Fate/Eva Frankenstein

"Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquisition of knowledge, and how much happier is the man who believes his native city to be the world, than he who aspires to be greater than his nature allows."**Historical Archive 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕪 𝕊𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕪, year 1831 — Record No. FRK-???//ΔΣЖл✖⌁▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒

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Chapter 9: Toward Eternity... and Ruin.

Pov. Eva.

The storm on the mountain was merciless.

The wind howled furiously, driving snow and ice like invisible blades that cut through skin. Eva moved forward steadily, but her movements grew increasingly ponderous, her figure barely distinguishable in the blizzard.

The compass glowed dimly in her hand, its needle marking a wobbly direction toward the snowy peak. The thread of light that still animated it seemed to struggle to hold on.

Eva held it steady, her eyes fixed on the central gem as if a mere glance could command it not to stop. But then...

A flicker.

The light flickered between orange, red... and then white.

Pure white, static.

A second later, the needle fell dead. The compass fell silent.

"No... no, no, no," Eva murmured, shaking her with trembling hands. "Not now... please..."

She shook him again and again, her voice ruffled by the wind and desperation.

"Just a little bit more!" she cried, raising her voice above the roar of the storm. "Just a little bit more, please..."

In response, an icy gust pushed her slightly backward. The chain holding the compass slipped through her fingers.

"No!" she cried as she watched it fly.

The compass disappeared into the blizzard like a glass bird lost in the snow.

Eve threw herself after it, stumbling, kneeling, and frantically digging at the ground.

Her hands swept away caked snow, frozen leaves, and ice as if searching for the last fragment of a broken heart.

"Come on... please..." she whispered, panting.

And then, through the packed snow, she saw it.

The dull gem, its surface clouded by frost.

She lifted it carefully, as if afraid of breaking it, and cradled it against her chest, protecting it from the storm.

Her eyes closed for a moment, relieved.

But when she opened them again… nothing had changed.

Still unresponsive.

Dead.

As if the soul of the compass had fled like Victor.

Eva remained motionless, kneeling in the snow.

She looked around. There was nothing but white, wind, and emptiness.

The cold was finally beginning to make itself felt.

Even with her body unlike that of a normal human, something inside her was contracting.

She trembled, wrapped in her torn cloak, and for the first time in hours, she looked more like a human figure than a beast.

"I lost the trail..." she whispered hoarsely.

The wind didn't answer.

Her eyelids were heavy. Her body was weary. A part of her—distant, dark—told her that perhaps it was best to give up.

That perhaps it wasn't worth continuing. That she'd done enough.

But her hand gripped the muffled compass tightly.

And she shook her head.

"No. Not yet."

A sparkle flickered in her eyes. Cold. Determined. Fierce.

"I'm not going to stop now," she whispered.

She stumbled as she stood, but didn't fall.

Her legs were pillars of will.

Her body, a shadow in the storm.

The compass rested in her closed hand, though it emitted no light.

"He will die today." Her voice came out lower, like a sentence carved in stone. "That is final."

She took a step forward. Then another.

And then one more.

Slowly but relentlessly, she moved forward in the last direction the needle had marked.

Toward the end.

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Pov. Victor.

From the beginning, my entire family sought the same thing: to escape death.

Immortality.

The Frankensteins had tried for generations to prolong existence. But they were petty. Blind.

They wanted to preserve their bodies, seal them, fix them like a butterfly in amber, pretending that was living forever.

They understood nothing.

That wasn't life. Just an empty extension.

Even if the body managed to reach eternity, the soul… erodes.

Even the greatest heroes in history, even those who defied time, eventually dissolve, becoming empty shells of themselves.

What's the point of existing eternally if you eventually forget who you were?

Then I remembered the Scriptures.

I remembered the first creatures.

Shaped by God in His image: Adam and Eve.

Death did not exist for them. Nor did corruption.

Not by resistance. But by nature.

Before the Fall, they were eternal. Not by artificial means, but by the very way they were conceived.

A creature unmarked by the cycle. Without the sins of the human soul. Without the weight of time or the inheritance of the past.

Without sin. Without death.

Perfect.

Then I knew the answer was not in preserving.

It was in creating.

No, in recreating.

