Albrecht Magnus

'When one's knowledge and memory cease to exist, that is when true death occurs.'

On the title page of the Church's 'Codex Sanctus,' the second name blessed by the Saint blazes with ethereal radiance—Albrecht Magnus, enigmatic Bell Ringer No. III, and history's first mortal soul to grasp the mysteries of alchemy.

His presence has woven itself into the very sinews of time. When scholars fold yellowed parchment, when smiths forge molten steel, when soldiers hone their blades—in countless unconscious moments, the embers of his legacy smolder in silence. Humanity calls this presence the 'Gift of Magnus,' speaking of it as naturally as wind through leaves or seeds sleeping in fertile earth.

In the light cast through the skylight of an alchemist's workshop, one can still faintly make out the presence of this Bell Ringer, bent over his sacred work, wielding civilization as his compass. What seethes within his crucible is neither mercury nor sulfur, but something far more profound—pure thought.

'From where does this world rise, and to where are we headed?'

I feel life hemorrhaging from my flesh, and thought crystallizing within my skull.

This body feels like a god-given cage for my disobedience—lungs that cannot draw breath, legs that cannot bear weight, a tongue that cannot form words... Like some primordial curse, this torment devours my soul with each passing day. They speak of an unknown 'disease,' seared into my marrow from my very first breath.

My future stretches before me like a funeral shroud, yet I know that within death's maw, I can still seize that 'answer' which will grant me deliverance.

My hunger for life compels me to drag this shattered frame forward, endlessly seeking herbs that might break my curse. My defiance of death forces these weary eyes to remain vigilant, endlessly battling the poison that seeps through my consciousness.

They all believe this dying child has surrendered his sanity to madness. But I can no longer spare thought for their stares and whispers—this disease wages war against the soul that is rightfully mine.

I feel the exquisite agony of ripped sinew, I taste the invisible hands, suffocating my throat... The hourglass empties. Time bleeds.

But yield I will not.

It rained.

This was the first torrential downpour I had witnessed since my earliest memories. Clutching my disease-ridden shell, I sheltered inside the cave, watching the relentless deluge scour the earth clean. A bitter resentment gnawed at me—my life ebbed away with each passing moment, yet here I cowered, hiding from nature's fury.

When the tempest finally abated and I emerged unto the rain-soaked earth, a verdant flash stopped my heart: the tree trunk that should have withered to rot had somehow birthed fresh buds from its dying flesh...

—Resurrection. The answer I had sought lay hidden within that very storm. Or perhaps... within each seemingly insignificant droplet that fell from the weeping sky.

I heard the water breathing—a resonance more profound than life itself. They enveloped me from all quarters, mingling with the crimson tide in my veins, drawing me toward an unfathomable depth.

I witnessed water's true form—configurations with weight greater than whole worlds. They crystallized before my eyes, filling the hollow spaces within my flesh, guiding me toward a distant place.

As if stirring from some fevered dream, I found myself standing once more in that chamber lined with bottles and phials, the air thick with unspeakable fragrances—the place that was once my sanctuary, and now my laboratory of metamorphosis:

Let the experiments begin...