Iglis's diary
I travelled north into the biting cold, each step accompanied by the crunch of snow beneath my boots. The wind howled fiercely around me, biting into my skin through my heavy cloak.
The thought of following in my ancestor's footsteps stirred complex emotions within me—pride in following in his footsteps, yet also the immense pressure to match his legend. Could I truly live up to Lucid's name? Or was I but a pale imitation chasing a grandeur none could surpass? These questions swirled in my mind as the snowcapped peaks drew near.
Upon arriving at the enclave gates, I found myself facing a pair of imposing figures clad in silver armor, their features sharply elven. Their spears glinted pale as they regarded me with curiosity and caution in kind.
"State thy purpose, traveler," demanded one in a voice as frigid as the air.
"I seek the Elders' wisdom," I replied, my breath a misty cloud. "I am Iglis van Xenon, descendant of the Sword King Lucid van Xenon."
The elves exchanged a look before stepping aside. One gestured for me to follow, saying "If truth be told, the Elders shall hear thy plea."
The enclave itself was breathtaking—a crystalline city carved into the mountainside, its towers and halls glimmering with an otherworldly radiance. Snow blanketed every alcove and balcony, yet within its walls, a subtle warmth permeated the air, as if the very stone sheltered and soothed its residents. As I wandered the winding avenues, I sensed assessing eyes upon me—cautious, perhaps critical.
Upon reaching the citadel's heart, the Council of Elders greeted me, venerable elves whose majestic auras seemed to command the ambient ether. Elder Faenir, their elder statesman, studied me intently with icy eyes that pierced like glacial shards. "So, thou art the one who claims to be a descendant of Lucid," he said, his voice carrying a weight that made me straighten my posture. "The resemblance is uncanny, indeed. But blood alone dost not make thee worthy of his legacy."
Their scrutiny humbled and energized me. Here I stood where Lucid once stood, before those who had tutored his gift. I bowed low, acknowledging their immemorial wisdom. "I have come to learn. I seek to comprehend my ancestor's techniques and surpass what he achieved."
On the morrow, my instruction began in earnest. Swiftly I realized these sages differed from all prior mentors. They weren't just instructing me in the art of swordsmanship—they were tearing apart everything I thought I knew about it. "Thy movements are inefficient," Elder Faenir remarked during one of our early sessions. "Thou dost waste energy with every strike." I heeded his counsel but still fell short beneath his penetrating gaze.
"Thou art skilled," the Elder spoke, his tone firm yet kind. "But skill alone sufficeth not. Power without mastery is fleeting, and mastery is naught without insight."
His words rang true, though humbling to hear. The Elders taught more than combat—they showed how to feel the magic within, guiding movements instead of forcing obedience. At first, it felt unnatural. I was used to relying on perseverance, pushing past hardships through will alone. But this required something deeper.
I remember an exercise on a frozen lake, standing with sword in hand as streams of enchanted water struck from every angle. My task—deflect with without might but motion and fluidity. "Feel thy magic," Elder Faenir called over the roar, "flow with the current, not against it."
It took endless days of soaked skin and aching muscles, but slowly I understood. My movements grew sharp and purposeful. No longer just reacting, I now anticipated the streams' paths, redirecting their energy through the blade.
By year's end, I had mastered seven of the ten techniques of Luicd's sword art. Each was a testament to hours spent in toil. But the Elders warned against hastening the final three, particularly the tenth—Dreadment. "There is a reason why thy ancestor didst bestow but the 10th form a name, whilst the rest bore their respective numbers. Even he, at times, didst fear his own creation."
Faenir's words haunted my mind as I stared into the crackling fireplace late that night. The flames danced across his aged features, their shadows accentuating the gravity of his warning. "Dreadment is not a mere technique to wield carelessly. It demands perfection of body and spirit or it will destroy you."
Sleep evaded me as his ominous message echoed in the silence. I found myself drawn to the training hall under the light of the stars, alone but for the wind's mournful song outside. My blade lay across my lap as I gazed into its polished surface, studying my reflection. Could I surpass even Lucid himself through mastery, not just strength?
The Elders had counseled patience and focus on fundamentals, believing slow growth would grant what Lucid grasped in month. Yet impatience nagged at me, a thirst to test my limits and prove worthy of the legacy. Still, I knew their wisdom — haste risks all, while discipline refines.