A new genesis.

And that led me to imagine my creation for the first time.

Eve…

She wouldn't be a copy. Nor a simple daughter of man.

She would be the first step toward a new humanity.

And once I had that goal clear…

I immersed myself in it.

I behaved as any true magus would: closing my eyes to the world, willing to sacrifice everything.

I created. I innovated. I tested.

Every formula was a prayer. Every sleepless night, an offering.

Every mistake, every death, every sacrifice…

…just another step toward the summit of my ideal.

But at some point, I became arrogant.

My vision began to be corrupted.

I didn't just believe I could recreate Genesis.

I believed I could surpass it.

Transcend it.

It wasn't enough for Eve to arise again, followed by Adam.

No... I believed that the true, perfect being could only be born from the womb of the first mother.

Only with Eve giving birth to the new Adam would the true new humanity emerge, a being that would transcend mortal and spiritual limitations.

She would be perfect, wise, beautiful, and without imperfection. The embodiment of everything I had envisioned.

A being not only living, but eternal.

Able to overcome the fragility of the soul.

To escape the inevitable erosion that consumes all mortals.

I believed I could alter the very origin to prevent death.

To break the chain of destiny.

To reach infinity.

…But in the end, it seems I lived in nothing more than a fleeting illusion.

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Victor's eyelids slowly opened, the dim light from the cabin reaching his still-cloudy eyes.

For a moment, he felt lost.

A moment ago, everything had been cold and dark... but something—or someone—had pulled him from that abyss.

Tilting his head slightly, he listened with difficulty to the voices that reached his ears, mingling with the crackling of the fire.

"His condition is delicate... hypothermia and exhaustion have made him very weak," said a calm voice, probably the doctor's.

"We're not sure he'll make it until dawn," another person added, with restrained concern.

Victor let out a slight smile, almost a sigh.

That didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was the lack of fear in listening to him.

He allowed himself that moment of calm while his body still struggled between consciousness and sleep.

He remained motionless, enveloped in silence broken only by distant voices and the crackling of the fire.

His eyes, still heavy, stared at the ceiling of the cabin, but his mind was delving into a labyrinth of memories and doubts.

How did I get to this point?

The question echoed relentlessly in his mind.

He was supposed to be the architect of a new era, the creator of a species that would overcome death itself, that would bring true eternity to the world.

Where did I go wrong?

He remembered his original vision: a future without the shadow of the end, where death would be only a forgotten myth.

And then, his thoughts turned to Eve.

The creature that had been born from his most ambitious dreams.

Why didn't it work?

The answer seemed to slip through his fingers.

Everything had been conceived with precision, every detail, every sacrifice, every mistake corrected.

Yet Eve was nowhere near what he had desired.

She was not the perfect incarnation, the key to eternity.

Instead, she was a brutal reminder of his limits, of the arrogance that had blinded him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting doubt and guilt mix in his chest, while a different chill, deeper than the one outside, slowly invaded him.

He remained motionless, letting the stillness of the cabin and the faint warmth of the fire soothe his exhausted body.

His mind, however, found no rest.

A thought, sharp and strange, began to make its way through the fog of his exhaustion and pain.

How is she alive?

He had taken apart her body, including her heart. He had been present during what he believed would be her final moments, observing every sign of her end.

But Eve hadn't just survived.

She had rebuilt herself.

Her soul and body were fragmented, like a puzzle she herself had put together.

A cold wonder coursed through his veins.

His thoughts leaped to Emma and Lea, his other creations, the faithful little homunculi he had molded himself.

Could they have intervened? Would some invisible bond with Eva have driven them to rebel and save her when he abandoned her?

No, he quickly dismissed the idea.

They were too loyal, too subservient to his will.

Besides, the time didn't add up.

If Eva had been free much earlier, he would already be dead.

So... how?

The enigma persisted, and for the first time, Victor sensed that the firmness of his convictions—so laden with pride—was beginning to crack.

He tried to find a logical explanation, a plausible cause that might explain how Eva had defied her destiny.

Perhaps some unknown force had intervened, a hidden will or a latent trait within her that he hadn't foreseen.

But the more he delved into that thought, the more he realized that his understanding of the world and his own creations was limited.

