Despite what it might seem like, Caelum's mind could not have been any clearer.
Memories neatly arranged themselves in his head as though they were books being catalogued in a grand library. And that was why he can witness them again and again with great clarity.
Although the memories were incomplete, they told only one simple story: futility.
Back then, all of the things he saw in his memories were important. They were so important that he had willingly stripped himself of everything in order to complete the mission he had given himself. Although he still does not remember what the mission was, he knew that it was a far greater matter than a mere Great War in one small frontier region of the Myriad Worlds.
"How many of us were there? How many times did we lose? How many times did we get back up only to fall again? In the end, here I stand with nothing to show for it all."
What was the point of all his pain?
What was the point of all his deaths?
He may not know the mission, but judging by how he had to reincarnate so many times, that only meant that he had failed just as many times.
And from the memory of one of his past lives, the one he saw with the help of the Red Moon, he could easily tell that most, if not all of them, were just as tragic.
The world always worked against him. Fate seemed to hate him. He could only hope that existence had not abandoned him yet. But he would not even be surprised if it already had. Somewhere in the depths of his soul, a word seemed to ring loud as though trying to gain attention for itself.
Exile—a word that contained unfathomable disdain and disgust for its bearer.
He had felt such things before. They were a rampant river that seemed to drag him away, but he was used to it. No fisherman had never contended with the waves of the seas and oceans on their endeavours.
But it was precisely because of this that he pushed himself deeper and deeper into a quagmire of his own making.
Since everything was against him, he walked down the path of selfless solitude. He gave his everything hoping for solace, yet fully expecting nothing at all.
He was an exile, a stranger amidst all the beauty of existence.
And so he was treated like a guiding light, like a shining beacon in the dark, like a torch revealing the way. And now, the last of his embers had died.
"I… am tired of hurting… of dying… of sacrificing. I am tired of burning."
As his tearful voice flowed ever so smoothly amidst that small quivering of his throat, the black mist began to swirl around him.
The power behind it was like a tempest whipping about the entire hall, churning like a wailing beast that had fallen into a maddenning despair. It billowed out like a hurricane, untamed and uncaring.
Reynor struggled to remain on his feet while Erta was desperately trying to push her way in through the open doors.
Neither could understand the words he spoke of.
Neither could understand the pain he had endured.
And how could they?
They were among those who saw him as a lamppost, as the miracle that would bring them to their desired and destined futures. And all of a sudden, they were keenly aware that Caelum's emotions had permeated their minds.
For Erta, it was an entirely different feeling than when she sensed Caelum's emotions through the Life Covenant. The latter made her feel the emotions as though they were hers, but she was also keenly aware that they did not come from her. But this was different.
It was as though no one was allowed to feel any other emotion other than what Caelum wants them to feel. And that was how they knew that, although he loved and cared for them, he could not help but resent them to the very depths of his being.
He had sacrificed so much for the Myriad Worlds to give them hope, but they were only interested in their own damnation. So why should he still sacrifice?
"The last of the embers have died. My cycle comes to an end. Now, it is the world that shall burn. This is my final Grace to you all. Know the mercy that is Immolation."
It all started with a spark. It was a very dull spark that hardly gave off any light whatsoever. But that was exactly why it felt so lonely.
The flame it created was so black, desolate and lifeless that it could not even be bothered to lick at the air. Its tongues seemed to roll off like languid fluid only seeking eternal rest. They were wilted and aimless just like their hollow master.
His hair and eyes had become darker than the night sky as his skin became as pale as a corpse. And his vision had practically vanished.
To him, everything was over. All of his work had long been undone. There was no more point in continuing this farce. He was no masochist despite what the memories might suggest. The torture he endured was a necessity… or at least he thought it was at the time.
Now he knows it was merely his vanity. An exercise in futility.
The ancestral tablet crumbled to dust and ash as the dull black flames flowed across its surface. They continued spreading outward as though their only goal was to just keep moving. In some ways, it was reminiscent of Caelum himself. He kept moving despite everything going so utterly wrong.
And when the flames reached Reynor and Erta, they realised that it was not hot at all. In fact, the flames did not have any temperature. What it instead had was a great weight that threatened to crush them.
It was as though the flames themselves were the embodiment of all the torture, all the sacrifice that Caelum had to endure throughout his many lifetimes. They were the representation of the great burden he carried. And now that he had chosen to let go, Erta was proven right once again.
The power rushed out of him like a tide. He did not rein it in as he had no need of it anymore. He did not want it. To the world, it was his blessing, his mercy… his Grace. But to him, it was nothing but a curse. One that he inflicted upon himself. One that he now wanted no part in.
The flames spread more and more. Soon, it had already covered about half the entire estate. And as the first languid tongues reached the border of the estate, the barrier shattered like fragile glass.
Everyone was too frightened to even move. They already saw the main house and several other buildings crumble to dust in the distance. They knew that despite how languid the black flames appeared to be, they were quite fast.
It was as though they wanted to be free and far from Caelum quickly. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
And so, knowing that there was no escape, the House of Grace allowed the flames to wash over them. In their minds, although they felt bitter that the Pillar of Grace had deemed them unworthy, they could only lament their worthlessness.
They were created by the Ancestor of Grace to be his greatest power. And yet all they did was wait for his return, not even helping him bring peace to other worlds. Now, they even invited the treachery of another world.
How could they not accept their deaths? To them, their deaths were warranted. And even then, their penance cannot end.
The black flames continued to spread uncontrollably. It was like an unending tide with Caelum at its very centre. In a matter of minutes, practically half of the Aegon Kingdom was drowning in this sea of black.
And yet no one argued back. No one got angry. No one wanted revenge against Caelum for the deaths and destruction he was causing. They could all feel his emotions and hear his thoughts from the very flames that brushed past their feeble skin.
Caelum's curse was his acceptance of all the evils of the Myriad Worlds, all in order to bring them light. But as he said, his embers had now died. It was now time for the world to face it.
And so, they accepted it. They could not refuse either way as the black flames would not allow them to. And soon, the entirety of Earth had become a giant mass of black flames.
And despite the cataclysm they were now facing, a hell much too different from the war they found themselves suddenly thrust into only three years ago, no one dared to even scream.
History would refer to this as the day The Lonely King rejected his crown, the Day of Black Immolation.