Chapter 11 – Runes of the Forgotten Flame
Before stepping into the Arcana Library, Chris had made a peculiar request to the Duke—four very specific items.
He didn't ask for armor, weapons, or even enchanted scrolls. No, the items were strange… esoteric.
A small vial of Starfire Ink—a rare alchemical compound that shimmered with stardust and dragon blood essence.
A set of enchanted silver-needle etchers, capable of withstanding divine heat.
A Soul Mirror, used by ancient magicians to observe magical fluctuations in the soul.
And lastly, a binding thread of Nullroot fiber, known to anchor unstable magic when inscribed.
When the Duke had asked what they were for, Chris merely replied, "A precaution."
He couldn't tell him the truth. He wouldn't risk anyone stopping him—not even his own father.
Because what he was about to do... was forbidden, lost, and deadly.
Now, standing inside the Arcana Library, surrounded by more mana than anywhere else on the continent, Chris carefully unpacked the items and sat cross-legged on the cold, glowing floor. The air shimmered faintly—he could feel the magic thrumming around him, as if the very stone beneath him was alive.
He remembered the words of Merlin, his most trusted companion from the end of the world.
"True runes are not drawn on flesh, Chris. They're carved onto the soul. You're not inscribing ink—you're shaping essence. That's why only dragons could bear them."
Dragons—those mythical, godlike beasts—were said to be born with innate runes etched upon their very existence. To them, magic wasn't learned. It was breathed, lived, inherited. Humans could only dream of such power.
But in his past life, Merlin had unearthed fragments of that knowledge—Runes of the First Flame, from the ancient draconic scripts lost in time.
And now, Chris was about to attempt the unthinkable: to forge draconic runes into his own soul.
He stripped to the waist, the cold air biting against his skin. With trembling hands, he dipped the silver etcher into the vial of Starfire Ink. The moment the tip made contact with his skin, a sharp pain surged through him, like fire laced with lightning.
This wasn't simple tattooing.
The ink didn't stay on the surface—it sank through the skin, burning its way into his aura veins, touching the very core of his being.
Every stroke was agony.
His body convulsed, his vision blurred, but he gritted his teeth. He could feel the soul resisting, twitching under the intrusion. Any mistake now, and his soul could shatter—not just die, but cease to exist.
But Chris wasn't just anyone.
He was the one who had fought gods. He was the one chosen by Merlin to rewrite fate.
As the first rune settled, the Soul Mirror flickered to life—shimmering with a deep crimson-gold glow. His soul had accepted the mark.
One down. Three to go.
For hours, Chris worked, etching pain into power, drawing sigils that had not been seen in this world for eons. Each rune increased the strain, his mana trembling, his aura recoiling, but he persisted. Blood seeped from his skin, mixing with the ink. His breath turned ragged. His heartbeat thundered.
But finally, with the last line drawn, he dropped the needle.
The runes glowed like burning embers across his chest and back—alive, thrumming with ancient power.
Chris collapsed back onto the stone floor, drenched in sweat and blood, gasping.
But even in his exhaustion, he smiled.
Because now… he had taken his first step toward reclaiming everything—toward fighting the gods once more.
And this time, he wouldn't be the last line of defense.
He would be the blade that strikes first.