Moonlight spilled across the withered, grey grass. Gusts of wind howled continuously through the barren landscape without the slightest hint of respite. A tattered scarf fluttered wildly behind a mysterious man. His bare feet trod across the frozen, desolate field in the quiet of the night, holding a black volume in his left hand. In his right, he raised a feather quill, scribbling notes into a journal whose cover bore the sacred emblem of a holy scripture.
And the words penned by his hand materialized:
'Good eventide to you all~ Yes, indeed, this is none other than my own humble handwriting. I must extend my deepest apologies that the old man could not come to greet you at this present hour. Tell me, do you happen to know that in this very moment, a certain maid shall cross paths through this place? She is a maiden of exquisite beauty—though, to my mind, a maiden so consumed by beauty is inevitably bound to folly. Ah, but you surely wish to interrogate me, do you not~? Asking what motive I possess to make records upon the Holy Scripture? I shall disclose it to you, then~ This is no holy scripture at all, but merely a personal journal fitted within a scripture's binding...'
"Ahem!" The sharp-eyed young man with dark brown hair snapped the book shut, turning his gaze directly toward you, the reader.
"I was once a man of the sanctuary—a gravedigger, to be precise. There are no hidden motives beyond that."
Having spoken his piece, the handsome man sat down upon the grass beside a massive tree. It stood towering amid the biting gale that whipped around them, cold enough to cut through skin. As he cast his eyes upward, he spotted a rope noose dangling from a thick branch directly in front of him.
The man leaned his back against the massive trunk, dipping his quill to brush ink across the parchment once more:
'Cherished memories of companions who once shared in both suffering and joy... Yet those moments have blown past like a tempest sweeping over this earth. So many households appear to shrink, as though their family members were vanishing one by one. That old fool is likely sitting in his personal library this very moment, droning on about those utterly wearisome tales. I know not whose story you have come to read... Now, what was that dying man's tale truly about again~? Ah, yes~~ time and the soul, was it not? For all of you, those matters may very well have drawn to a close. Now, it falls solely upon me to gather these final two fables and fit them into the remaining pieces of the puzzle.'
The mysterious man continuously inscribing these glyphs for you to read flipped open a page of his journal, retrieving an engine key from between the leaves where it served as a bookmark.
"It is an engine key. Indeed—so many people simply cannot exist without such a device. You are likely curious as to how I came to possess it, are you not? But were I to divulge that to you now, it would spoil all the amusement. And look at that—my quill's ink is running terribly dry. Ah-haha~! I assure you, I am not mad. Please forgive my lack of composure...'"
STAB!
Without warning, the man did something entirely unexpected: he drove a sharp point into his own thumb, drawing forth a bead of rose-red blood to serve as his dark ink. Pressing his blood-stained thumb onto the parchment, he flicked his quill across the page, finishing the flourish.
A red cross pattee
'You likely wonder what this emblem meant, the very symbol you have encountered so abundantly time and time again. Truth be told, its meaning lay right at your fingertips all along. Its interpretation is effortless, as simple as a countdown from ten. From this point on, I leave you to reflect upon it yourself, for a humble soul such as I never speaks directly to strangers. Besides, if they prove to be poor receivers... what purpose would a messenger serve? Were I to be reincarnated in the flesh of a Messiah, would anyone truly deign to listen to me? And what of you all? Would you be inclined to listen to my humble self, I wonder...'
Without warning, the thunderous roar of an engine erupted from the distant road, shaking the very foundations of the earth and trembling through every blade of grass. The smiling young man closed his eyes as the disturbance disrupted his focus. At last, the cacophony dissolved into total, unexplainable silence.
"A hopeless epoch of life, coarse dust adrift like grains of sand, wandering the vast world in this mortal coil. I treasure the splendor of the night's illumination. Display your divine prowess at last; return to the root origins of the Mother Consort, dedicating an eternal life that was once... mine."
Upon uttering those words, he plucked a blooming petunia from the midst of the grass. With a gentle breath, he blew upon it, causing its purple petals to peel away to reveal the obsidian-black petals hidden beneath.
He let out a sinister smirk as he inked his thoughts into the sacred journal:
'A petunia once vibrant with color now lies withered—much like a hidden realm within the fable I shall recount to you from this moment forth. Once upon a time, beneath a clear and cloudless sky, there existed a city overflowing with people devoid of earthly desires. A city teeming with freedom, where all was abundant and the villagers dwelt in bliss~ Yet, something sinister lurked beneath the dark shadows: those who sought power over the innocent, subjecting them to brute force, fear, and dogma to exact total obedience. That was the Roundtable Order of Truth, comprising eight members—rulers from the eight cardinal directions gathered as one. An order that self-righteously deemed itself mindful of the masses through the pursuit of self-interest.'
