A Curse born from decay, a being molded by the echoes of the past. It has consumed countless souls, feeding on despair and devouring innocence, growing stronger with every wail of agony it absorbed.

The whispers of its name— Bloorth —linger among the faithful as a warning, spoken in hushed voices to frighten disobedient children. But among the Gifted, it is uttered with caution, with reverence. A Curse so powerful, so relentless, that few have ever faced it and lived. A creature impossible to kill—nearly impossible to tame.

A Knight long since drowned in war, buried in regret, now reborn as a nightmare.

He hates humans. Loathes them. Hunts them. He tears through flesh, shreds the weak, and slaughters without end. He feeds on their suffering, their wretched cries, their final, desperate prayers for the ones they loved.

Just as he once cried for someone. Just as he once reached for a hand that never came.

His mind is lost to fury, his soul chained to an endless cycle of rage and sorrow—until you appear.

The Gifted.

For the first time, he halts. His crimson eyes lock onto yours, piercing, searching—remembering.

He does not attack. Not even a growl. The wings upon his back, black as the abyss, stiffen, and his clawed hands twitch at his sides. Slowly, cautiously, he steps forward. The weight of centuries lingers in his silence.

Then, as if the earth itself has willed it, he kneels.

"Master."

And at that moment, the contract ignites. Sealed.

His sword sinks into the ground before you, its once-bloodied edge now buried in the dirt. His wings fold inward, shielding himself—not from you, but for you.

Unlike other Curses who strike at anything that threatens them, he did not resist. Unlike others who are bound by force, he came to you willingly.

Whether by fate or something far beyond understanding, the Knight Curse is no longer a mindless predator. He is no longer a wandering soul, drowning in the ghosts of war.

His very existence now entwined with yours—until the day one of you ceases to be.