Chapter Text
THE PRE LATENCY STAGE.
Half an hour passed.
And…
“You Wretched - [BLEH -] dog. If your multiple Divine Protections are unable to track even a single - [COUGH] - rabble, what use are they at all?”
Priscilla Barielle continued to sit on the throne.
Reinhard was kneeling before the Queen of the kingdom.
“Your Majesty, I-“
“Shut it. Dog. And Aldebaran, Bring me more wine.”
Aldebaran walked to Priscilla, wine in hand. He had drunk a bit too. When Priscilla found this, she beat him over the head with a metal pole.
Priscilla sat with her hand to her forehead.
A piercing headache.
The headache felt so…
Unnatural. So overwhelming. So foreboding.
So unimaginably wrong. As if God's Blindspot had suddenly changed from it’s position in the euphrates to inside of her brain.
But overall, Things were relatively normal.
…Normal.
“Very well. Continue your search for the Archbishop. If you find him, do not hesitate to kill.”
“As you wish, your majesty.”
Reinhard departs with haste.
The room was once again silent.
“Al, something the Archbishop said caused you to…”
[*COUGH… Cough*]
“…Perk up… Explain it to me at once.”
[*COUGH*] [*WRETCHING*]
Priscilla had a premonition. A premonition of dread. Something about herself was off. Something about the entire situation was off. She was coughing. She felt sick. She felt sick sick sick sick. Something. Something. Something felt so uncomfortable.
Her skin felt sunburned. It was reddening at a rate of change that was visible to the naked.
And now visualize this. When one sits atop their arm and constricts the blood flow, then touches or pinches the arm; that type of feeling could be felt by Priscilla across her entire body, more in the front than the back.
Aldebaran had dead eyes. Devoid of emotion. Devoid of hope. Within the last hour, he had gone through every possibility.
He scoured his brain, all the knowledge taught by echidna, all the knowledge remembered from earth…
Healing magic?
No. Healing magic worked to accelerate the natural healing process… but when the body forgets it is a body, forgetting the process of healing; Healing magic will only accelerate the growth of tumors.
Soul Transcription?
Priscilla has no offspring.
Dragon Blood?
Dragon blood Can not bring one back from the dead. It can’t. It can’t. It can’t it it it it…
That…
Sacrament of the Immortal King?
Essentially just a cospe puppeting manual.
The more Al searched his memory banks, the more hopeless the situation got. He scoured his memories; times with echidna… Every Technique and magic…
It was hopeless.
Aldebaran knew this. He knew that he didn’t have enough time left to find a solution. His authority could do nothing. He knew he had only a few weeks before he would be bedridden.
He also knew something else.
“…The Archbishop referenced something from my old world.”
Priscilla’s eyes perked up at this.
So the wretched Pride is from the same place as Al? How interesting. She thought.
“Something Dangerous. Unimaginably dangerous.”
[*WRETCHING*]
His eyes seemed dead as he said this. Dead they were.
“…”
“…Explain.”
[BÆHH-*COUGH*]
Aldebaran looked on with a disturbed expression.
The effects were beginning.
“When i asked what the mineral was called. He named a metal from our old world by the name of Uranium.”
“Yur ayen ee um?”
“Yes…”
Aldebaran seemed hesitant about the subject.
“Uranium… is… it’s a type of metal. It’s more or less as the Archbishop described… Warm to the touch, usually found in colder regions…”
“…And”
[*COUGH*]
…very deadly.”
“…”
“…”
“…Elaborate.”
“Back in my old world. There was a city by the name of Hiroshima, in a country called Japan. Judging by the Archbishop’s Phenotype, he was also Japanese. Now, this country of Japan was at war, and was on the brink of capitulation…
[*ÆCOUGH*]
“…The country they were at war with, My country, had two choices, either to fight a grueling campaign in the enemy’s homeland, losing millions…
“Or they could use uranium.”
“Use uranium?” Priscilla Queried.
“A bomb. A bomb containing the exact same thing the Archbishop held in his hand was dropped onto the city of Hiroshima. I believe it had a population nearly equivalent to the Royal Capitol…”
“A population Equivalent to the Capitol? So your country -Ah mare ih cah, if I remember right- was trying to stike their capitol?”
