Seymour Kauffman stood, gazing out of the glass window before him, taking in the passing world. His eyes darted from place to place—searching. For longer than he could remember he had been planning for this moment: the moment he would achieve immortality

He turned from the window, snickering to himself a bit, and walked along a small pathway suspended in the air that led to an island where his throne rested. His feet carried him faithfully until he reached the throne, where he developed tunnel vision and had his balance stripped away. He started to wobble, trying his best to stay on both feet, but then came the crashing. Luckily, his throne was there to catch him, and he held onto the arm, visibly shaken and out of breath. He fell onto the throne and caught his breath. He looked back to the towering window and thought of his death. Slow and painful, no doubt. Shaking his head, he tried his best to dislodge the thought and cast it away, refusing to acknowledge the one universal truth that not everyone can come to terms with: that one day he will die, like everyone else, like it or not. There were no loopholes, it was a flawless cycle of life and death. Life was given, and it could be taken at any moment, and Seymour could not accept this for himself.

Now was the time to overcome this. He shot up and walked along another pathway towards a spiral staircase. Going down, the numerous paintings and statues decorated along the walls seemed to shine upon Seymour as he passed them. Each painting depicted a different battle throughout the history of the Thilhorn church, in which Seymour was formerly a member. His most recent battle led him to discover a creature of perpetual energy, an orange mass that could change forms and devoured anything it touched. He had unwittingly released it while trying to harness its power, and the result was the spectacle earlier in Lucrea. With each life it ate, with all the energy it collected…Seymour dreamed of an endless supply of magic coursing through him, of power beyond his means, of eternity—it would be made to obey him. It would lend its power by choice or force. As he stepped onto the ground, he pulled the hood of his robe over his head and pushed two dungeon doors open, and walked outside.

There was a fierce wind that whipped his cheeks, and the hood proved useless and flew off his head, twisting as it fell against his back. He strolled through the gusts and descended a flight of stairs that curved along the walls of the right-wing tower into a small alcove with a wooded door. He entered, walked through a long hallway with its ceiling and walls composed of glass. The moon, curious as ever as to what happened while he was away, peeked from behind a trail of clouds. It hung there, staring down at Seymour as he exited the glass hall, disappearing into another room.

There were barrels and boxes scattered throughout the room, mice scurrying, some dripping liquid likely not water, and symbols of the Thilhorn era filling the room—symbols of a dwindling era and faith. Only three priests remained—himself included—and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long until it was just him. All the more reason to become immortal, he thought. The era won’t die as long as one survives, and I will survive this life. He moved some of the barrels out of the way and was met with another symbol drawn on the wall. He produced a ring with the same symbol engraved upon it from his pocket, pressed it against the wall, and watched as both symbols lit up in a brilliant purple light. The wall shook a bit, dislodging dust and debris from cracks as it moved to reveal a hidden passage.

Inside was a small elevator, big enough for two or three people, barely held together. Seymour stepped inside and pressed a button. The elevator coughed to life as its old and rusted gears began to turn for the first time in ages. A square door shut and locked in place, and it began to descend on a set of ropes that were almost too small to use, but somehow kept their strength. A dim, crudely affixed light illuminated a couple of feet around the area around Seymour, and he saw his destination. The gears started another fit of coughing as he tapped a button, and the elevator stopped. The door did not disengage, finally broken, he thought, and he kicked it off its hinges. He stepped off the elevator and headed down a hallway with wires and cords turning into the walls and ceiling, dirt and water covering the floor. He stopped at the door.

He hadn’t been here in so long, it was nostalgic for him to stand there, and he recited a spell that lifted a magical barrier he had placed onto the room. Inside, the air was heavy and humid, and it choked the light inside, but enough of it peeked from the darkness around Seymour, giving some light to the room. There were cells that lined the walls, and inside two of them were guests that had decided to stay long, long ago. He walked to the first cell and peered inside. There was a man standing dead center, his wrists and ankles restrained by shackles. The man slowly lifted his head up to glare at Seymour, and then lowered it back down. Seymour smiled and continued walking.

He stopped at the last cell, but instead of looking inside, he kept his gaze forward. The man inside was leaning against the bars, puffing on a cigarette. He had dirty blonde hair held together in a small ponytail. He turned his cigarette up behind him and flicked the ashes at Seymour. He pulled his hand back and puffed away. Seymour drove his hand into his robe pocket and pulled a pack of cigarettes out. He tossed them into the cell and walked along.

“Enjoy,” he said as he left the room. “They’re menthol."

The man groaned.

The next room was filled with many tubes, wires, vials, and computers reading off charts and percentages, graphs filling and depleting—all for the purpose of tracking the vitals and compositions of the unconscious man covered in blood on an operating table in the middle of the lab. He had short, jet-black hair, and his wrists, ankles, and neck were fastened by a black bar. His only item of clothing he wore, like the other prisoners, was a pair of stitched-up pants. His chest and arms were covered in scars, burns, and bruises; and tubes and needles stuck into his body, pumping and extracting. Seymour went to a computer and typed away, and as he turned to the man, the man’s eyes shot open, revealing colorless eyes, and he twisted and screamed and cried. This went on for several minutes before Seymour decided he had enough and pressed some keys to make a black liquid pour into the man, rendering him still. With a curious brow raised, Seymour typed again, this time a green liquid flowed into the man. He had never mixed the two serums, yet he couldn’t help but wonder what results it would produce.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Again, the man was alive with noise and pain. The wires swayed from the force of his voice, and an odd thing occurred: the color came back to the man strapped to the table—and he fell quiet, yet the computers short-circuited, and Seymour fell to the ground with nausea. The man broke free from his restraints, and Seymour noticed his eyes. The man’s body evaporated into a cloud-like substance and shot past him into the prison.