He realized that the absolute control he thought he possessed was only an illusion.

That being, Eve, had become something that no longer belonged to him, something unpredictable and autonomous.

A fleeting thought crossed his mind, almost a doubt, almost a hope:

...or... had his experiment been successful?

His eyes opened wide, as if the idea had illuminated a dark corner he hadn't been able to see before.

Had he truly achieved his goal?

Had he reached that eternity he so longed for, and had his eyes simply been blinded to the truth?

Eve... was actually...

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Pov. Third person.

he must die… he must die… he must die…

The words echoed in her mind, a firm mantra that helped sustain her through the storm.

Her breath formed white clouds that mingled with the icy wind, while each step was a resolute affirmation of her purpose.

Although fatigue battered her and the cold seeped into her bones, her will remained intact, driven by that constant repetition:

he must die… he must die… he must die…

The wind whipped again, an icy blow that shook her violently.

For an instant, she lost her balance, staggering dangerously on the unstable snow.

Her legs faltered, and she almost fell. But in that instant, her hand gripped tightly onto the mace she carried as her only companion.

She used it like a steady cane, digging it into the icy ground to regain her balance.

Leaning on her weapon, she stood, breathing heavily as the cold continued to batter her mercilessly.

I had to... Eva thought as she closed her eyes for a moment, searching for her center.

When she opened them, she noticed that the storm had abated slightly, just enough for a faint light to appear in the distance.

She squinted, straightened, and began walking toward that faint light.

Finally, the vision cleared: a small village rose before her, surrounded by snow and the wind subsiding.

Wasting no time, with heavy, determined steps, she entered the village. A feeling of foreboding guided her strongly.

She moved through the shadows, head bowed, her cloak covering her face.

Her steps were silent, almost invisible amid the trampled snow and stone walls.

The village, small and tucked into the hillsides, was made up of sturdy, weathered wooden houses with sloping roofs and smoking chimneys fighting the cold.

A large bonfire burned in the central square, illuminating the weather-beaten faces of the villagers gathered around it.

From her hiding place between two stables, Eva listened intently. Every word, every footstep, every crackle of firewood in the distance was registered by her constantly tense mind.

And then she heard it.

"...yes, we found him almost frozen in the storm. A stranger... barely breathing," commented a deep voice, that of an older man, as he conversed with others around the campfire.

Eva's eyes narrowed.

Victor.

He's really here.

She didn't move immediately. She waited.

She watched patiently as the villagers continued talking for a while longer, until finally, one of them—the same one who had mentioned the stranger—broke away from the group and began walking toward what appeared to be a nearby shed, probably to collect more firewood.

Eva wasted no time.

She slipped in like a shadow, intercepted him around a narrow corner, and pushed him with controlled violence against the wall of a house.

A strong hand covered his mouth. The other held him by the collar of his coat.

"Scream... and you'll die," she whispered in a deep, sharp voice, more of a promise than a threat.

The villager, paralyzed with fear, nodded awkwardly. Eva slowly withdrew her hand.

"Where is the person you mentioned...?" She leaned closer, her eyes like glowing embers beneath her hood. "Where is Victor?"

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The doctor had finished examining his condition. His face was a mixture of resignation and silent compassion.

He was about to speak, perhaps to confirm what everyone feared, when an unexpected sound interrupted him.

A laugh.

Low, harsh... but definitely a laugh.

The doctor turned, frowning, and met the open gaze of Victor Frankenstein, lying awake in bed, weak, pale... but laughing.

It wasn't a hysterical or cruel laugh. It was light, almost ironic, as if he'd been told a joke that only he understood.

The vibration barely escaped his lips, but his eyes shone with a feverish intensity.

"So..." he whispered to himself, not caring if anyone was listening, "this is how it was. I've been blind... all this time..."

His smile didn't fade. It was bitter, yes, but it also held something of peace... or perhaps resignation.

The final understanding of a man who, on the brink of the end, had reached a truth.

A truth that hurt, that burned...

...but that at least made him feel less lost.

And behind that look, it was evident that he had come to his own conclusion about Eva. One that perhaps, just perhaps, made sense of everything he had experienced.

The doctor leaned forward, bewildered.