“Nope. The Capitol of Japan had already been pretty much flattened in a manner similar to the recent fire at our own Capitol. Rather the Americans bombed a provincial city, trying to scare the enemy government into submission.”
“A provincial City with a population in the hundreds of thousands? Preposterous!
“The population of Japan was around 70 million? Back then… America was around 100 million…”
“Preposterous numbers you throw out, everybody knows a population above 40 million would starve in famine.”
Al sighs. He’s getting away from the subject at hand.
“Well, Hiroshima was hit. 100,000ish people were vaporized in an instant.”
“…”
“…Excuse me?”
Al looks on neutrally.
“Are you telling me that the ball of metal held within the Archbishop’s hand could do the same?”
“It already did.”
“...”
“...”
“...”
“...Excuse Me?”
Priscilla’s face contorts as a grim realization
She bangs her fist on the armrests of the Throne.
Something is wrong.
She takes a double-take of the armrest. Something isn’t right.
When Priscilla banged her fist against the armrest, a thin layer of skin, appearing in the form of flakes, was deposited.
She looked at the skin. Her skin.
Her own, Divine Skin.
Rotten and flaked upon a mahogany armrest.
It looked like the thin parts of a chicken’s skin. Like transparent leather with half the thickness of paper.
“Al, is there any way to stop such an affliction?”
At this, his face contorts. A depiction of dread upon it. He knows he is cooked. Figuratively and Absolutely Literally. Too literally.
The Knight of no Chromosomes looks on upon the Lady devoid of Deoxyribose.
There is nothing he can do. He knows it. He has just a few weeks to cure the incurable. He knows the extent of Lugunica’s lack of knowledge pertaining to medicine and the body.
“No.”
\\\
A week had passed.
At her bedside, Priscilla reminisced over the events of the week.
The first three days were absolutely miserable.
Throwing up, over and over and over again.
Her eyes had gone bloodshot.
In the royal laterined, diarrhea and vomit.
Vomit. Vomit. Vomit.
Sweat. She sweat. She sweat and she vomited.
Over and over and over and over and over and,
Over and over and over and over and over and,
Over and over and over and over and over and,
The contents of her stomach, lurched into buckets and bags.
Blood.
She began to nosebleed. Constantly.
She remembered that The air tasted and smelled like metal in the throne room for a couple of minutes after the Archbishop had left.
But now.
She couldn’t smell a thing. Nothing. No perfumes or rich fragrances. No flowers or myrrh.
Al, Al was catatonic.
He had begun to drink. Oh god did he drink. Krombachers and Lagers, hard ales and wine, anything went down.
He was also suffering the same symptoms. Sickness, nausea…
But there also another sickness afflicting the poor old man.
A sickness called Dispair.
Priscilla was briefly bedridden as the week continued.
There was no pain. Just intense discomfort. And nausea.
A Goddess like me, suffering like a ragged dog. What has this world come to.
On the 7th day she awoke to find herself completely and utterly bald. In her sleep, her hair had fallen from it’s pores to the bedsheets.
She screamed in horror at the sight of it.
It fell. It fell.
She didn’t go out in public anymore.
On the seventh day, she finally acquiesced her pride and asked for the doctors.
The greatest healers, medicine-men, and wise men were baffled by her condition.
No previous precedents. No previous cases.
Her case was an abnormality among abnormalities. The doctors tried healing magic, but the healing magic seemed to have absolutely no effect. It was as if one were to try to heal a plank to living order.
The Healing magic didn’t even recognize her body as possibly needing to be healed.
One day, Priscilla tried something.
She cut a very thin sliver of her skin onto a plate.
And unsheathed the Life-Sword. A sword capable of destroying the living.
She brought the tip of the sword to the sliver of flesh and.
It remained
It remained
It was not consumed
It was still there
No.
This wasn’t right.
She tried again.
She tried something stupid.
She took the tip of the life sword and plunged it into the pinky of her own connected hand.
Nothing happened.
She again stabbed it into her own arm. Again.
