In an inconspicuous room furnished with bland, unappealing furniture, a man sat at a brown wooden desk and lifted a quill.
Minimal light seeped through the glass window above, forcing the man to switch on a nearby lamp.
The beacon illuminated the little desk with a flicker. After straightening his posture, the man focused his shadow-covered eyes on the long, beige paper in front of him.
Gripping the white quill in hand, he couldn't help but tremble with excitement. The quill smoothly glided on the paper, leaving black ink that formed into words.
"I often wonder, what will the end that we face entail?
"Will we be judged by a Creator and sentenced to either Heaven or Hell? Will we be reincarnated as another being and relive life from a different perspective? Will we face an abrupt death, one that strips us of our consciousness and leaves us in an eternal slumber?
"Who decides this? Who will determine the outcome? Who will tell us to live life to the fullest before it is too late?! In every waking moment of our lives, the internal timer that lies in our hearts ticks away without end.
"Yet, we go by our days seemingly oblivious! What will happen in the period after we die and before we are subjugated to an everlasting sleep?
"It's a mystery in our world. Therefore, following decades of internal struggle, I have decided to seek the truth behind this ambiguity."
The previous paper abruptly disappeared, and a new one formed from thin air.
"Rejoice, for I have established an explanation! The stars aligned! The moon shone brightly, indicating that I am correct! The grass flourished in the wind; the trees danced without end!
"Death shall await us, that is for sure. But what we have forgotten is a moment before death takes over. The sliver of life that we can have freedom from all the world's shackles. Monopoly over this fragment of time is needed! It can serve as our savior, shielding us from the cruelties of our origin and the life hereafter!
"I have coined this discovery: Near-Death!
"A moment where we are not alive, nor are we dead! A finite duration of freedom and bliss.
"But my discovery brings forth countless queries. How does one enter Near-Death? Is there a ritual, a being you can pray to, or is it based on your heart's true desire?
"I have decided to devote the rest of my life to learning more about Near-Death. In hopes that someday, the world can experience this splinter of freedom! Wouldn't the world like that as well? Wouldn't the world prefer to be in the know? They should! I want to spread my visions across the horizons! Introduce the concept of near-death to those who aren't blessed! Maybe I can help them reach near-death? Maybe I can help them cross the side to finally see what their meaningless lives are for.
The paper suddenly diminished, and another one appeared.
"But I, too, want to experience Near-Death. I, too, want to cross to that other side. I, too, want to stand in the rift, gazing at near-death. I want to experience it, I want to feel it, and I want to be it.
"It comes down to, do I want to spread near-death, or do I want to keep it for myself? Or am I capable of both?
"We are all blinded lambs being led to the inevitable slaughter that is death. We cannot stop it, we cannot fight it, we cannot do anything but accept it.
'"He' holds his knives, dripping with blood, and watches us maliciously. But then, it disappears, along with everything we thought was real. 'His' watchful eye is just a figment of 'His' very mind.
"So I want to provide a safeguard! To show that near-death is something to long for. But I want to feel it too! I should feel it too!
"Why am I conflicted? In this world, this made-up, imaginative world, am I the butcher, the lamb, or both?"
- Malachi Peres.
. . .
On an unknown island, secluded from any place the eye can cast its gaze on, the crippling beige walls of an ancient castle groaned and quaked violently.
The hallways were narrow and suffocating, trembling at the slightest pressure. Wooden splintered floors creaked, deteriorating surfaces shed dust, and mice scurried along the depths of the everlasting shadows.
Twelve men, draped in white robes and wielding obsidian claymores, entered a dimly lit room with solemn expressions. The symbol on their robes, one bearing the image of a golden crown with a black longsword piercing through it, was situated right above their hearts. The silk robes covered most of their bodies, rendering only the men's faces exposed to the dusty air.
Upon entering the enclosed space, they lined up in an orderly fashion. There were three rows of four men, each standing parallel to the man in front of them. Faces were grim with anguish as they clutched their swords one at a time. Knuckles whitened and teeth gritted. It was as if a moment was awaited, one that usurps the attention of the figures present.
Some scanned the area. To their left, a rotting cabinet statically collected flakes of dust. The window, crystal-like and sizable, was cracked and covered by a black tarp. There was a brown carpet beneath them, one with unusual patterns. They were like roots under a tree, spreading to each edge of the mat.
Just ahead, located high on the wall, was a portrait of a man whose face was cut off by a shadow.
The man wore a monarch's outfit, an elaborate red cape lined with gold embellishments. Expensive dark blue trousers matched the maroon silk that surrounded his body.
However, there was an absence of a crown on his head. It left those who have had the displeasure of gazing upon the image to wonder who this gentleman was. Was this figure a king, or just a façade?
He was sitting on a simple, black throne. Both hands rested leisurely on the corresponding handles. Underneath the throne was not land, no. It was a globe, one filled with oceans, continents of land, and specked with people—worshippers. A domineering presence that shattered any will in attendance oozed from the portrait.
Irises shrank as the men gazed upon the image. Some stumbled back, while others gasped. But after hesitantly lifting their heads and focusing on the eyes of the portrait, an indescribable darkness targeted the very marrow of their bones.
Compressing pressure suffocated every corner of the room. The backs of all the men tensed as they plummeted, forced into a kneeling prostration position.
Droplets of cold sweat dotted the ground; no man present could withstand the monstrous ambiance that had encapsulated the trembling room.
The one closest to the portrait, a man who donned a broken crown, began to show signs of struggling to part his lips. His jaw clenched and released, twitching uncontrollably.
