The crimson world of Face of Terror trembled.
Luciel stood amidst the towering presences of Ethan's spirit beasts, drenched in the suffocating weight of their judgment. Each one was ancient, eternal, primordial—and in the center sat Ethan, his body radiating stillness and strength that should've been impossible for a man on the brink of death.
The blood-hued air shimmered. Silence reigned, until Luciel finally broke it.
His voice cracked with an unstable mix of pain, defiance, and obsession.
'You want to know why, Ethan?'
Ethan didn't speak. He only watched. Waiting.
Luciel smiled—bitterly, like a man holding back the tide of his own sanity.
'Because I was meant to die. Meant to be forgotten.'
He began to pace, hands trembling.
'I was born in a nameless slum, to a dying mother and a father cursed with a debt he never owed. They took everything from him. From us. They left me to rot in gutters, begging for scraps from nobles who wouldn't even look at me.'