"Can you hear me? How are you feeling?"

Victor opened his eyes with an effort, and a strange clarity shone in them. His voice was a hoarse but firm murmur.

"Terrible..." he said with a hint of dry humor. "I've never been worse..."

He paused, the smile still hanging on his lips, as if enjoying the irony.

"...But somehow... I've never felt better."

The doctor looked at him even more confused.

"Do you remember your name?"

Victor nodded weakly.

"Victor... Victor Frankenstein."

The doctor remained silent for a few seconds, carefully observing Victor's pale face.

Then, with some hesitation, he leaned a little closer, as if searching for the right words to express a difficult truth.

"Mr. Frankenstein... your condition... is serious. Very serious. I'm not sure how to say it—"

"I'm going to die," Victor interrupted, his voice weak but clear.

The doctor froze, surprised by the calmness with which he said it. Victor turned to face him, his eyes open, lucid.

"I know." From the moment my legs stopped responding and the heat drained from my body… I knew.

He closed his eyes again for a moment, as if savoring the thought.

"I don't need comfort. Or false hope. Just… clarity."

The doctor, still silent, nodded slowly.

Victor let out a long sigh, and an expression that wasn't entirely sadness or resignation crossed his face.

"Sometimes, you have to be on the verge of the end... to finally see clearly what you were. And what you left behind."

His voice trailed off for a moment, dragged by the faint crackle of the fire in the fireplace.

"There's no need to sugarcoat it, Doctor. What I have left isn't time... it's judgment."

And he smiled again, with a disarming serenity.

The doctor, moved by his patient's frankness, despite his words, frowned slightly and took a step closer. His voice, low and careful, seemed to be searching for a crack to slip through so much resignation.

"Even so... perhaps all is not lost. Her pulse, though weak, has held." And if he survives this night, if he can hold on a little longer… maybe—

Victor didn't respond immediately. He just looked at him with a soft, almost grateful, but distant expression.

Inwardly, however, he thought with resigned sadness:

Oh, doctor... even if I don't die of illness tonight... she'll make sure that today is my last day.

There's no redemption possible. There's no miracle at the end of this road. Not after everything I've done.

Not after what I did to her.

He didn't say it out loud. Why break the doctor's illusion?

He just shifted his gaze toward the window, fogged by the cold outside.

Outside, behind the fog and snow, he knew something—someone—was approaching.

Not with hope, but with justice.

Because in the end, he had no right to beg for second chances.

All that was left was to wait… and pay what he owed.

Victor remained silent for a few more seconds, watching the dim light filter through the fogged-up window. The doctor, still at the bedside, seemed to be torn between hope and reality.

It was then that Victor, on an unexpected impulse, spoke:

"Doctor... would you like... to hear my story?"

The man blinked, surprised by the plea. He opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't get a word out.

BANG!

A dull knock sounded on the door.

It wasn't a violent crash, but it was sharp and firm enough to chill the blood in the doctor's body.

The man started, turning toward the sound, his face tense, his eyes wide.

Victor, on the other hand, smiled. A small, bitter smile. Without strength, but sincere.

"Too bad, he thought calmly. I thought he'd have more time..."

But no.

It seems his story... would die with him.

The door opened with a long, slow creak, pushed by a blast of icy air.

The figure that crossed the threshold was a specter from the heart of the storm.

Eva.

Her body covered in snow, her heavy clothes damp from the journey, her cape barely fluttering in the incoming wind. Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor.

In one hand, he dragged his mace, leaving a faint trail of water and mud behind him.

The doctor took a step back, pale, until he tripped over a chair and fell backward, his face contorted with fear.

Eva paid no attention to him.

Her eyes, ablaze with suppressed rage and a firm will, had only one goal. One.

Victor.

He approached step by step, slowly but surely, crossing the room as if the world around him had ceased to matter.

And finally, he stopped in front of him.

The creator, prostrate.

Creation, standing.

They both looked at each other.

And in that suspended instant, laden with history, mistakes, pain, and the inevitable, nothing needed to be said.

The end... was already here.

End of Chapter 9

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Now, the final encounter between creation and creator is finally here. I hope you enjoyed the episode, see you tomorrow.