[LORE] The Orcus Mutation

In the Name of Magic

[ I wanted to add a lore reason how these two are able to access and manipulate the nightmare plane. I also made this to show the possibility of other students possibly trying to access the nightmare plane too but failing, ultimately making Modesto and Melchiorre the only suitable candidates. Whether or not you believe the nightmare plane is the key to the next Regulus Trigger is up to you. ]

[ THIS IS A REUPLOAD FROM MY MAIN ACCOUNT ]

[ CHARACTERS INVOLVED: Modesto Samsa & Miasma, and Melchiorre Aurelius ]

In the deepest alcove of one of the restricted libraries in the Accademia di Ombre Insonni, two figures and a certain monster sat surrounded by towers of forbidden grimoires and scattered parchments. Candlelight flickered as shadows shrouded the cobweb-covered aisles of books.

Between them, the ancient texts lay open like wounds upon the oak table, their pages yellowed with age and darkened with secrets that had cost more than ink to inscribe. Miasma hovered in the shadows behind Modesto, its blood-red tendrils undulating lazily in the candlelight, occasionally reaching toward the books with curious, clawed appendages before retreating at some unspoken command.

"F̴̪̓E̴̘̊E̵͙̋D̵̤̓ ̶̨͠M̵̬̃E̴̢̎,̷̹͂ ̵̮̿N̸̬̊O̴̰̕Ẁ̶͙!̴̟̈!!!" Miasma’s voice scraped against reality like claws on glass, but both students had long since learned to ignore the creature's outbursts. Miasma's form shriveled slightly in disappointment.

"The connection runs deeper than we thought," Melchiorre said quietly, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames as he traced a claw along a particularly damning passage. "It's not just proximity to the nightmare plane. It's biological." His voice carried the weight of weeks of sleepless research, of connecting threads that perhaps should have remained forever severed.

Modesto's amber gaze sharpened with interest, his patchy green fur seeming to bristle with anticipation. The stapled portion of his tail twitched independently, a sure sign of his excitement. "Go on," he urged, leaning forward despite the protest of joints that had known rigor mortis more closely than any living creature should.

"I've been calling it the Orcus Mutation. Named after the old death god in Roman mythology, naturally. It's not merely about accessing the nightmare plane," Melchiorre continued, his ears flattening slightly as he spoke words that tasted of ash. "It's a soul-deep alteration that allows consciousness to perceive the nightmare plane's frequencies. But perception isn't interaction." He tapped a claw against his notes. "That requires will. Intent. The mutation simply opens the door." He paused, attempting to find the right words to say. "One cannot simply be born with it. The mutation only manifests when the soul is... stretched. Torn. Forced into contact with the plane itself."

The realization hung between them like a blade suspended by spider's silk.

"The life extension ritual," Modesto whispered, his clinical voice softening with understanding. "When we performed it together, when my body was failing from the containment accident..."

"You died that afternoon," Melchiorre's voice was barely audible, carrying a burden of guilt that had gnawed at him for months. "For seventeen minutes, your heart was still, your soul began its journey from this realm. And I..." He closed his eyes, remembering the desperate moment when he looked for any spell to undo the damage, yet it was through Modesto's own accord that allowed him to come back to life. "You pulled yourself back through pathways that should remain sealed."

Miasma stirred at the memory, its form becoming more agitated, tendrils writhing as if it too recalled that moment of cosmic violation. "F̴̥́Ę̵̌A̷̹͋Ŕ̸̘!" it hissed, though whether it spoke of that night or this revelation, neither could say.

"But don’t you see?" Modesto’s excitement was palpable now, his scientific mind racing ahead to implications that made Melchiorre's blood run cold. "This changes everything. We both possess the Orcus Mutation—you've confirmed it. And if the pattern holds true, if this is really the key to understanding the ability to access the nightmare plane..." He gestured to the scattered research around them. "We could replicate it. We could create others like us. The second Regulus Trigger isn’t some distant prophecy, it's within our grasp!"

