I Killed The Main Characters

Chapter 114: Second Act: Love Kills [1]

The night was heavy with shadows as the cold wind whispered through the academy grounds, bringing with it a stillness that shrouded Ravenwood's ancient towers.

In one of these towers, the demonic magic research wing, a faint flicker of light disturbed the blanket of darkness, struggling against the void.

At the top of the tower, behind the thick stone walls, only the glimmer of a candle dared to fight the night, casting weak, dancing shapes across a large, open room.

Furniture, shelves laden with books, and scattered scrolls were all shoved unceremoniously to the edges of the room.

Pages of open tomes fluttered as the breeze slipped through the half-open window, but in the center of the chamber, the true purpose of the setup lay waiting.

A large purple magic circle etched meticulously into the stone floor, glowing with an otherworldly light.

Symbols intertwined with each other in complex patterns, swirling and curving, binding together to form a heart shape at the center.

Radiating from it, fine lines extended into intricate designs that intertwined with symbols of life, death, and time, pulsating like a living entity.

Every few moments, the glow intensified, thrumming with energy, and faded back to a faint, ominous glimmer.

In the middle of this circle lay a young woman.

Her dark purple hair spilled across the stone floor, contrasting against the faint glow of the circle.

She was unconscious, her face tranquil yet with the vulnerability of someone lost in sleep.

Her attire was simple: a long white shirt that reached her knees, hugging her frame and leaving her bare thighs exposed under the thin fabric.

The moonlight from the window touched her bare skin, almost as if caressing her with a pale silver light, casting an ethereal glow on her delicate form.

Upon her chest, barely visible through the fabric, was the most striking mark—a pulsating symbol, glowing faintly and brightening in intervals, keeping pace with the magic circle's rhythm.

The mark was a heart intertwined with ancient symbols, swirls, and curves that seemed to twist and coil over one another, forming an elegant, haunting design.

The mark pulsed like a heartbeat, its glow seeping through the fabric in shades of lavender and dark red, adding an ominous beauty to her still form.

A shadowy figure stepped forward, entering the room with measured steps.

He wore a look of solemn intensity, his blonde hair illuminated as he moved into the dim candlelight.

His eyes lingered on the girl lying within the circle, a glint of something both dark and yearning flickering in their depths.

"Love," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

"Love is a strange, twisted thing. The gods seem to take pleasure in ripping it from our grasp, testing us in ways that could make lesser beings crumble."

He walked closer, his gaze never straying from the girl.

The faintest smirk played on his lips, one filled with bitterness, as he continued.

"They watch us from above, reveling in our misery, seeing us fall apart over and over again.

Love, they say, is fleeting. But to me, it is eternal.

Just like death… so absolute, so… irreversible."

He paused, breathing out a humorless laugh.

"Death," he whispered, as if addressing an old friend.

"Death is an ever-present truth—a shadow clinging to us from the moment we're born, a silent promise waiting to be fulfilled.

We wield magic, spells of power and wisdom beyond comprehension, yet no one has conquered death.

We're all at its mercy… forever bound to its embrace."

His eyes turned cold, and he clenched his fists.

"But what if… what if one could command it? What if death were not an end, but simply… a means?

I've devoted myself to that possibility for years.

Searching, experimenting, all for a glimmer of hope to see her again."

He closed his eyes, remembering the countless attempts he'd made. Each method carved into his mind, failures that haunted him relentlessly.

[1. A ritual invoking forbidden gods of the underworld.]

[2. The use of cursed relics rumored to grant necromantic power.]

[3. Spells inscribed with ancient runes, chanted under blood moons.]

[4. Binding spells to capture souls.]

[5. Sacrificial offerings meant to appease the spirits.]

[6. Summoning incantations in cemeteries, using soil from graves.]

[7. The Darkwater Alchemy, drinking a potion made from plants nourished in death.]

[8. Soulbinding charms to reach through the veil.]

[9. The Malachite Stone, known to store fragments of life essence.]

[10. Invocation of shadow familiars, entities that cross between life and death.]

And those were just the few he could recall; all in all, he had tried over six hundred and sixty-five different methods.

Each one, a mark of his desperation, and yet—each one a failure.