For now, I resolved to heed their guidance. The seventh technique would be mastered completely before daring the challenges beyond. Though the road remained long, I felt the strides made clear — subtler movements, deeper connection to magic, growing accord between hand and steel. Progress, though patience, would see me through.
As the shadows of dusk settled across the hall, the strain of the past turns tumbled through my mind. It had proven a trial like no other, testing me in ways unforeseen. But this was just the commencement. Surmounting Lucid would necessitate a lengthy, laborious road, and I intended to traverse its every facet, regardless of difficulty.
Alone with my thoughts in the remote northern outpost, a vow arose—for my benefit, for those who came before, and for the blade weighing heavy in my hold. I would not rest until each technique was totally tailored, until my name echoed beside Lucid van Xenon's through the annals of renown. And when opportunity arrived, I would demonstrate to all—most importantly, to myself—that I was deserving of the legacy I carried.
Lazarus' Discovery
The air in my lab was thick with the scent of parchment and chemicals, illuminated only by the faint, flickering glow of runic candles. The light cast long, still shadows across the walls, barely touching the organized chaos of books, shattered vials, and scraps of rune-laden paper scattered across the space. Over the past year, I had devoted myself to unraveling the mysteries of Jaba's grimoire. It was less a book and more a fragmented map of arcane knowledge, its pieces requiring painstaking assembly to reveal its secrets.
I had recovered nearly all of the missing pages—save for one. My research indicated that the final page was hidden in the Divine Realm, a place I had yet to visit. The thought of entering a realm ruled by beings who viewed themselves as arbiters of existence didn't inspire awe, nor did it inspire fear. It was simply a step in the process, an unavoidable task that required precision and time.
Rune magic had also taken much of my focus. Unlike the celestial vitae system, which relied on intuitive manipulation of energy, rune magic was exacting. Its symbols were rigid, its execution mercilessly unforgiving. A single deviation in a rune's curvature or the angle of its intersection could render the spell useless—or create catastrophic results.
It suited me. Rune magic was logical, stripped of unnecessary theatrics. Each line, each symbol carried intent and purpose. Unlike others who might be deterred by its complexity, I found clarity in it. The process was systematic, the outcomes measurable.
My first successful rune spell was a simple binding rune, anchoring two objects together. It was nothing extraordinary, yet it functioned precisely as intended. There was no need for celebration or emotion. It worked. That was all that mattered.
The failures, however, were instructive. An incorrectly inscribed rune collapsed under its own instability, discharging a wave of energy that shattered half the glass in my lab. Another miscalculation resulted in a momentary breach in the air, pulling in everything not bolted down. My left hand still bore faint scars from an experiment involving unstable runic loops.
The lessons from these incidents were clear. Rune magic demanded perfection, and perfection required iteration. There was no frustration, only the knowledge that I was closer to mastery with every attempt.
Jaba's grimoire was unlike anything I had encountered before. It held no reverence for the celestial or the arcane but instead charted a path that existed beyond them. I admired its practicality—Jaba's work was a testament to ingenuity divorced from ideology. It was a guide, not a doctrine, filled with knowledge that rejected conventional boundaries.
The celestial vitae system, the foundation of most magic users' abilities, felt antiquated by comparison. Rune magic and the grimoire's principles operated on a level that transcended such limitations. The more I studied, the more apparent it became that this path offered a clarity and efficiency that other systems lacked.
The final page remained elusive, locked away in the Divine Realm. My research suggested it had been hidden there to ensure it would remain inaccessible. The irony wasn't lost on me—those who sought to restrict knowledge only ensured its eventual pursuit. I would retrieve it when the time came.
As I stood in the center of my lab, the flickering light of the candles reflecting off the metallic surfaces of alchemical tools and scattered fragments of rune-inscribed parchment, I felt no sense of accomplishment or excitement. Emotions were irrelevant. The work was its own justification.
There were still gaps in my understanding, unanswered questions that required further experimentation. But progress was inevitable. The Divine Realm, the grimoire, the mastery of rune magic—these were not ambitions but steps in a process.
I placed the grimoire carefully on the table, its nearly completed form resting in the faint light. The missing page was a problem to be solved, nothing more. When the time came, I would solve it. Until then, there was work to be done.
This was not a journey of redemption or glory. It was a methodical pursuit of knowledge and capability. Anything else was a distraction, and distractions had no place in my world.