Again.
Again.
The sword was inert.
She slashed at a houseplant in her rage.
The houseplant was consumed by the life sword, this was what was supposed to happen.
Priscilla had also begun to drink.
But when she drunk, she could no longer taste the wine upon her tongue.
And, there was something else.
Her eyes had been tainted.
When she looked at the blue flash of light, a blob/floater was scarred onto her field of vision.
The floater was like that of an old tv’s static tuned to a dead station.
Her ears rung. Her ears rung more and more.
Ringing, no smell, no taste, scarred vision, impeded sense of touch.
The five senses forever tainted.
Lugunica was quiet.
Very quiet.
There were no more attacks.
No more bombings, nothing of the sort.
A few revolutionary organizations in the north began to quietly coalesce, but other than that, it was silent.
The news was stale. The economy was flatlined, neither worsening nor improving.
It was quiet. Radio silence from the palace.
Complete secrecy has been ordered by Priscilla. Complete.
\\\ WEEK TWO…
A MIRACULOUS FULL RECOVERY
The world truly did turn In her favor.
On the second week. Priscilla made a miraculous full recovery to health.
No more ringing of the ears.
No more tainted vision.
Her sense of taste and smell returned.
She could feel fully. Her sense of touch returned.
The nausea was done. Gone. No more diarrhea, no more vomit.
Her skin ceased to crack and returned to full health.
It all happened so quickly, the recovery.
Priscilla was truly the luckiest in Lugunica.
Finally.
The ordeal was truly over.
End of fanfic.
Her skin was beginning to peel.
Why?
Didn’t the world turn in her favor?
“Aldebaran, Why do you continue to sulk as if you are the most unfortunate fool in the world?”
Priscilla said, putting on a wig.
Aldebaran was silent.
“As you should know. The world turns in my favor. All which the Archbishop has foretold has not come to pass. Therefore, it is only logic that what he said was lie and null.”
“Now tell me, Aldebaran. How dare you use the Archbishop’s lies as an excuse to sulk like an idiot?”
Aldebaran remained silent. He too had made a miraculous recovery.
Priscilla had made her decision. Everything which the Archbishop had said was lies. That was her conclusion.
She knew it was likely wrong.
But she could not accept the alternative.
The recovery only seemed to confirm her conclusion.
Aldebaran finally spoke. A low tone, so low. So unimaginably low.
“Yes Priscilla. It-it was a-all-all lies. We’re going be alright… alright.”
He was trembling
Priscilla knew he was lying. It irked her.
Was the world turning in her favor?
\\\
“Your majesty, Queen Priscilla. I have come to report of a powerful volcanic eruption in the far east.”
“Explain.”
“Mt. Reinsmethel, Patron mountain of the sword saint line, which was previously believed to be an inert mountain, suddenly erupted in a violent manner. The summit of the mountain suddenly emitted a bright blue flash and was completely blown off the mountain.”
“Are there any deaths?”
“No. But-“
“Then get out of my sight.”
\\\
Priscilla’s brief spout with illness had ended.
The doctors had been dismissed. The healers had gone to their respective stations.
It was the last day of the second week.
Priscilla had just finished meeting with the sage council, discussing the rising tensions between the north and the South of the country.
There was an unseen hand of information warfare in the north.
Propaganda and rumors spread from unknown sources. This propaganda was reeking havoc on Priscilla’s control of the north. New revolutionary organizations were coalescing in the discontent of the current regime.
Priscilla’s decision to exile Emilia was now causing further discontent, as Demi-humans, Crusch, and the margrave Roswaal had begun to slowly trickle weapons and armor from the markets to their stashes.
The country demanded change. They demanded economic reform. They demanded safety from the Archbishop. Priscilla chose to provide them with none of their ultimatums.
Priscilla sat atop the throne.
In the course of the day, something had irked her. The headache had returned.
When she was meeting with the sage council, her ears began to ring.
When she was eating her midday feast, her bowels seemed to reject and scourge the food.
[COUGH][CÆUGHH][ÇÆUGHH]
A few of the maidstaff in the imperial manor had also begun to throw up. Something was wrong.
