt like a searing brand on his soul. He yearned to turn back, defy Ours Truly's warning, but the memory of his chilling words held him captive. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he pressed on, the echoing voices a constant torment.
Finally, after an eternity of torment, his hand brushed against the cold bars of the dungeon. The voices, mercifully, ceased. Gasping for breath, his heart a thunderous drum in his chest, Leviathan pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
Darkness, thick and suffocating, greeted him. He stumbled forward, his only guide the faint outline of another pentagram, glowing faintly in the inky blackness. Carved upon its surface was a stylized tree, adorned with unintelligible symbols – a testament to the unknown power that awaited him within.
QUESTION OF THE CHAPTER: 157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKNKRMpBaiU
Regarding the second chapter what are you feeling for the Bernsteins and what are your predictions towards the future?
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