Dawn painted the sky over the Pearl River Delta in hues of bruised purple and hesitant orange. From his small balcony overlooking a narrow, winding street in Macao, Joao watched the city slowly awaken.
The scent of jasmine and diesel fumes mingled in the air, a familiar morning cocktail that had greeted him for nearly fifty years.
He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, the roughness a familiar comfort. Another day was beginning. He just did not know how profoundly different this day, and all days after, would become.
Downstairs, in the cramped kitchen of his noodle shop, steam billowed from the large stockpot. The rich aroma of simmering broth, infused with star anise and ginger, filled the small space, a comforting anchor in Joao's routine.
He moved with practiced ease, chopping scallions, preparing char siu, his movements as rhythmic and predictable as the tides.
The shop, "Joao's Noodles," had been his father's, and his father's before him. It was more than a business; it was a legacy woven into the fabric of his life, the taste of home in every bowl.
The first customer of the day shuffled in, Old Man Chen, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, his eyes cloudy with age. "Morning, Joao," Chen rasped, settling onto his usual stool at the counter. His voice was like gravel shifting in a riverbed.
"Morning, Uncle Chen," Joao replied, already ladling broth into a bowl. "The usual?"
Chen nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "Same as always. The world is getting stranger, you know." He said it with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of generations.
Joao chuckled, placing the steaming bowl in front of Chen. "Stranger than usual, Uncle Chen? You say that every week." He wiped down the counter with a damp cloth, the familiar routine calming him.
Chen took a tentative sip of the broth, a small sound of contentment escaping his lips. "No, Joao. This is different. Did you hear about the lights last night?"
Joao paused, turning from the sink where he was rinsing a spoon. "Lights?"
"Over the harbor. Strange colours. Dancing in the sky. Like… like spirits." Chen's eyes, usually dimmed with age, seemed to hold a flicker of something akin to awe, or perhaps, fear.
Joao frowned. Macao was a city of lights, neon signs blazing through the night, fireworks exploding over the casinos.
Strange lights were hardly unusual. "Probably just some casino promotion, Uncle Chen. They're always trying new things." He wanted to dismiss it, but a sliver of unease pricked at him.
Chen shook his head slowly, stubbornly. "No, Joao. This was not casino lights. This was… different." He went back to his noodles, the conversation seemingly over, yet the unease Chen planted lingered in the air, thick and cloying as the humidity.
The morning rush began, and Joao busied himself with orders, the clatter of bowls and chopsticks momentarily drowning out Chen's strange pronouncements.
Students, office workers, tourists – a steady stream of faces filled the small shop, their chatter a comforting background noise.
Yet, Chen's words kept resurfacing in his mind, unbidden and persistent. Strange lights. Spirits. Nonsense, he told himself. Old Man Chen was getting fanciful in his old age.
Later that afternoon, the midday heat settling like a blanket over the city, Joao took a short break. He stepped outside, seeking a breath of fresher air, even if it was still thick with humidity.
The street was quieter now, the lunchtime bustle subsided. Across the narrow lane, a group of young boys were kicking a worn football against a brick wall, their shouts echoing in the stillness. Normal. Everything seemed normal.
Then, one of the boys, the smallest one with a mop of unruly black hair, suddenly stopped mid-kick. He stared at his hands, his eyes wide with disbelief.
He held them out, palms up, and a faint shimmer, like heat haze but colder, began to emanate from them. The football, suspended in mid-air a foot from his outstretched foot, wobbled slightly.
Joao froze, his breath catching in his throat. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked again. The shimmer was still there, faint but undeniably present.
The other boys, initially confused, now circled around the small boy, their murmurs growing louder. The football remained suspended, defying gravity, defying logic.
"What… what is that?" one of the older boys whispered, pointing a trembling finger.
The small boy looked as frightened as he was amazed. "I… I don't know. It just… happened." He lowered his hands slowly, and the shimmer dissipated. The football dropped to the ground with a soft thud, rolling to Joao's feet.
He picked it up mechanically, the worn leather cool against his suddenly clammy palm. He stared at the boys, at the street, at the buildings around him.
The world seemed subtly altered, the air charged with an unseen energy. This was not normal. This was not casino lights.
He went back inside his shop, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The afternoon customers were trickling in, oblivious to the subtle shift in reality that Joao had just witnessed. He served them mechanically, his mind racing.
He turned on the small radio he kept on the counter, hoping for some explanation, some rationalization.