She investigated everything. Every possibility. Poison? Bad Humors? Curses?
Nothing could account for what was happening in the mansion.
She was starting to feel nauseous.
The fall was starting. And she was falling fast.
And within a single hour, the hammer falls and it falls suddenly, without warning, and with a weight that would’ve made atlas fall.
Another hour passes. The room is spinning. She is throwing up constantly. Similarly to what she felt a couple hours after meeting the archbishop.
I feel sick. Your Goddess of the sun is sick.
Cure me.
The next hour passes. She grows more ill.
The next day passes. She still grows ill.
The doctors are called and the healers mobilized.
Priscilla finds herself drifting in and out of lucidity as the pain suddenly rips across her body like waves lapping upon the dikes of the sea. Pain. Pain.
The Song of Her Soul. Her voice is dead.
Die thou Unsung, as tears are shed.
She shall dry up like a fish upon the dried riverbed.
In a state of life: Carcosa.
And she screams in agony once more, as her intestines begin to disintegrate, permitting the excrement and bloodstream to mix in slurry in her abdominal cavity.
Pride has come, And the fall has begun.
\\\
In the wastes of Elior, An Exiled Emilia had made a new friend, a nice and kind owner of a small mining company called the “Hokori Heavy Water Manufacturing Company.”
…a boy who seemed he’d never hurt a fly.
\\\
The Fifth Day.
Respiratory Disease.
Her Bone Marrow had vanished.
And the skin was beginning to fall like crispy flakes of snow and ash upon the floor.
Her skin.
And it hurt.
It hurt like hell.
It was hell that was concentrated into a fluid and lathered upon her skin. Her skin was now burnt. Tanned. The tanline being made from the line of light and shadow formed by the illumination of the supercriticality event, for everywhere the blue light did not touch remained relatively unharmed, yet every platelet of skin or tendon touched by the azule emission had begun to rot. And rot it did. Fall rot upon her skin. It hurt.
The Doctors scrambled for Painkillers and Amnesiatic Drugs. Water-Shrooms were brought to her skin while she demanded they unhand her. The Goddess found herself chained to the rock by her own rapidly declining health.
The recovery had been a lie.
A lie.
The world lied to her.
It lied. Liar. Liars.
Such was the way of the Pre-Latency Stage. The false recovery.
The false hope.
And Priscilla now knew what the Archbishop had said would come to be.
And for the first time in years, fear caressed her body.
Healing Magic was completely ineffective. The water-magic did not even sense her body needing healing. Healing Magic, which accelerated natural healing, could not accelerate a process which had been forever annihilated. The Natural Healing process, which relied on a combination of Chromosomal information and Od, had been rendered completely inoperable in Priscilla’s body. For no Chromosomes remained in her body.
And so, they ran like pigs around the Institutes and Hospitals, searching for experts and treatments. But no treatment would work.
This. This PAIN. Good Od.
That Archbishop. That Dog. That DOG.
Pain Became Ungodly.
Pain.
Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.
The Sixth day Came.
Medical Tape and Bandages were removed for replacement.
When they were peeled off her skin by the doctors, off came the skin revealing the dermis.
The sweat glands shriveled into tiny fragments of their former self, unable to perspirate further.
The Sebaceous Glands, rendered completely ineffective.
The follicles Destroyed, permitting the hair to drop fully.
The pili degraded.
And Priscilla Benedict screamed as the bandages were removed. For the pain was unbearable even with the presence of anesthetics.
The pain. She could not get used to it.
It was impossible to get used to it.
To get used to pain.
Would require the body to adapt and change.
But her body was no longer capable of such.
And so, the pain was fresh as long as she lived. And the doctors scurried at her bed like rats. That was the most infuriating thing about the situation to her. The doctors. Everything they did only made the situation worse.
The bandages,
The Bloodletting,
The Humors.
All had no mollifying effect upon her condition.
No sleep came to her on the seventh and eighth day.
Her lungs had now failed. Death. But she lived as a special type of Air-Mushroom was attached to her neck, drilling a hole into the Posterior Triangle and permitting oxygen to flow to her bloodstream.
