The god Apollo asked the Sibyl, a priestess of Cumae.
“Priest, I, Apollo, will grant you one wish. What do you wish for?”
“Please give me as much life as the dust I have grasped. I want to live infinitely. It is my wish to attain the eternal life, the immortal life that everyone desires.”
“I will gladly grant that wish.”
“Sybil, how did you end up so old and shrunken, trapped in a tiny glass bottle? Are you content to continue living like that? Tell me what you want.”
“I wish to die. I was foolish. This is the result of wanting only eternal life without eternal youth! Over the course of thousands of years, my body has aged and deteriorated until it has become like this. So I wish to die like this. I earnestly desire to find peace through death.”
His achievements, which had been like a dramatic reversal, flashed before his eyes. The journey he had taken up to this point was drifting aimlessly in his hazy memories. Duke John Fitzroy Blackwell sat on the third-floor terrace, enjoying a snuff, and sighed softly.
The sea-like sky above his head, and the sky-like sea beyond the window, stung his wrinkled eyes. The old man seemed to be enjoying the climate unique to the South Atlantic with a relaxed expression.
But the blue mist-like eyes were not necessarily like that. In the eyes that were disguised as elegance and gentleness, there was a bottomless ambition and desire. The ugliest and most intimate thing in humans was like a small spark that would never go out.
John looked away from the window and swung his chair around. Under his dark eyebrows, his even darker blue eyes looked into the living room. The clamshell door connected the terrace where he was sitting and the living room, which was wide open. Inside the living room, the nanny was gently rocking her grandchildren’s cradle and humming a lullaby.
“Baby.”
He called them from afar. It was a whisper as soft as a mosquito's buzz, so the nanny couldn't hear it.
“I am now fully alive.”
It was a voice with a hint of a sigh, like a cheek sunken with age.
“Wealth and power that would be the envy of a King of a country. I have it all... The day when I have to put it all down and leave is not far off. I have everything.”
His wrinkled eyes turned back to the window, to the natural beauty beyond. The island, surrounded by beech forests, fertile soil, and a blue sea with crashing waves, was his. With less than two hundred family members and workers, this was Lord Blackwell's private estate.
The vast fortunes he had amassed before, during, and after the war, in the colonies of the Old and New Worlds, in mining, in the arms industry, etc., made anything possible. He had the power to veil anything behind a veil if he wanted to.
John Fitzroy Blackwell was a natural money tycoon. Any business involving astronomical sums of money, especially illegal ones, was a golden opportunity.
“I have everything.”
John's lips moved again. It was like the music of a music box that was repeating itself over and over again. He felt his death coming soon. It's not like he has no regrets even though he has lived long enough.
“There is no such thing as eternal life. Haha... This is so heartbreaking. No matter how much you have, in the end, you are all equal in the face of death. Is that it? Am I just a weak human being in front of the providence of Mother Nature?”
Something welled up in the old man's chest. No matter how much he understood it with his head, his instincts still wanted to go against the laws of nature.
“Baby.”
He turned back to his grandchildren. A pair of lives born to his son Edward were sleeping soundly without a sound. The nanny was patting the cradle.
“I guess it’s unfair if things continue like this. Isn’t that right? That’s why... I’ve made up my mind.”
The dark eyebrows that had turned white twitched and moved.
“I am trying to defy God.”
The once blue sky began to gradually become cloudy. The South Atlantic gulls were busy running away from the approaching dark clouds, whooshing and hooting. In the distance, the ominous sounds of thunderstorms were spreading throughout the island.
“It’s too late for this grandpa, unfortunately. Even so... my descendants with my blood flowing through them... I will try to do it for you and for the continuation of this family.”
He grabbed his cane and stood up from the terrace chair. His steps toward the basement were heavy as he dragged his body, which was becoming increasingly difficult to move. The mansion, built like a fortress castle, had dozens of secret passages. Among them, the Duke walked toward a place he had not entered for a long time.
The ground, where not a single ray of light entered, was as cold as midwinter. Yet, with each step, sweat beaded on Lord Blackwell’s forehead. He had never been nervous before Trieste, Wintergar, Vicentine, the King of the Highlands, or even the infamous pirates of Azerbaijan. It had been decades since he had lived without even knowing what fear was.
Now, leaving behind those glorious and evil times, John Fitzroy Blackwell gave himself over to the thrill of fear. Step by step, he approached the taboo of the world. And at last, the long-sealed door creaked open, screaming in purgatory.
Edward, and his descendants, he will make an eternal kingdom with these hands.
18 years later.
The lush beech trees formed a natural hedge, and the purple liatris, in harmony with the flowers of the Atlantic climate, formed a natural garden. The Garden of the Gods—that was what everyone called it. Angie pushed up the visor of her white-ribboned hat a little. As the sunlight gradually became softer, it seemed that autumn was finally coming to an end.
The Duke's mansion, also known as 'Blackwell Heights', on top of Blackwell Hill, was very large and spacious. Even after passing through the magnificent gate, it was still a long way to the main house. But it was not boring.