It wasn't until a pool of blood had formed directly beneath his head that sound had finally escaped the set of quivering lips. The mouth he once struggled to part had been tainted with crimson liquid.
The man heaved an exhale, revealing a blood-soaked tongue.
With all the power and will he could muster, the invocation began. "Conqueror of Aglana, forgive us, for we have let the wretched hunters execute your blessed children." His tone was riddled with fear and guilt.
Tears streamed down the rest of the men's faces, but they could not wipe them. The prostration toward the shadow-covered portrait remained.
The broken-crowned man continued, "You have privileged us, providing your unworthy servants with the very power you dictate. We thank you graciously, O' Archon of Authority." He then coughed.
The sound of blood splattering on the ground enveloped the somber room. Each robed man had bit his tongue and staggered to get up. The only way to resist the sheer dominance of the portrait's gaze was through self-harm.
Another one of the men whimpered as he spoke. "We were lost, and you guided us. You revealed the path of glory, despite this world being one stained with the blood of our siblings." Mausi Creal's tears streamed without end.
After Mausi's sudden mourning, one more voice lamented. "His orders were cruel, and we could do nothing but watch. The wicked imagination that surrounded Him, one He bent at His will. A simple death is not enough."
The broken-crowned man, who had soft black hair and dilating hazel eyes, unsheathed his fervently buzzing claymore and announced imperiously. "Men! By the Archon's will, we shall scour the enemies! Protect his children! Recement the glory of the prominent Day Dynasty!" The need to lift their moods was required.
An enthusiastic affirmation was made in unison. "Ay! We shall avenge our fallen brethren!" Each man began unsheathing their weapons and gripping the handles harder. A coil of dark, foggy magic had begun to surround their blades, twisting and convulsing like a serpent squeezing its prey.
"We have awaited this moment!" One of them yelled. He had golden brown hair, which fell just shy of his ears. Two pale, crimson eyes were situated on his chiseled face. The name he went by was Jareer Qasim.
"To exact revenge on the hunters we shall!" Another one yelled. This time, the figure had no hair. And just below his jawline, a jagged scar could be detected. The fiery orange pupils on this robed man's face exuded genuine rage. His name: Arin Maylor.
Jareer and Arin stood next to each other. The capes they wore fluttered due to the aura that circulated the room. Snarling, Jareer looked over at the man standing next to him. "Death will not be the end! It cannot be!" He restrained himself from grabbing Arin's collar in an act of rage.
Arin's eyebrows furrowed. "Quiet! Vizier Gilead is going to give us orders." While Arin had also exclaimed with full emotion earlier, it was now time for them to receive the orders bestowed by the Council of the Fallen Day Dynasty. They had to stay focused. Jareer scoffed but also attentively listened to Gilead.
The sound of their buzzing claymores had begun to emanate from the restrained and enclosed space. Gilead turned his body to face the men. "Call to action. Seize the Chronicles." A compact, simple order.
With stern denotation, he continued. "The Imperialists around Aglana will aid in awakening the Archon's Descendants. Our duty is to rid the world of hunters, ensuring that no one will harm 'His' children". Multiple nods and other forms of confirmation were made as Gilead finished talking.
It was not until a faint presence made its way through the ancient, crumbling castle that it caused mixed reactions. The men's ears pricked up, and cold sweat slid down the sides of their temples.
One of the men, who had ginger hair and green eyes, spoke out. "Vizier Gilead, I sense... someone."
Gilead nodded affirmatively; he had already noticed the foreign presence. Swinging the night-black weapon and positioning it in front of his body, the message was clearly sent. It would be a matter of seconds before the men engaged in combat.
Massaging his temples, the order surfaced. "Men. Get ready."
The men nodded, their eyes darting to where the attack would come from. An afflicting silence loomed over the room, urging the men to make a move.
Gilead's pupils constricted. "Beneath!" He pointed the edge of the large sword toward the foundation beneath their feet.
It was too late.
The floor that lay under the robed men shook violently before caving. After bracing themselves, the inevitable descent took place. However, they were not dropped to the level under the previous one, no.
They fell into a never-ending abyss.
A white fog surfaced and surrounded the men who were spiraling into the empty void. Gilead, and the rest of the men, clutched their throats. This pale mist had left them unable to produce sound.
The fog that surrounded them as they descended began to spin. Then, a section spread and separated from the outer portions. It wrapped around each falling man, including Gilead.
Coiling around their bodies, the unknown mist constricted, rendering the men to choke violently. Gilead, whose face was turning a faint hue of red, struggled to move the sword he held on to. I must repel this foreign attack! His neck deepened in color as the sides of his eyes turned maroon.
After what seemed like ages of struggle, Gilead and some of the other men broke free of the mist that squeezed their arms; they could finally fight back now.
Yet, the area went silent. They remained falling into the endless pit, but it was now quiet; only the noise of the wind resisting their fall could be heard.
That was until they all collectively heard a simple, calm, yet gut-shattering snap.
Whoosh.
They appeared in front of the colossal castle; a flag that bore the Imperial Day Dynasty emblem fluttered in the wind.
Behind them, they could sense a figure slowly approaching. Gilead and the men jerked their heads before shifting their bodies and facing the figure, who was shrouded in ethereal white fog. His hand was extended outwards, and his wrist was swaying side to side, up and down.
He was waving.
Gilead shuddered; his eyes were tinted with a shade of black as his face darkened. A cold-hearted hiss surfaced under his breath.
"Icas..."