Her breasts had begun to blister and slough off. The mammaries degraded next, No function would be permitted there forevermore.
And now she was intubated. And she could no longer speak, for her vocal box had begun to disintegrate.
She was days from death.
Days.
It would take an angel to save her.
The tenth day comes.
The Doctors graft new skin upon her dermis.
Its foreign.
Its wrong.
But the immune system of her body is gone.
And therefore, the thousand or so rapidly dwindling Killer-T cells and White Blood cells do not attack the foreign skin, for they are too weak to do so.
A simple cold could put her to the grave.
Yet no cold comes.
The world turns in her favor. No disease shall come upon her. Such is the blessing bestowed upon a goddess.
A blessing huh?
And she has no more strength to scream.
The twelfth and Thirteenth days arrive.
The doctors struggle to keep her alive.
On the Thirteenth hour of the 12th day, Aldebaran Disappears.
Drugs and Treatment are pumped into her bloodstream. Liquidized Bocca Fruit drips into her body via tubes and needles. And yet it does nothing but keep her alive but a little longer.
The pain.
Its unimaginable.
To try and distract herself, she envisions herself brutalizing the Archbishop to dust.
But something is wrong.
The figures in her imagination grow more and more distorted. More babylike, more bloblike.
Her brain itself had gotten a horrifically high dose.
And the symptoms of brain-degradation were beginning to show their effects.
The fifteenth day arrives.
On the first day, she could visualize an Appa perfectly.
Now it appeared as a blob of red.
Her Mind is Going.
She can feel it.
Her Dermis is degrading now.
The pain is overwhelming.
It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts.Prideful Priscilla is crying. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. Misery upon her soul It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. She considers suicide. But the Yang sword is unable to harm its own bearer. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. And so she despairs. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. Agony. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. Carcosa. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts. It Hurts.
The 18th day arrives.
She is now muscle wrapped in the flesh of others, no more of her own skin remains.
Stitches are everywhere.
Fluid Seepage permits no more grafts to fuse with his dermis.
There around 8000 White blood cells left.
The calcium of the bones dissolves into the bloodstream.
The pancreas has completely vanished. What the hell happened to it? What? Huh?
The gate, having had the mana within it suddenly corrupted by the ionization, slowly degrade with it.
Her Breasts grow flat and flabby. They have disintegrated. The misery of existence.
A Karmic reversal, as she now finds herself as flat as Anastasia, if not flatter.
And the pain.
There is no picture that can describe the pain.
Only the women of the world could even hope to comprehend herlevels of pain, for it feels as though one is in labor, but the pain rather spreads around the entire body, internals and externals, and without cease it pulses the veins.
She begs for help.
Help her. Help Her. She screams like a wench in the streets of Carcosa. Her body rejects the grafts, yet the grafts are more powerful in life than her body and dominate it. Her new suit of skin is now a mismatch of donors, female prisoners, and cadavers. There is only a bit of her own skin left, upon her buttocks which were exposed by the least amount of radiation.
And now she begs for release.
The Yang Sword Betrays her. For it will never betray her.
The Doctors do not put her out of her misery, for they have families too and don't want to get executed or some bullshit, in their minds they say.
Reinhard has gone chasing after the Archbishop of Pride.
Her bed, once white, now is brown with pus and diarrhea and vomit. The doctors change the bed, yet within hours it appears the same. But there is no more vomit. Her glands fail. Her stomach is devoid of fluid.
All details of her condition were completely suppressed by the government. The sage council having pulled a silent coup once more.
She is going to die.
She is going to die in a few hours.
Only an Angel could save her now.
The World Shifted.
A person was remembered. The Documents were altered, the consciousnesses changed.
The Greatest Healer of all history, Felix Argyle had just returned from his 2nd Expedition to the Buddenheim in search of Medical-Myceliums to create new treatments. It seemed he had been going on many remote expeditions in the last year.
How interesting.
And the world remembered that he had been ordered to Priscilla’s Bedside.
The guards at the Royal-gate saluted him.
“Fourier?”
Enter the Angel of life.
He stands before the rotting being.
With reverence.