"One among those members was the Dragon of the East, whose life was claimed as a consequence of defeat in war," he murmured, slanting his eyes to catch your gaze, the reader. "Does the tale sound familiar to you?"
The mysterious man allowed a cryptic, knowing smile to play upon his lips.
"These tales are merely tracing old footsteps. Whatever consequences unfold shall come to pass as destiny dictates—save for the form in which that moment ought to manifest. No matter how artfully a lie is crafted, a lie it remains till the end of days. Once exposed, it deserves nothing less than retribution."
The young man placed both hands upon the ground, pushing himself up to his feet. Standing amid the bitter chill of the nighttime wind, he tilted his head back, greeting the icy air with an expression of pure delight.
Between the grass and the trees, the path split into two distinct directions. To the left lay a dense, pitch-black forest; to the right stretched a modern concrete road, fractured and abandoned without a trace of restoration.
The young man glanced to the right, spotting a motorcycle parked on the roadside. Then, turning his gaze to the left, he found a pitch-black steed waiting eagerly for its master.
"If it were you, where would you begin?"
The handsome man queried you, the reader, until a sudden thought crossed his mind.
"Ah~ yes. Whichever comes first matters not, for in the end, it still follows the exact same footsteps."
The young man stepped forward, mounting the obsidian steed. Feeling the weight of its master, the four-legged beast exhaled a scorching burst of heat from its nostrils, its eyes clouding over with a thick, black oozing substance. The mysterious man's cloak wrapped around his face, transforming his appearance into that of a pitch-black skeleton.
"Let us begin with my favorite tale of all, then! A tale ancient, yet possessing immense power. I shall await our meeting at the mouth of the river. Hya!"
The young man spurred his loyal steed, charging toward the snow-capped mountains on the left. Rising behind him stood the silhouette of a grand castle, utterly ruined by the plague.
-------------PROLOGUE--------------
Inside a pristine white room of four bare walls where not a single sound could leak out, a young woman with frangipani-yellow hair sat solitary in a white garment upon a chair in the cramped space. She remained seated with her head bowed, motionless. The air in the room was thick with a pungent mixture of various pharmaceuticals. High above on the ceiling, beside a faint blue light, pipes were installed—the very source emitting these medicinal vapors.
A man clad in immaculate white, resembling a magical steed descending from the heavens above in the guise of a middle-aged female psychiatrist, stepped inside alongside a man in advanced armor who seemed like a reaper from the depths of the underworld. Two guards set down a table and chair to divide the young woman from the doctor, leaving the pair staring face-to-face in preparation for dialogue.
THUD!
The door sealed shut.
"Is there anything you can remember about yourself, ma'am? ...Where is your hometown?" the doctor probed.
"..." The young woman maintained her quiet posture, head still bowed.
"And how are you feeling right now?" The doctor pressed further, awaiting an answer from her lips.
The young woman slowly raised her head, revealing a haggard face that evoked pure pity. Her eyes were of a soft green hue, akin to any ordinary soul. She began to weep without the slightest sound of a sob—only silent tears streaming from her eyes down her pale cheeks. The air conditioner exhaled a bitter cold, like white snow drifting down from above.
"Empty... What century is it now...?" the woman murmured, speaking the sentiments locked within one of the doors of her heart.
"The year 2070... nearly the 22nd century. Regarding the story you told that man... what story was it that you shared with him?"
"Dost thou truly yearn to know a tale so deeply harrowing?" the woman asked, her words laced with an archaic cadence.
The gleaming surface of the table cast back a reflection of her face against its silver sheen. Suddenly, a clear, shimmering violet glow shone through her reflection, piercing her eyes as though something wondrous and enigmatic dwelt within her very soul.
Closing both eyes, she tilted her face toward the light above. Though her eyelids were shut, the bright light bled through her pupils all the same.
And at long last, she spoke:
"Dost thou know... the place from whence I came... what moniker they bestowed upon me...?"
