Agares Brennholt

'We witness the blaze of life burning bright, until time turns it all to ashes.'

All eyes are drawn to the crimson flame in his right hand— A symbol of his title as the Second Bell Ringer, an honor bestowed by the Saint herself after he emerged from behind Carrelle's towering walls as chancellor. Under his command, the Inquisition rains divine punishment upon heretics and nonbelievers without end. This facade sows the seeds of fear and reverence, blinding all to the azure flame in his left hand— The power inherited from Black Blood when he was reborn from the Heart of the Divine Body as 'War' of the Apocalypse. The ghosts he awakens prepare tirelessly for their final campaign against the Church.

He craves war—an instinct woven into his bloodline. The crimson flame, once a symbol of order, has become his tool to dismantle the old world. Yet he despises this war—an emotion born of his own will. The azure flame, once a mark of chaos, has become his means to forge a new order.

'Lord Agares, is there no other way to forge a new order?' 'Perhaps there is. But if peace is what we seek, war remains the swiftest path.'

I saw flames without end, and blood flowing like rivers.

It was the scene of war—thousands trampling over the corpses of the fallen, their clashing blades painting the final strokes of life's canvas. It was the sound of war—wails rising with the piercing, torn cries of battle horns, flesh meeting flesh in humanity's last hymn.

And when all had fallen silent, I was slowly drawn toward the battlefield. There, beneath the mangled dead, a pair of white, unstained arms reached out from below, followed by the soft, broken sobs of a child. 'A...baby? How could one end up in a place like this?' 'Well, perhaps the war forged a legend.'

The next time I saw Agares was inside the cage of the Carrelle family's slave estate.

Though treated by the nobles as nothing more than a pawn in the arena, he had not lost himself like the other slaves. Instead, bathed in moonlight filtering through the iron bars, he turned the pages of a poetry book with his scarred hands.

'This poem says peace is as pure as a dove.' A soft female voice whispered beside him. Agares replied lazily, 'My peace is as small as this cage.'

As the girl spoke again, my vision began to blur slightly. 'Then take up a sharper sword, carve out enough space, and let the dove fly free!' 'I might not even live long enough to grasp a sword...' 'Agares!' The girl's youthful voice suddenly turned serious. 'Promise me... you must survive. Stay alive, with me!'

I was clutched in his burning palm as flames crept up his wrist. Such a familiar sensation—just like that winter when the Carrelle family's princess secretly brought ointment to soothe his whip wounds. Only this time, there were no cool fingers to ease the scorching heat.

The Brennholt title was not just a reward—it was also a tool to maintain the heartbeat of the Divine Body and suppress the Apocalypse 'War.' When Agares won his arena battle and received this surname, he was destined to become a sacrifice for the Divine Body.

As the flames tore through his flesh, I seemed to glimpse their true nature: it wasn't the heat of the Divine Body I felt, but the burning of countless vows to survive. Within each vow, a different face flickered—his, the princess's, and the countless Brennholts, long since turned to bleached bones.

Suddenly, the crackling of his charred skin jolted me from my thoughts. Only then did I realize—I was still in his grip. 'Some promises... not even fire can burn away.'

'Would you like to hear the story of Agares Brennholt, the usurper chancellor of the Carrelle family?'

'Reborn in flames, he led the once-enslaved to overthrow the Carrelle family and forge a new order upon their ancestral lands.'

'He loves war—for it shatters decaying shackles, letting a new world rise from the ruins. He hates war—for it scorches the soil of peace, drowning freedom in the blood of innocents.'

She reached out to remove me, and at last I saw her face behind the mask: 'He is both the Apocalypse embodying 'War' and the Church's Bell Ringer. But someone like him... would he still remember the promise he once made?'