A cool sensation spread through his skull, then down his spine like ice trickling through his veins.
"I see…" she murmured, eyes narrowed. "So you've been poisoned. A vile curse… no wonder your body is deteriorating."
Fenric nodded slightly, barely able to hide the pain twisting through his limbs. He wasn't expecting salvation—at most, just time and power. Enough to push through, gain power, and then search for a cure deep within Eden's hidden dungeons of forbidden medicine halls. There lies an powerful medicine that in original book protagonist used for his lover, a cure that can cleanse body of any defect even a Supreme grade curse the heroine was born with.
"Please," he whispered. "Lend me something… anything."
Avernus tilted her head, and for the first time, a trace of compassion shimmered behind her violet eyes.
"Very well," she said softly. "Instead of a temporary contract… I shall lend you the Moon's Blessing—the body purification flame of the Silver Moon."
She raised her hand again, and this time, a glowing sphere of soft silver light began to form in her palm. It pulsed like a heartbeat, warm and cold at once. The air shimmered with divine moonlight as she held it out.
"Eat this. But be warned—this is no simple gift. It is the Silver Moon Flame, a purifying spirit flames. It will scour your body of poison… but the pain will be unimaginable, like reliving every war your bloodline has ever fought."
Fenric gritted his teeth. "I can endure it."
"You will have six months," she said solemnly. "No more. If your body fails to recover by then, or if you fail to meet my expectations… I will not return."
Then, she gently pressed the glowing sphere into his chest.
It sank into him like a star falling into a bottomless ocean—and instantly, his vision exploded into blinding white.
And then the pain began.
Unimaginable pain.
It was worse than anything he had ever endured in his cursed life. It was as if a thousand searing needles were stabbing into his bones, all while his flesh was being scorched from the inside out. His muscles twisted, tendons pulled taut, and his nerves felt like they were on fire.
Fenric couldn't even scream. His breath caught in his throat, and the only sound he managed was a strangled gasp as he bit down hard on a nearby couch pillow, muffling his agony—preventing himself from biting through his own tongue.
He rolled over, his body writhing uncontrollably, until he crashed into another chair and slid to the floor. In a frantic, instinctive motion, he tore open a scroll—one of the enchanted ones Mavis kept for emergencies.
The runes flared to life, and a binding light erupted from it, activating a magic circle around him.
Chains of glowing silver runes snapped out and wrapped around his limbs, pinning him in place— to restrain him and bound him. It was a powerful spell, meant to bind a criminal, but he used it on himself to prevent himself from harming himself.
And still the pain intensified.
The Moon Flame inside him wasn't just burning the poison—it was purifying him from the very core. His blood boiled, his bones cracked and reformed, his organs felt as if they were being reforged in divine fire.
This wasn't cleansing.
It was destruction—the silver moon's flames, were rebuilding everything after destroying it.
Fenric didn't know how long it lasted. Minutes? Hours? Days?
All he knew was the blinding light, the fire, and the relentless pain that made death seem like a mercy. His fingernails cracked, his lips bled from biting down, and every breath felt like inhaling blades.
And through it all…
He endured.
More like he has to endure he has no more choice, it was either death od this pain and he chose the Pain.
...More like he had to endure. There was no choice left to him anymore. It was either this pain or death—and he chose the pain.
Pain meant survival. Pain meant he still had a chance.
Somewhere in the white-hot blaze of agony, his thoughts fractured and drifted, lost in the endless torment. He no longer knew where he was. The chamber, the furniture, even his own body—blurred away into meaninglessness. There was only the flame now. The Moon's Blessing, burning away everything weak, poisoned, and broken.
At times, it felt like something ancient within him was being peeled away—layers of trauma, curses laid on his bloodline, echoes of sins and sorrow not even his own. Visions passed through his mind: warriors screaming in the heat of battle, a shattered moon dripping silver tears, a woman cloaked in black flame mourning beneath a dying tree.
It was like living memory—and yet none of it was his.
Then, slowly, slowly, the pain began to shift. Not lessen, but change. The raw destruction gave way to something more structured, like metal being hammered into form on a divine forge.
His body began to settle.
The flames still burned, but now they pulsed with rhythm, guiding rather than tormenting. The sensation was still excruciating, but now his nerves could interpret it—like understanding the shape of fire. And somewhere deep in his core, something awakened. A spark, not from Avernus, but from him. His own magic. His own will.
He wasn't just surviving it.
He was wielding it.
When at last the flames dimmed, when the white light faded into a cool silver glow, Fenric lay there—smoke curling from his skin, his clothes singed and torn, blood and sweat pooling beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps, but it was breath. His heart still beat.
He was alive.
Barely.
His fingers twitched, and when he finally forced himself upright, every part of him trembled—but not from weakness.
But from exhaustion, still there was a smile on his face—because for the first time in so long, there was no more extended pain he had to endure every day.
Fenric tilted his head down as the gem on his bow tie glowed gently, a soft reminder of the enchanted armor—the one that allowed him to walk like any ordinary person. Before, he had needed a wheelchair to move around, his body too weak to support itself. But with the armor, he could stand, move, and act as if nothing were wrong.
But now… now he looked at it with something else in his eyes. Hope. He wanted to try—wanted to see if he could stand on his own without it.
Still, he didn't rush.
He didn't remove the armor.
He didn't leap to his feet or test his limbs. Instead, he let his body rest. He closed his eyes. And, for the first time in what felt like years, he drifted into sleep—not from exhaustion, but from peace.