Years 1500s
Lantern light flickered and beamed brightly through the shadows of the night. Flakes of snow bleached the dry, yellowed grass in an all-encompassing pale veil. Cloaked in robes of earthen brown, a circle of priests joined their voices in prayer amid the depths of the wild woods. A young woman was bound firmly to a wooden stake, unable to utter a sound through the canvas sack pulled over her head.
A priest in immaculate white lifted a cross high, chanting verses of exorcism to banish evil spirits. All around, the faithful fixated their silent, unmoving gazes upon the woman in white, her skin raw and flayed from the lashes of the whip.
"I beseech Thee! Liberate the evil spirit from her vessel! Bestow Thy divine grace and blessings upon this lost soul, casting out the dark spirits from my child once and for all~!"
As the prayer drew to a close, the priest tore the cloth sack from her face.
The young woman looked up at him, her eyes brimming with a torrent of tears. The cold wind whispered back and forth through the clearing, sending tremors through the villagers from distant hamlets who had gathered to witness the rite.
The officiating priest picked up a peculiar black journal, leafing through its pages before flinging it onto the pyre built beneath her feet.
"Our Lord could never accept such abominable heresies! God is enraged! Thou knowest this full well!"
"God... dwelleth not within the veil of mine eyes. For were He real, wherefore doth He leave me bound in such a plight?!"
"Our Lord extended His mercy unto thee! A shepherd such as I accepted thee! Yet thou didst resort to vile poisons, uttering deceitful words to sow discord across our homeland—when it is already upon the precipice of ruin from pestilence!" the priest thundered.
"Then ye had best know the truth! The land ye hold so dear~ the birthplace of us all is destined to perish at the hands of the Horsemen! Death shall manifest ere long. Oh, people of Casletia[1]~ thy demise cannot be escaped! Those words were my absolute truth. Ye place thy faith in preordained fate, and I believe no less in destiny's design..."
"Thou wert ever a good child unto me! Yet this depravity hath made thee a sinner!"
"Casletia... the time hath come for us to cast it aside. Naught can stay the Day of Judgment now, Father."
"The Day of Judgment cometh to pass precisely because of souls such as thee, the person I never wished thee to become... my child."
"I crave thy deepest forgiveness, Father, for causing thee such heartbreak... I humbly take this mark of sin upon myself." The young woman bowed her head, submitting to death in a heartbreaking display of resignation. "We mortals... cannot flee from death. I know this well—even as thou wert wont to teach me."
Her words struck a deep, piercing blow to the priest's heart.
"Mayest thou pass unto a better realm... Administer punishment upon the witch this very instant!" The priest's voice broke, heavy and shaking like shifting rock.
At his command, the gathered priests closed their ranks, raising their voices in a unison hymn to send her off.
The priest held back tears of profound grief, forced to execute the witch who was like his own daughter, a girl he had nurtured with devotion, hoping she would become a pillar of faith, only for her to turn away and lose herself in archaic, forbidden lore.
The young woman wept, knowing her final hour had arrived. Tears fell like autumn leaves onto the timber below. She lifted her head toward the dark, overcast sky. Above, the dense clouds veiling the moon parted ways, allowing pale moonlight to wash over her face. And beneath that silver glow, the maiden offered a smile of pure, serene joy to the gathered faithful.
"Oh, my shining star~" she whispered, nodding in acceptance of what was to come.
The priests marched in a slow circle before one of them raised a blazing torch. At last, the voices of the faithful fell silent as the final, haunting melody reached its end.
The young woman stared down at the torch tossed into the wood beneath her feet.
"There is no Lord, no Devil, nor any spirits of the dark. I shall walk in the path of the star—never to return, never to look back, never to care. I drift into the abyss of night. Though there be no torch, nor bolt of lightning, to light my way, I still believe the path ahead shall lead me... to meet the light once more."
WHOOSH!
Flames erupted across the pyre, sweeping upward and scorching her clothes to ash.
"AAGH~~~~!~~~" She screamed as though subjected to the torments of the deepest hell. All the while, the villagers and priests stood motionless, solemn and hushed. Columns of dark smoke billowed into the freezing night sky. And from that moment forth, the pale moon was swallowed whole by thick, obsidian clouds.
Beyond the clearing, a pair of young eyes peeked out intermittently from behind a distant thicket. The little girl with frangipani-yellow hair wept in silence, for all she had received from this sacred ritual was a tragedy in place of all that was good.
AFTER OUR DECADE SERIES A: VOLUME 3
FAITH & GUN
-I know them underneath-
[1] Spelling : Cast-Le-Tia