As the nickname of the Garden of the Gods suggests, as she gazed at the plants and flowers sparkling under the sunlight, she soon found herself in the depths of a beech forest. A huge Gothic mansion was looking down on her.
“Whew... They’re all here.”
Angie looked down at her body. Her clothes were intact, except for a slight breeze. They were just as neat as they had been when she left the house.
Angie walked across the mosaic floor to the grand entrance, where she stood. She lifted the heavy doorknob and knocked twice with great difficulty. Her braided hair swayed lively in the breeze.
The door creaked open. A woman with a face as hard as the door greeted Angie. She introduced herself as Butler Louise Dunst, her face devoid of a smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Dunst. My name is Angie Ridsdell.”
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you. The young master is waiting.”
Mrs. Dunst took the lead and walked up the stairs to the third floor. It was the first time she had been in the Blackwell family's main house. The interior was as awe-inspiring in its scale and grandeur as she had heard. There was an unforced dignity in every nook and cranny, and an air of quaint and elegant funeral piety.
The two of them had to pass through the salon, which was decorated with flowers and exotic crafts before they reached the landing. The red carpet that stretched up to the top of the stairs was woven with an elaborate pattern that looked like a painting or an exotic hieroglyph. It was so thick and soft that it absorbed all the sound of footsteps, so much so that even Angie herself could not hear the sound of her footsteps as she climbed the stairs.
When she reached the second floor, she tilted her head back and looked up at the chandelier hanging so high up on the ceiling that it extended to the third floor. She wondered what kind of mysterious light it would cast at night. Mrs. Dunst continued on without stopping for a moment.
Angie came to her senses and followed her. The two finally stepped onto the first staircase leading to the third floor. At that moment, Angie stopped walking again. Luxurious portraits were hanging on the walls.
The faces in each frame were slightly different, yet they were all alike. They were clearly members of the Blackwell family, or more precisely, direct descendants of the late John Fitzroy Blackwell, the young master's grandfather.
Next to John Fitzroy Blackwell, there was a portrait of his eldest son, Henry David Blackwell, who was said to have died of illness seventeen years ago, and a portrait of a young man, probably Edward Liam Blackwell, who was also recuperating in the mansion due to illness. There were also several other paintings of gentlemen, ladies, and young women. And halfway up the stairs, there was a very cute little boy.
You are my lord.
Angie knew instinctively. The child in the portrait had curly black hair and crystal-blue eyes. He was in his mid-teens now, so the painting must have been old. He had a lovely, doll-like face. But there was something strange about it. There was an eerieness that was not childish.
“Priest, I, Apollo, will grant you one wish. What do you wish for?”
“Please give me as much life as the dust I have grasped. I want to live infinitely. It is my wish to attain the eternal life, the immortal life that everyone desires.”
“I will gladly grant that wish.”
“Sybil, how did you end up so old and shrunken, trapped in a tiny glass bottle? Are you content to continue living like that? Tell me what you want.”
“I wish to die. I was foolish. This is the result of wanting only eternal life without eternal youth! Over the course of thousands of years, my body has aged and deteriorated until it has become like this. So I wish to die like this. I earnestly desire to find peace through death.”
His achievements, which had been like a dramatic reversal, flashed before his eyes. The journey he had taken up to this point was drifting aimlessly in his hazy memories. Duke John Fitzroy Blackwell sat on the third-floor terrace, enjoying a snuff, and sighed softly.
The sea-like sky above his head, and the sky-like sea beyond the window, stung his wrinkled eyes. The old man seemed to be enjoying the climate unique to the South Atlantic with a relaxed expression.
But the blue mist-like eyes were not necessarily like that. In the eyes that were disguised as elegance and gentleness, there was a bottomless ambition and desire. The ugliest and most intimate thing in humans was like a small spark that would never go out.
John looked away from the window and swung his chair around. Under his dark eyebrows, his even darker blue eyes looked into the living room. The clamshell door connected the terrace where he was sitting and the living room, which was wide open. Inside the living room, the nanny was gently rocking her grandchildren’s cradle and humming a lullaby.
“Baby.”
He called them from afar. It was a whisper as soft as a mosquito's buzz, so the nanny couldn't hear it.
“I am now fully alive.”
It was a voice with a hint of a sigh, like a cheek sunken with age.
“Wealth and power that would be the envy of a King of a country. I have it all... The day when I have to put it all down and leave is not far off. I have everything.”
His wrinkled eyes turned back to the window, to the natural beauty beyond. The island, surrounded by beech forests, fertile soil, and a blue sea with crashing waves, was his. With less than two hundred family members and workers, this was Lord Blackwell's private estate.
The vast fortunes he had amassed before, during, and after the war, in the colonies of the Old and New Worlds, in mining, in the arms industry, etc., made anything possible. He had the power to veil anything behind a veil if he wanted to.
John Fitzroy Blackwell was a natural money tycoon. Any business involving astronomical sums of money, especially illegal ones, was a golden opportunity.
“I have everything.”