The local news broadcast was playing. The anchor's voice, usually calm and measured, was edged with a tremor. "…reports are still coming in from across the globe. Unexplained phenomena… unusual energy surges… authorities are urging calm, but there is currently no official explanation for these events. Scientists are baffled…"
The anchor switched to a field reporter, standing on the Senado Square, the usually vibrant public space looking eerily subdued.
"…as you can see, the atmosphere here is… tense. People are reporting strange occurrences, from objects moving on their own, to… to more unusual events. We have unconfirmed reports of… individuals exhibiting… abilities. Again, these are unconfirmed, and we urge caution in believing unsubstantiated rumours…"
Rumours. Joao glanced at his hands, the image of the shimmering haze around the boy's palms burned into his mind. This was not rumour. This was real. Something was happening. Something profound, something unsettling.
Days blurred into weeks. The initial shock slowly gave way to a new, unsettling normalcy. Magic, or whatever it was, had become real.
It was in the air, in the streets, in the very fabric of existence. Some people dismissed it as mass hysteria, elaborate hoaxes. But the evidence was undeniable, growing stronger every day.
Small, petty magic tricks became commonplace. Street performers levitating coins, vendors conjuring small bursts of flame to cook food, children making toys dance in the air.
It was initially amusing, even wondrous. But then, the darker side began to emerge.
Reports of magical thefts started to surface. Jewelry disappearing from locked safes, money vanishing from wallets, entire shops inexplicably emptied overnight. At first, these were isolated incidents, easily dismissed as clever scams. But the frequency increased, the audacity grew.
One evening, as Joao was closing up shop, a young woman, no older than twenty, walked in. She was dressed in simple clothes, her face pale, her eyes darting nervously around the shop. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling, "Can you help me?"
Joao, tired and on edge after a long day of increasingly strange customer interactions, sighed. "We're closed, miss. Come back tomorrow." He started wiping down the counter, trying to ignore her.
"No, please," she insisted, taking a step closer. "It's… it's about my brother. They took him."
"Who took him?" Joao asked, his weariness momentarily forgotten.
"The… the Enchanted," she whispered the word as if it was blasphemous. "They came last night. Said he had… potential. They just… took him." Tears welled in her eyes.
Joao felt a chill crawl down his spine. The Enchanted. That's what they were calling people with magic now. He had heard whispers of them, rumours of organized groups, gangs even, exploiting their newfound abilities. "Who are 'they'?" he pressed.
"I don't know their names. Just… men. With… with fire." She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. "They burned down our door. They just… took him."
Joao stared at her, the fear in her eyes mirroring the growing dread in his own heart. This was no longer just strange lights and levitating coins. This was something darker, something dangerous. "The police…" he started, but the words felt hollow even to his own ears.
"The police can't do anything," she said, her voice flat, devoid of hope. "They're… overwhelmed. Outnumbered. Outmatched." She looked at him pleadingly. "Please, you have to help me. Please."
Joao wanted to help her, he truly did. But what could he, a simple noodle shop owner, do against people who could conjure fire? He felt a profound sense of helplessness, a crushing weight of inadequacy. "I… I don't know what I can do," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
"Anything," she begged. "Just… anything."
He looked at her, at the raw desperation in her eyes. He thought of his shop, his life, his peaceful routine that was now shattered, irrevocably changed.
He thought of Old Man Chen, of the boy with the shimmering hands, of the news reports, of the whispers in the streets. The world had turned upside down, and the innocent were being preyed upon.
"Wait here," he said finally, his voice firmer now, a flicker of resolve igniting within him. He went into the back of the shop, rummaging through an old box until he found what he was looking for.
A heavy, rusty cleaver, a relic from his father's days, rarely used now but still sharp. It was a small, insignificant weapon against magic, but it was something. It was all he had.
He returned to the front, the cleaver hidden behind his back. "Tell me everything," he said to the young woman. "Everything you know about these… Enchanted."
Night descended, painting Macao in shades of black and neon. Joao, armed with nothing but a rusty cleaver and a burning sense of injustice, followed the young woman through the darkened streets. The city felt different at night now.
The usual sounds of traffic and chatter were muted, replaced by an undercurrent of unease, a palpable tension that hung heavy in the air. He could feel the magic now, a subtle thrumming beneath the surface, a silent promise and a lurking threat.
They reached a dilapidated building in a less frequented part of the city, the kind of place tourists rarely ventured. The air here was thick with the smell of damp concrete and something else, something acrid, like burnt metal. The young woman pointed to a flickering light in a window on the second floor. "They're in there," she whispered.