"No." The word fell from Melchiorre's lips like a stone into still water, creating ripples of tension that spread through the alcove. "Modesto, you can't be serious. The cost—"

"The cost is acceptable," Modesto interrupted, his eyes gleaming with a fervor that seemed almost feverish. "Think of what we could accomplish! The barriers between planes dissolved, magic itself rewritten once again. We would be the architects of a new age!"

Melchiorre rose from his chair, his movements careful despite the emotion roiling beneath his stoic exterior. "I refuse to be involved in mass murder disguised as scientific advancement. These texts, this research, it ends here."

For a moment, the only sound was the gentle crackling of candle flames and the distant whisper of wind through the library's enchanted corridors. Then Modesto's expression hardened, and he spoke a single word in a language that predated the first Regulus Trigger.

Miasma responded instantly. Spectral chains erupted from the shadows, not of iron or steel, but of pure nightmare essence, chains that existed in the space between reality and dream. They wrapped around Melchiorre's limbs with the sound of breaking glass and dying screams, holding him fast to his chair with strength that belonged to no earthly realm.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Modesto said, and there was genuine regret in his voice even as his scientific curiosity burned bright. "But this discovery is too important to let sentiment cloud our judgment. The Academy will listen to reason once they see the proof."

Melchiorre tugged at the chains, finding them as immovable as mountain stone, then settled back with the resigned patience of one who had faced death more times than any soul should bear. "...One hundred and forty-four," he said quietly.

"What?"

"One hundred and forty-four times, Modesto. That’s how many times I’ve died since that night when I gained my mutation." Melchiorre's voice carried a weariness that seemed to age him years in mere moments. "Each revival, each desperate attempt to save another student from their own magical ambitions. Each time, I journey to the threshold of death and beyond, bargaining with forces that demand ever-steeper prices."

The chains around him seemed to flicker as Miasma registered some emotion in its incomprehensible consciousness.

"The ley lines sustain me, yes, explaining why I'm more 'alive' than 'undead'," Melchiorre continued, his eyes meeting Modesto's with unflinching honesty. "They grant me the strength to return when my soul has been scattered across dimensions, when the nightmare plane has claimed pieces of my essence as payment. But luck? No, my friend. Not in the slightest. What I possess isn't luck; it is curse dressed in the garments of blessing."

He leaned forward as far as Miasma's chained grasp would allow. "You speak of creating others like us, but you've experienced death only once. I have walked that path one hundred and forty-four times, and I tell you truly, each journey leaves scars that never heal. The students you would 'elevate' to our condition... how many do you think possess souls strong enough to endure even a fraction of that burden?”

Modesto’s tail had stopped twitching, and for the first time since his resurrection, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. The scientific fervor that had driven him cooled, replaced by something that might have been doubt.

"The Regulus Trigger you seek," Melchiorre said softly, "won't usher in an age of wonder. It'll birth an age of monsters, of broken souls screaming across the void between life and death. And you and I... we'll be remembered not as pioneers, but as the architects of a catastrophe that makes the darkest chapters of magical history seem like children's tales."

The alcove fell silent save for the labored breathing of both young mages and the ambient whispers of Miasma's otherworldly presence. Modesto sat motionless for long moments, his analytical mind weighing revelation against ambition, friendship against the relentless hunger for knowledge that had driven him even beyond death.

Finally, he spoke another word in that ancient tongue, and the nightmarish chains dissolved like smoke, leaving only the faintest trace of sulfur.

"Perhaps," Modesto said at last, his voice carrying the weight of reluctant wisdom, “some knowledge is meant to die with those who discover it."

And in the darkness beyond the candlelight, Miasma settled back into its watching silence behind Modesto, its many teeth gleaming with what might have been approval, or disappointment. In the end, even nightmares, it seemed, could learn the value of restraint.

Yet, hidden between towering shelves and shadows, the faintest scrape of footsteps against the stone floor hinted at a clandestine listener, one who had crept too close to truths better left buried.