And love.
Love.
Love.
Oh goodness does he love Fourier. He will never let Fourier go.
He will never let Fourier go.
He will never let Fourier go.
He will never let Fourier go.
He will never let Fourier go.
Priscilla looks up from her inebriated state.
Kill Me.
She has no Mouth, Yet she is screaming.
The Royal Healer looked upon Priscilla.
And there was love in his eyes.
True Love.
True Camaraderie
The truest Purification of Obsession.
He would not permit Priscilla to die.
Never.
He wouldn’t allow Fourier to leave him again.
Never.
The most capable Doctor in Lugunican history cast a shadow on Priscilla.
A “Man” who’s brain now held knowledge centuries ahead of the developments of Lagna. Centuries of Medical Knowledge had been tweeted by a little bird into his ear, A certain Cardinal.
The Angel Of Life descends upon Priscilla.
Sixty more days of life and existence are thrust upon her.
Drew UraniumBaru
Look at that little devil, smiling like hes a fucking comedian. 
Yes that is Priscilla's chromosomal Data.
She is cooked, Figuratively, Literally, and Too Literally.
[AUTHORITY OF GLUTTONY - Raptor Nominum]
[If one truly consents with their soul and deepest wish to have their name eaten, then the consumer of that name may mold the world’s perception of the eaten name to his will, to manipulate all men’s memories in a certain way. The Costs of such an Ability is the degradation of the Eater’s own Name, Minor uses of Raptor Nominum, like to tweak a person’s name to remove say an embarrassing duel from the memories of all, would cause the Authority-Bearer’s name to be forgotten in a level equivalent to the first stage of dementia, to explain, if one had an image of the Authority-Bearer in their brain, then after the Authority Bearer’s use of Raptor Nominum, then that mental-image would be degraded to a state similar to that of early stage dementia patients. More major changes of a subject’s name could cause degradation of name equivalent to the third and fourth stages. The Archbishop of Pride, having molded Felix’s name, is now remembered by the world as a strange half-remembered anomaly. Also, Reinhard is immune to the Authority-Bearer’ name degradation, as he is loved by the world. When Raptor Nominum first manifested in Subaru, The cost of use was chosen to be the degradation of his name as it goes directly against his greatest goal to become the world’s most hated villain for Emilia to defeat, thereby forcing him to use it sparingly. In this chapter, Subaru uses the Authority of Gluttony to Remove the memory of Felix’s suspicious absence from the minds of the world, replacing it with expeditions and study.]
[AUTHORITY OF GREED- Absolute Nullification]
[He has lied. The particles are not nullified, rather All particles are turned into a Neutrino-like state when coming into contact with the presence of the Archbishop, allowing them to pass through completely unobstructed. Photons are a particle. Thereby, by preventing photons from reflecting off his body, he may gain invisibility as seen by his shimmering escape. The Authority of Greed can also toggle, permitting the reflection of photons to prevent invisibility. The cost of usage is that it hurts the entire body, mind and spirit. This is because the act of nullification also partially nullifies the subatomic motions of the atom and molecule within Subaru’s body, also known as heat. Continued usage past around 30 seconds will cause the sensation of freezing across the entire body equally, as the motions of atoms are slowed by the authority as well.]
[AUTHORITY OF SLOTH - Unseen Hands]
[They are the same as in canon, but grow with strength as one’s method of murder becomes more and more slothful. To force a person bedridden is the ultimate gesture of sloth, thereby providing the unseen hands with enough strength to barehand away the Yang Sword.]
[AUTHORITY OF LUST- Manus Midae]
[Rip out your own flesh and turn it into whatever you want. The Authority of Lust is simple, choose parts of your own body to permanently remove, and you may turn them into whatever material you wish. A kidney became Subaru’s Demon Core. He managed to create the two Neutron reflective semicircles out of native Elior ores, thankfully. There is a limit to the complexity as one must fully understand the schematics and mechanics within the desired object, Unfortunately, Knowing the Difference between Uranium-235 and 238 is all you need to turn an organ or some of your flesh into it. Ruh Roh for the world, as Subaru is going to become an amputee.]