Bang… Bang… Bang…
Three shots fired in rapid succession in the dark. The sound coming from the silver revolver in the perpetrators hand. Calmly, he placed the gun in his holster and looked at the blood stained mirror. His already dim reflection from the shattered mirror gradually grew darker until it disappeared into the shadowy night.
Slowly, he walked towards the body. Blood oozing from its large forehead and flesh spilling onto the extravagant pillow below it. The room was dark yet it had a luxurious feel to it. You could really tell your in a nobles house even with the darkness.
Placidly, he walked towards the balcony and stared at the town below. The manor was on a hill peering out at the large city. The sky was littered with black fumes and ashes rained down from the sky, making a black coat that surrounded the city.
No trees, no grass, no vegetation. Only labour, smoke, factories and money.The man reached into his inside pocket of his large black coat. His leather gloves wrapping tightly around two boxes. Taking his time, he slowly revealed the two boxes. One was a box of matches, the other was a box of cigarettes. He pulled the cylindrical paper and put it in his mouth. His finger slid across the box of matches revealing the inside of it.
Two more matches left he thought.
Quickly, he pulled the match on the slide of the box, lighting it using friction. The flame hovered in front of his mouth and lit the cigarette.
Puff… puff…
Using the last match left, he threw it inside and onto the carpet of the noble's room. Not in much of a hurry, he took a few more blows until he jumped over the balcony and crashed onto the concrete surface a floor below.
Leisurely, he walked away from the manor, puffing and coughing whilst doing so. Behind him, the whole building was engulfed in flames. Screams of the sleeping maids and butlers soon entered hell. The last thing they saw was red, a crimson red devoured by a grey smog. Thats all they saw.
The man pulled out his journal.
January 9th 895YAC (YAC means "years after creation")
Count Dratch died from gunshot to the head. Manor burned down from fire killing the servents and destroying books and infrastructure. Dratch wasn't worthy of sharing the same match as mine. May he burn in hell.
The man closed the journal quickly making a sore of snap sound.
The dark smog urged him away from the factories and city, leading him to the outskirts. He entered the stone wall labyrinth known as the slums and entered an abandoned, damp, wooden monstrosity. The familiar place he called home. Whilst reaching out his hand to put his coat on a rack, he spat his cigarette onto the floor and stomped on it with his clean, leather shoes. Holding his head low, he said it a low voice, "I'm home"
No response as usual. He'd already gotten used to this lonely life. In this day and age all there is to life is survival and feed corruption.
What a rotten era! He thought.
They'd work people like slaves only for them to get sick and have their family or friends work for them in hopes to pay the bills. There was nothing to life for the common folk anymore. Life of nobility and the life of a nobody. The comparison is sickening. For example, those of noble blood would receive a proper education allowing them to use sorcery whilst common folk have to scrounge ap papers form thrown away books.
It's not that common folk couldn't use sorcery. It's just that education is so hard to get without status.
Rotten fools. What accomplishments have those nobles have? They pry on their ancestors acheivements and flex status. How utterly pathetic. Their idea of noble supremacy is filthy. Because of his rotten ideology of a hierarchy make people not equal. Democracy my ass. It's only dictatorship with a mask of democracy. They choose everything and say the public voted for it. Most people out here don't even know how to read. Fucking bastards. He thought.
Lying on the mattress, he put his hand in different spots underneath it until he felt a smooth object. Sluggishly, he sat up and dragged the paper across the floor to place it on his lap. The paper read:
Baron Polhund X
Baron Kundral X
Baron Yugh X
Baron Frynch X
Baron Grunch X
Baron Yatch X
Count Bentch X
Count Ofilis X
Count Dratch X
Count Rugh O
Viscount Alphora O
Viscount Redcartus O
Duke Ophecius O
He crossed out Count Dratch using some ink he dipped his fingertip inside of.
Four more left. I wish I could kill more of those bastards but I can't since these are the only ones with not-so-tight security.
Falling onto to the bed, exhausted, he slid the paper underneath the mattress making the paper, once again, smooshed and crumped by the mattress. He stared at the ceiling, his face expretionless. Gradually, his mind drifted though his memories, making fake stories in his head of how things could've been different. Fantasy and reality clashed together in his head. When he came to his senses, it felt as though he wasn't looking outside of his own eyes, wasn't feeling anything with his own body, wasn't hearing anything with his own body, he wasn't smelling anything with his own body or wasn't tasting the air with his own body. Yet, he knew very well that this was his own body. His only one.
Slowly, he lifted his hand into the air, examining it and its shadow which was bent casted by the peering moon. The shadow of his hand was darker than what his actual looked like. Almost as if he was staring at a black abyss that stretched across the wall.
Looking glum, dead and tired, he looked backwards and onto the desk. Now standing up, he walked to the desk grabbed a jug of water and put it in his cup. His eye bags surrounded his eyes and his face was remarkably disgusting. The attire he had did not match his looks at all, in fact it was the opposite. Luxurious clothing, hand-woven from rare materials, it's almost as if he stole it. But he didn't. It was a gift from an old friend.
Trying to forget about that friend he shook his head almost as if the memory of them grabbed onto him and he was trying to get it off. Lazily, he yet again tucked himself to sleep, closed his eye and drifted into his mind.