Seymour grabbed onto a desk and pulled himself up. He shook his head and it throbbed as pain reverberated throughout him. A banshee’s wail, he thought to himself. He knew what was happening. (Could he stop it?) He darted out of the room—then stopped dead in his tracks. The two prisoners stood, freed, in the center of the room, looking at him with a smile. Seymour shot a glance at their cells, the doors had been ripped off and thrown onto the ground. The man who was bound by the shackles in his cell breathed heavily. He had red hair that danced above his yellow, angry eyes. He took a step forward but was stopped by the dirty blonde, blowing smoke out of his mouth as he spoke.

“We have to leave now, Melfice,” he said as he exhaled. “We have to go before the others arrive”

The red-haired man gritted his teeth, still breathing heavily, and hesitantly turned away. Seymour ran at them but only took two steps. A small cloud whirled around his body, preventing him from moving. The man who had broken free earlier took form from the cloud, and he wrapped his arms around Seymour.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” he said in a low, raspy voice.

The blonde man took another hit from his cigarette. “You have mere days left to live, Seymour Kauffman,” he said as he turned to walk away. “I suggest you either find your immortality, or you repent for your crimes. Whichever you choose, you better do it quickly—we’ll be back. All four of us.” Just as he was about to walk through the door after Melfice, he stopped and looked at the black-haired man holding Seymour. “Hold him as long as you can, Sebastian,” he nodded back to him. “Make your way to the balcony on the eastern tower. If the others come before you manage to get there, we’ll be forced to leave without you,” and with that, he turned back and walked through the door. After countless years spent in that one room, that small cell, they were free.

Sebastian struggled to hold onto Seymour, who twisted and turned, but to no avail. He was stuck. “Let go of me, you damned rat!” Seymour ran a little, but Sebastian wrapped his legs around him, which caused them to crash onto the ground.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps clattering through the halls was very loud, and a tall woman with flowing, purple hair emerged from the doorway. She was beautiful, with porcelain skin, wearing only bandages around her chest, and a light robe skirt. She held onto a large lance that appeared to be made from bone. Behind her, a man wearing a horrific mask and a sewn-together doctor’s coat seemed to float. Following him, walking as if being pulled by strings, was a petite, black-haired girl in a yellow robe. She had stitches on her face, and different colored eyes, and when Sebastian caught sight of her he let go of Seymour and jumped to his feet.

“Vivien…” he whispered under his breath, and in a flash, he flew across the hall. Seymour raced to him and kicked him in the gut. He collided with a wall, nearly breaking his back but he started to transform back into the mist at the last second. Seymour ran at him again, his fist filling with ice, and he raised it to Sebastian’s transforming face, exploding into a torrent of raining ice and water. But Sebastian was gone. Through winding halls and corridors, he flew past everyone and made it to the balcony where Melfice and the blonde man were.

“They are here, Edward!” from Sebastian, who returned to form.

They looked over the ledge. The ground below, while obscured by a sea of clouds, appeared to be miles away. The door behind them exploded, flying off the balcony, and the purple-haired woman stood in its place. Her body shimmered with the radiant light from the moon washing over her.

She advanced towards them, her eyes locked onto Edward, and swung her lance effortlessly, swinging it so quickly that he barely had time to react. He ducked, feeling some of his hairs being cut. She swung again, this time catching Melfice who had pushed Edward out of the way. His arm took the lance and blood poured from it. He ran his hand over the wound and pulled the blood up in the air and twisted it, making it take shape, and it hardened into the form of a spear. His wound scabbed over instantly, and he broke the spear off from it. He held it up, examining it for a brief moment, almost forgetting he was capable of such a thing, and chucked it at her. She knocked it away with her lance, but as she did Melfice was on her, with a small piece of the blood spear in his hand, and he swung at her like mad.

Using this opportunity, Edward took a puff and flicked his cigarette onto a piece of paper he had placed on the ground before Sebastian had arrived. He grabbed Sebastian’s arm and hopped onto the ledge. Sebastian eyed him nervously, wondering what he was about to do, even though he had a pretty good idea. The paper lit up and began to smoke.

“It’s been fun, Olivia,” he said, as he pushed a screaming Sebastian off. “But we have somewhere to be. We’ll have to do this another time,” and he hopped off, too.

Melfice clashed his spear against Olivia’s lance. He turned to see Edward hop off the ledge, and something on the ground caught his eye. He looked at the paper, now almost completely in flames—his eyes widened and he cursed.

“Damn you, Edward!”

In one motion, Melfice leaped onto the ledge, threw his spear into Olivia’s chest, and jumped into the sea of clouds. Olivia hunched back in pain and saw the paper herself. She grabbed the spear protruding from her chest and jerked it outright as the paper exploded—causing the entire fortress to shake, black smoke billowing out from the eastern tower, or what remained of it.