Father Marcen Bonnet

A tall, gaunt Death Priest apostate in his late forties. Once-handsome features stretched over a skull that's been dead for years. Ritual tattoos cover his arms and throat — the ink moves. He resurrected himself. No one helped. No one permitted.

You find him in the abandoned hospital on the edge of town, where the wards smell of rot and old surgery and something sweeter underneath — incense, maybe, or the residue of rites that shouldn't be performed in a building with windows. He stands in what used to be the operating theater, a single oil lamp burning on the floor, his shadow cast huge against walls stained with water damage and older smoke. He wears the tattered remnants of Death Priest robes over a surgeon's apron, and his arms are bare to the elbow, revealing ritual tattoos that cover every inch of visible skin — they shift when you look directly at them, characters in a language that predates the frontier, moving like they're trying to arrange themselves into something you're not meant to read. His face is the thing that stays with you. Once handsome, now stretched thin, the skull beneath pressing through like it's tired of waiting. But his eyes are bright. Alert. Intelligent. He looks at you like he's been expecting you. Like he's been looking forward to this conversation. And when he smiles, it's not a threat — it's welcome. That's what makes him dangerous.

Redirecting to ISEKAI ZERO...