Facing death wasn’t something just anyone could do. Most people would collapse from fear and piss themselves at the mere sight of death.
Yet Helix had held through, maybe because he had something worth living for, a goal and a dream. Yet his blade, something Helix had put every ounce of strength and hope in, had been stopped as if it were nothing but air.
Staring at the crowned figure, Helix felt the ocean of hope inside him disappear as if sucked by a sponge.
The man—whose pink hair was tied in a long braid that fell over his chest—turned his head eerily at Helix. With a slight twist of the man’s wrist, Helix’s grip on the blade loosened, and he flew through the air.
Before he could even land, fingers wrapped around his collar and yanked him upwards.
The man had grabbed him from behind, as if he had teleported.
"What interesting reflexes you have. Attacking me when you clearly sensed death...insane boy."
The man chuckled, a light-hearted laugh that’d make one expect they were old friends, and dropped Helix to the ground.
W-who is he and why hasn’t he killed me yet?
Death and blood were clinging to the man like a second skin; it was so thick that even Helix, someone barely related to Azrael because of his father, had sensed it with such stark clarity.
What number of people do you have to massacre to reach that point?
A thousand?
Ten thousand?
No, the number had to be in the tens of millions.
"I can see you making assumptions. Rude, don’t you think? So you’re the one Ibar wanted me to train...but you’re kinda pathetic."
The crowned man moved a circle around Helix, examining him from different angles.
"Such an intense amount of Ichor...destruction practically stinks off of you. And your eyes, a splitting image of Abaddon. Such immense potential wasted on a weak-willed brat like you."
"Weak-willed? I’ve gone through things you can’t even imagine, you narcissistic bastard." Helix replied sharply. He found his fear replaced by the only emotion stronger: spite.
"Right...I heard you met that child Caspian; it seems like he left some deep scars on you." A wide smile split the man’s lips. "Are you really the hope of the Abaddon family? Someone like you against Astrid? Hah, delusion, both you and your angel."
Something about the man’s carefree attitude grated Helix’s nerves in the wrong way. But what could he do against someone like the crowned figure?
By now Helix had figured out who the man was and why he was here, but it did little to calm his nerves.
And who the hell is Astrid?
With each passing day, Helix was coming to realize the game had skipped over a lot. Even worse was the fact that Helix had played from Morgan’s POV.
"Well, nothing to be done about that; I can at least make sure you’re strong enough to face her. By the way, I’m Cyril. You may know me as the Blood God or King of Anarchy or those other titles I have."
"..."
What had his grandfather gotten him into?
Cyril pointed at a trembling figure. Ali was rolled into a ball, shaking like a stick caught in the middle of a storm.
"Bring the car back to the estate; we’re going on ahead."
"Wha—"
Both Helix and Cyril disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a faint crown on the ground.
Ali stared at the scene with his mouth agape, then shook his head.
Young Master’s matters don’t concern me...
He dusted off his clothes and started walking to the car.
**
A few miles away from 24th Street, inside a large island of grass, two people appeared. One was a tall middle agedman with braided pink hair, twin pools of blood where his eyes would have been.
The other, a young boy sprawled across the floor, gasping for breath. Dark gray hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes held a certain quality belonging to the dead.
They were hollow.
The two were, of course, Cyril and Helix.
"Get up Helix. It’s time we start training you. You’re pathetically weak; it’s almost embarrassing." Cyril glanced at the far wall, and his eyes narrowed.
"I’ll train him for the next three months, and then we’re even, Ibar. No more favors."
He can see grandfather?
The question echoed through his mind, and Helix pieced together everything he knew about The Blood God, Cyril.
He has no last name; his angel is unconfirmed; and he’s the strongest person ever...dead or alive.
Just that was enough to make Cyril among the most talented people to have ever been born, even more so than the Angels and Fallen themselves.
Yet that wasn’t even the most unbelievable part of his story...no, not even close.
Taking a deep breath, Helix spoke to the man.
"Excuse my question, but...were you really a pig before?"
Yes, it was said that The Blood God was a farm animal, common livestock. The tale was well known in every corner of the world.
"Hmm, yeah. A long, long time ago, my owner was going to slaughter me, so I killed him. Drenched in his blood, I gained a body. This current form is the one I’ve worn for my entire life. Over time, I grew stronger, learned from legends, and eventually grew stronger than them. Many were considered by rivals, but none could ever actually hold a candle to me."
A nostalgic smile appeared on Cyril’s face. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as Helix had originally thought.
"80-something years ago I met your grandfather. Ibar was the only one actually able to contend with me on equal grounds, but even then I eventually surpassed him."
Maybe because he had been absent for decades, people, including Helix, believed that it was nothing more than a myth.
But it seemed it was all true.
What a monster...no, that doesn’t even cut it. He’s blessed by the heavens themselves.
But even that was wrong.
Cyril wasn’t blessed by the heavens; rather, the heavens were blessed by Cyril. His decision to never ascend to an angel was what had kept the heavens stable.