Alucard's Redemption
The chapel was quiet, the kind of stillness that seemed to reach into one's soul. The air was thick with incense, curling like ghostly tendrils towards the vaulted ceiling. Stained glass windows cast fractured colors across the stone floor, painting the sacred space with hues of divine light. At the center of it all stood the Saintess, her ethereal presence radiating a calm authority that made her seem almost untouchable. Yet, there was no judgment in her gaze as she looked at me, only understanding.
Over the past year, the Saintess had been my guide. Where others saw a broken hero driven by vengeance, she saw her son, broken and destroyed. She did not preach to me about redemption or forgiveness but instead taught me to face the truths I had buried deep within myself. She was a teacher, yes, but also an anchor, grounding me in a way I hadn't realized I needed.
"Thou art stronger than thou believest," she said to me one afternoon, her voice soft but unwavering. "But strength alone doth not define thee. Thou must learn to balance the light and dark within thee, to embrace thy true self."
Her words lingered in my mind as I trained day after day, pushing myself further than ever before. My Nephalem form, the fusion of light and dark energies within me, was a power I had long feared. The darkness was always there, coiled in the depths of my soul, whispering promises of vengeance, of destruction. It was seductive, a constant temptation to let go of restraint and let it consume me.
The light, on the other hand, was elusive. It felt distant, almost indifferent, as though it refused to answer my call. I would reach for it, only to feel it slip through my grasp like grains of sand. It was frustrating, maddening even. But the Saintess never allowed me to dwell in despair.
"Thou must not fear thy darkness," she told me one night as we stood beneath the stained glass windows. The moonlight filtered through the colored glass, casting shifting patterns on the stone walls. "It is a part of thee, just as the light is. To deny it is to deny thyself. Harmony is not the absence of conflict but the mastery of it."
Her words struck something deep within me. She wasn't asking me to reject my darkness or cling desperately to the light. She was asking me to accept both, to find balance between the two. It wasn't easy. Every step forward felt like a battle against the demons within me. But slowly, I began to understand.
My powers weren't a curse—they were a gift. A responsibility. I stopped thinking of the light and dark as separate forces and began to see them as two halves of the same whole. The light was not inherently good, nor was the dark inherently evil. They were tools, extensions of my will, and it was up to me to wield them responsibly.
Under her guidance, I learned to channel my emotions in ways I hadn't thought possible. The anger that had once burned uncontrollably within me became a focused fire. The pain of losing Eleanor, which had once consumed me, became a quiet strength. Her memory was no longer a wound that refused to heal but a source of resolve that pushed me forward.
I thought of her often during my training. I could still see her smile, hear the sound of her laughter. The ache of her absence hadn't lessened, but I had learned to carry it differently. It was no longer a weight dragging me down but a reminder of why I fought.
By the end of the year, I stood in the chapel once more, the stained glass casting its radiant light across my figure. I felt... different. Stronger, certainly, but it wasn't just my physical abilities that had grown. I felt more centered, more in control of the storm raging within me. I wasn't the same man who had faced Lazarus a year ago. I had been broken then, consumed by hatred and guilt. Now, I was something else.
The Saintess approached me, her steps light and purposeful. "Art thou ready?" she asked, her voice calm yet filled with expectation.
I nodded. "Yes."
I didn't need to elaborate. She could see it in my eyes. The time would come when I would face Lazarus again. Not as a man blinded by vengeance but as someone who understood the depth of his own power. I would protect what mattered to me. I would honor Eleanor's memory, not through hatred, but through strength and resolve.
Narrator's Voice
As the year came to a close, the three warriors stood at the edge of change, their paths shaped by struggle and growth.
Iglis, deep in the lands of the Snow Elves, honed his craft under the watchful eyes of the ancient Elders. He tempered his swordsmanship with wisdom, mastering techniques passed down through generations.
Lazarus, secluded in his pursuit of knowledge, delved into the ancient mysteries of rune magic. His work was methodical, unyielding, each step calculated and deliberate.
And Alucard, guided by the Saintess, found harmony within himself. He balanced the light and dark, not as adversaries, but as parts of a greater whole. He carried the weight of his loss, not as a burden, but as a strength.
Though their journeys had taken them in separate directions, their destinies were bound to converge once more. Whispers of a great conflict echoed through the world, a storm gathering on the horizon. The air was charged with anticipation, the kind that preceded upheaval.
The three warriors, forged by trials and tempered by growth, were no longer who they had been. But the true test of their strength, their resolve, and their souls was yet to come. The world watched and waited, knowing that their choices would shape the dawn of a new era.