Jacob's expression grew darker as he remembered the price each attempt had exacted.

His talents in magic were vast, and he knew that many admired him, respected his skills.

But there was one ability he had come to despise, a skill he'd once dismissed as useless.

An ability that let him see the presence of death itself, its ominous aura lingering around every mortal, with each intensity determining the time they had left.

He called it the "Shadowbrand."

From a gentle flicker for the young and healthy to a raging inferno for the dying, the Shadowbrand had haunted his vision since that fateful day.

He had acquired the ability in a graveyard, at his love's burial, the moment he'd laid her body to rest.

Ever since, he saw black spirits drifting near the graves and an eerie glow around everyone he encountered.

Low embers meant they had many years; medium blazes hinted at a shorter time.

But no matter the intensity, the sight of it filled him with dread and despair.

At first, he had tried to ignore it, tempted by the idea of exploiting it for profit, becoming a foreteller of death.

But his pride held him back.

Then he had met her—Maya Brenthall.

The first time she'd walked into his study, seeking guidance on an advanced magic technique, he'd felt his world shake.

Her death aura was unlike any he had ever seen: it burned violently, blinding him with its darkness.

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It was as if death itself clung to her, like she was marked by the abyss.

It was more than just a Shadowbrand—it was a storm of black spirits that followed her, shrieking and wailing, echoing with cries of anguish that reverberated in his ears until blood trickled down from them.

The suffocating presence she carried had nearly dropped him to his knees.

His mana reserves drained merely by proximity, a force beyond comprehension sapping his strength.

She was an anomaly, a mortal vessel carrying something ancient and dark, an embodiment of the void.

But Maya herself seemed oblivious to the dark forces surrounding her.

Despite carrying the essence of death, she went about her days as if she bore no burden at all.

She became his assistant, working under his tutelage, unaware of the power she held. And it was then that he had realized the opportunity before him.

As he looked at her now, lying within the purple circle, he saw in her the key to achieving the one thing he desired most.

She was the vessel he needed—the perfect conduit for his lost love's spirit.

He had prepared, researched, and waited patiently for this moment, gathering forbidden knowledge to unlock this spell, one that would bind Maya's body and allow the spirit of his beloved to return.

He moved closer to the circle, watching as the light of the spell danced along Maya's unconscious form.

She looked so peaceful, as if merely asleep, her chest rising and falling in steady breaths.

The mark on her chest glowed stronger, the intricate design pulsing in time with the magical energy coursing through the room.

The heart-shaped symbol glistened, entwined with ancient, winding curves, spirals, and runes—all interconnected in a language only the dead would understand.

A tremor passed through his fingers as he reached out, his hand hovering over her form.

He swallowed, feeling the weight of his journey settle heavily upon him.

"Just a little longer," he murmured, his voice a mix of reverence and desperation.

"This is what you were born for, Maya.

To give life… to the dead."

He traced the lines of the magic circle with his fingers, feeling the rush of power crackle beneath his touch.

The candles around them flickered, and the air grew colder.

Shadows danced along the walls, twisting and contorting as if alive, responding to the energy building in the room.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

"With this spell, she will return," he whispered.

"No more empty nights, no more hollow days.

Death… I will defy you. Even if it costs me my soul."

He began chanting, his voice low and rhythmic, filling the room with words from an ancient language, each syllable dripping with magic.

The mark on Maya's chest flared brighter, and the circle beneath her began to pulsate, reacting to his words as the spell took form.

The room grew darker, the shadows encroaching further as he continued.

The spirits that trailed Maya, invisible to all but him, began to emerge in the circle, their shrieks mingling with his incantation, their twisted, ghostly forms swirling above her body like a storm.

They wove together, drawn to the mark on her chest, converging as if preparing to usher another soul from beyond the veil.

He chanted louder, his voice shaking as the power surged through him, filling every fiber of his being with purpose.

His beloved's face flashed before his eyes, her laughter, her touch, her voice—all within reach.

And in that moment, as Maya's body glowed with the vibrant power of the spell, he felt it—the faintest trace of her spirit, waiting, ready to be pulled back from the depths.

"Come back to me," he whispered, as a single tear traced down his face.