The manipulator of minds, Asmodeus, also longed for the power to control the world. And it was not just him—every race that knew of The Book desired it. Even a mere glimpse beyond its gates would grant enough power to rule the entire continent.
Valroth knew the legend. A man had once returned from The Book, and in just six months, he alone had conquered the continent, subjugating hundreds of races. No one knew how he had done it, just as no one knew how he had suddenly disappeared. But all bore witness to his resurrection, to the power that death had bestowed upon him or rather, to the dominion he wielded over the world. As if he knew every secret the world held.
As an Asmodeus, Valroth yearned to grasp that power for himself.
He traversed the continent and sought out its most renowned blacksmith. The blacksmith was an elderly man with a mane of white hair, fire burning in his left hand as he forged with his right. In just five days, he crafted a longsword specifically designed to counter the Asmodeus' regenerative power. Yet no matter how many times Valroth plunged the blade into his own flesh, his wounds healed faster than before, and the pain vanished in an instant. Frustrated, he tossed the sword back into the forge's molten depths.
"Old man, forge it again. I want to see the legendary craftsmanship of the Hephaestus clan—how it can destroy the body of an Asmodeus."
Three times the old blacksmith reforged the sword, and three times it failed to halt Valroth's regeneration. When Valroth lit the forge's flames for the fourth time, he spoke, "Old man, this time, make it the strongest weapon—one that can rival the might of every race."
This time, Valroth did not leave. He stood by the blacksmith's side, watching every strike, every ember. And when the old man finally handed him the sword, Valroth nodded in silent acknowledgment.
The blacksmith let out a long sigh, then turned and stepped into the molten forge, vanishing into the searing heat.
Valroth strapped the sword to his waist and stepped out into the night. The flickering firelight in his eyes burned against the darkness, wild and unrestrained. But what truly caught his attention was a head of silver-white hair at the alley's end.
A young woman, her waist-length hair swaying in the night breeze, cradled a basin of freshly washed clothes, preparing to enter her home. But as her gaze swept over the approaching Valroth, she froze. The firelight surrounding him startled her, and she let out a scream, the basin slipping from her hands. Clothes were scattered across the ground, and she hastily knelt to gather them. The sound of footsteps nearing made her look up, a stray lock of hair slipping from behind her ear, much like her heart, which had suddenly fluttered free.
"You're beautiful. I like you."
The words escaped her lips before she could stop them. The breeze lifted her silver hair, and in the glow of firelight, Valroth saw her innocent, radiant face. Then, as realization dawned on her, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. She quickly straightened herself and offered a small bow. "My name is Elara."
When the mark of a white lily bloomed upon Elara's ankle, she truly became his.
Elara was exactly as she had declared on their first meeting—she fell deeply in love with Valroth. In her youthful innocence, she dreamt of a love where they walked hand in hand. She led him through the winding streets of her hometown, pressing sweet pastries to his lips, wiping the crumbs from his mouth with adoration in her eyes. To her, Valroth's mere presence was love enough.
But Valroth, an Asmodeus, knew all too well—the strongest form of control was love. Every Asmodeus had once been shackled by love, only to break free through sheer will, becoming what they were now. Valroth was not uncertain of his plan—to train her, to make her his pawn, to use her to obtain The Book's power. He had no doubts about his own capabilities or methods. In fact, he had resolved everything the moment he watched the blacksmith's final forging. And yet, there was something about the mark he left on Elara that unsettled him. It was not the power of Asmodeus—it was his own. It was the first time he had used it. And when the mark formed, he felt her overwhelming joy and love surge into him like a flood, shaking his emotionless existence.
Still, it did not stop him.
When Valroth told Elara of his intentions, she accepted without hesitation. "As long as it's what you want, as long as it makes you happy, I'm willing."
It was love, desperate to please him.
When the cold blade grazed the back of her hand, its icy touch sent a shiver through Valroth's heart. He gently pressed the tip against her fingertip, a small sting passing through his own. He watched her tear-filled eyes, took her hand toward his mouth, and soothed the pain away. "Are you sure?" he asked, holding her trembling hands, brushing away her tears. "Are you sure you want to do this for me?"
Elara nodded slightly.
Her screams echoed through the mountains, unrelenting through day and night. Birds scattered, beasts fled, rain fell ceaselessly. And in the eerie silence of the drenched forest, Elara lay motionless, covered in blood. Beside her, a gaunt woman knelt, placing her hands over Elara's forehead and abdomen, chanting an incantation in a language unknown. Wisps of black and white smoke curled from her palms, wrapping around Elara's body.
"Thank you, Aya."
Valroth, standing nearby, nodded at the woman. Aya stood, her skeletal frame almost matching his height. Her high cheekbones, slanted eyes, and the deep purple scar marring her left cheek would have sent Elara into unconscious terror had she been awake.
"No need. Just remember your promise. I like this girl," Aya muttered, eyes lingering curiously on Elara before shooting Valroth a glare. He chuckled. He knew Aya had been peculiar ever since she was cast out by Iaso, but she had not changed one thing—she always fell for her patients.
"Don't worry, she won't leave." His gaze darkened. "So you don't have to poison her like your other patients."
When the smoke faded, Elara's wounds had vanished, though blood still stained her pale skin. As she opened her eyes, the love she once held for Valroth was replaced by terror. Valroth ignored her trembling form, gently wiping her clean with a damp cloth. Beside them, a tray of warm food waited. He spooned small bites into her mouth.
Elara chewed mechanically. She had never seen Valroth so tender. He was always near, yet distant—his smiles cold, his eyes sharp. But now, his actions spoke of love. And yet, the memories of agony, of her own screams, sent shivers down her spine. She touched her unblemished body, uncertain if it had all been a nightmare.
Valroth combed through her silver hair, sensing how her love was slowly being swallowed by fear.
"Do you want to continue?"