Joao took a deep breath, the metallic scent stinging his nostrils. He felt a cold dread gripping his gut, but he pushed it down, focusing on the young woman's desperate face, on the image of the boy with the shimmering hands, on the injustice that had twisted his familiar world. He had to do something.
He motioned for the woman to stay back and slowly approached the building. The door was hanging off its hinges, groaning in the night breeze. He slipped inside, the cleaver clutched tightly in his hand.
The interior was dark and damp, the air heavy with the same acrid smell. He could hear voices from upstairs, low and menacing.
He climbed the creaking stairs, each step echoing in the silence. He reached the second floor, the flickering light spilling out from under a door at the end of the corridor. He could hear the voices more clearly now, harsh and cruel.
He reached the door, took another deep breath, and kicked it open. The scene that greeted him was like something ripped from a nightmare. The room was sparsely furnished, lit by a single oil lamp that cast long, dancing shadows.
Three men, their faces obscured by the shadows and swirling smoke, stood around a young boy, huddled and trembling in the corner. One of the men held his hand outstretched, a flickering flame dancing above his palm. The air crackled with heat.
"Well, well, look what we have here," one of the men sneered, turning towards Joao. His face was scarred, his eyes cold and predatory. "A little noodle cook come to play hero?"
Joao didn't answer. He stepped into the room, the rusty cleaver raised in a shaky but defiant grip. The flame in the man's hand flared brighter, casting grotesque shadows on the walls.
"Foolish mortal," another man laughed, his voice like sandpaper. "You think you can stand against us?"
The scarred man raised his flaming hand, pointing it at Joao. "Let's show him what happens to those who interfere." He unleashed a jet of fire, searing heat erupting towards Joao.
Joao reacted instinctively, dropping to the ground, the flames passing just over his head. He scrambled forward, his old body aching, the cleaver raised. He swung it wildly, desperately, connecting with something solid. A grunt of pain, a startled cry.
Chaos erupted. Flames filled the room, shadows danced and twisted, shouts and screams echoed in the confined space.
Joao fought with a ferocity born of desperation, fueled by a lifetime of quiet routine shattered by this sudden, brutal intrusion of magic. He was no hero, no warrior, just a simple man fighting for something he didn't even fully understand, something lost and something precious.
But against magic, against fire and power he could barely comprehend, a rusty cleaver was no match. He was thrown back, slammed against the wall, the breath knocked out of him.
He saw the scarred man advancing, flames dancing in his eyes, the acrid smell of burnt flesh filling his nostrils. He closed his eyes, waiting for the searing pain.
It never came. Instead, he heard a scream, a different scream, a child's scream, filled with terror and agony. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred with pain and smoke.
He saw the young boy, the boy the woman had been trying to save, engulfed in flames, his small body writhing in unimaginable pain. The scarred man stood over him, his face contorted in a cruel, triumphant grin.
The other two men were gone, vanished in the chaos. Joao lay there, helpless, watching as the boy burned, the flames consuming him, reducing him to ash and smoke. The scarred man laughed, a hollow, chilling sound that echoed in the night.
Then, the flames died down, extinguished as quickly as they had erupted. The scarred man turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness, leaving Joao alone in the smoke-filled room, amidst the ashes of a child.
The young woman rushed in, her face white with horror. She saw the ashes on the floor, the smoke still swirling in the air, and she understood. She collapsed to her knees, a silent scream tearing through her soul.
Joao lay there, broken, defeated. He had tried to help, he had tried to fight back, but he had failed. He had lost. And in losing, he had witnessed something truly horrific, something that would forever haunt his dreams.
He slowly rose to his feet, his body aching, his spirit crushed. He looked at the young woman, her silent grief a mirror of his own despair. He looked at the ashes on the floor, the remnants of a life extinguished too soon.
The magic hadn't just turned the world upside down. It had turned it inside out, revealing the darkness at its core, a darkness he could no longer ignore, a darkness that had claimed an innocent life, and in doing so, had extinguished something within Joao himself.
He was just a noodle shop owner from Macao. He had no magic, no power, no hope.
He had only loss, a brutal, senseless loss that tasted like ash in his mouth, and the crushing weight of a world irrevocably changed, a world where even a simple man, with a simple cleaver, was utterly powerless to stop the burning horror.
He had tried to make noodles, to make a life, in a world that no longer cared for simple things. And now, there was nothing left to make.