John's lips moved again. It was like the music of a music box that was repeating itself over and over again. He felt his death coming soon. It's not like he has no regrets even though he has lived long enough.
“There is no such thing as eternal life. Haha... This is so heartbreaking. No matter how much you have, in the end, you are all equal in the face of death. Is that it? Am I just a weak human being in front of the providence of Mother Nature?”
Something welled up in the old man's chest. No matter how much he understood it with his head, his instincts still wanted to go against the laws of nature.
“Baby.”
He turned back to his grandchildren. A pair of lives born to his son Edward were sleeping soundly without a sound. The nanny was patting the cradle.
“I guess it’s unfair if things continue like this. Isn’t that right? That’s why... I’ve made up my mind.”
The dark eyebrows that had turned white twitched and moved.
“I am trying to defy God.”
The once blue sky began to gradually become cloudy. The South Atlantic gulls were busy running away from the approaching dark clouds, whooshing and hooting. In the distance, the ominous sounds of thunderstorms were spreading throughout the island.
“It’s too late for this grandpa, unfortunately. Even so... my descendants with my blood flowing through them... I will try to do it for you and for the continuation of this family.”
He grabbed his cane and stood up from the terrace chair. His steps toward the basement were heavy as he dragged his body, which was becoming increasingly difficult to move. The mansion, built like a fortress castle, had dozens of secret passages. Among them, the Duke walked toward a place he had not entered for a long time.
The ground, where not a single ray of light entered, was as cold as midwinter. Yet, with each step, sweat beaded on Lord Blackwell’s forehead. He had never been nervous before Trieste, Wintergar, Vicentine, the King of the Highlands, or even the infamous pirates of Azerbaijan. It had been decades since he had lived without even knowing what fear was.
Now, leaving behind those glorious and evil times, John Fitzroy Blackwell gave himself over to the thrill of fear. Step by step, he approached the taboo of the world. And at last, the long-sealed door creaked open, screaming in purgatory.
Edward, and his descendants, he will make an eternal kingdom with these hands.
***
18 years later.
The lush beech trees formed a natural hedge, and the purple liatris, in harmony with the flowers of the Atlantic climate, formed a natural garden. The Garden of the Gods—that was what everyone called it. Angie pushed up the visor of her white-ribboned hat a little. As the sunlight gradually became softer, it seemed that autumn was finally coming to an end.
The Duke's mansion, also known as 'Blackwell Heights', on top of Blackwell Hill, was very large and spacious. Even after passing through the magnificent gate, it was still a long way to the main house. But it was not boring.
As the nickname of the Garden of the Gods suggests, as she gazed at the plants and flowers sparkling under the sunlight, she soon found herself in the depths of a beech forest. A huge Gothic mansion was looking down on her.
“Whew... They’re all here.”
Angie looked down at her body. Her clothes were intact, except for a slight breeze. They were just as neat as they had been when she left the house.
Angie walked across the mosaic floor to the grand entrance, where she stood. She lifted the heavy doorknob and knocked twice with great difficulty. Her braided hair swayed lively in the breeze.
The door creaked open. A woman with a face as hard as the door greeted Angie. She introduced herself as Butler Louise Dunst, her face devoid of a smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Dunst. My name is Angie Ridsdell.”
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you. The young master is waiting.”
Mrs. Dunst took the lead and walked up the stairs to the third floor. It was the first time she had been in the Blackwell family's main house. The interior was as awe-inspiring in its scale and grandeur as she had heard. There was an unforced dignity in every nook and cranny, and an air of quaint and elegant funeral piety.
The two of them had to pass through the salon, which was decorated with flowers and exotic crafts before they reached the landing. The red carpet that stretched up to the top of the stairs was woven with an elaborate pattern that looked like a painting or an exotic hieroglyph. It was so thick and soft that it absorbed all the sound of footsteps, so much so that even Angie herself could not hear the sound of her footsteps as she climbed the stairs.
When she reached the second floor, she tilted her head back and looked up at the chandelier hanging so high up on the ceiling that it extended to the third floor. She wondered what kind of mysterious light it would cast at night. Mrs. Dunst continued on without stopping for a moment.
Angie came to her senses and followed her. The two finally stepped onto the first staircase leading to the third floor. At that moment, Angie stopped walking again. Luxurious portraits were hanging on the walls.
The faces in each frame were slightly different, yet they were all alike. They were clearly members of the Blackwell family, or more precisely, direct descendants of the late John Fitzroy Blackwell, the young master's grandfather.
Next to John Fitzroy Blackwell, there was a portrait of his eldest son, Henry David Blackwell, who was said to have died of illness seventeen years ago, and a portrait of a young man, probably Edward Liam Blackwell, who was also recuperating in the mansion due to illness. There were also several other paintings of gentlemen, ladies, and young women. And halfway up the stairs, there was a very cute little boy.
You are my lord.
Angie knew instinctively. The child in the portrait had curly black hair and crystal-blue eyes. He was in his mid-teens now, so the painting must have been old. He had a lovely, doll-like face. But there was something strange about it. There was an eerieness that was not childish.
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