Anthemion gasped, certain that the man had just sealed his fate and, even worse, that of his family. However, Lucian's response was far from what he expected. A grin crept across the thug's face as he pointed at Anthemion and beckoned him over, his voice hinting at both amusement and impending violence: "Come here, boy."
Anthemion hesitated for just a fleeting moment, caught between his instinctual caution and Lucian's unwavering, piercing gaze. But as Lucian's grin began to fade, giving way to steel, he reluctantly obliged, his steps measured and deliberate to keep his anxiety at bay.
Lucian placed his hand on the shoulder of the young adult, akin in size to a bear's paw, showcasing him like a salesman would a valuable product. "We've got dozens of men like this. Loyal soldiers that, with access to Scriptures and Essences, can become an unstoppable army at a moment's notice. Take a good look at him, Cornelius. They're the future," Lucian told the battered man with a certain pride in his voice, gesturing towards Anthemion who was quite unsure about the thug's sincerity.
Turning to him, Lucian leaned forward and whispered loudly, "Break him down. He insulted me and, by extension, LUV. Show him what happens to people like him. Let him feel it." A chilling snicker punctuated Lucian's command, leaving Anthemion paralyzed by the weight of his responsibility.
He was unable to move, rooted to the ground like a tree, unsure if he had heard correctly. Caught between his uncertainty and the role assigned to him, the reality he still had to grasp, he searched Lucian's face for an indication he meant otherwise, had made a joke. But the man merely met his eyes squarely.
The stoic determination of his expression and the sadistic gleam in his eyes left no room for disobedience, promising swift punishment should Anthemion decide not to follow the order. Anthemion's internal struggle was palpable as he regarded Lucian's gaze, considering his options. The unsettling gleam in his eyes was a stark reminder of the merciless authority the Syndicate held, and Anthemion's need to heed it. Slowly, subduing his emotions one by one, he ultimately settled into a facade of calm. This was not the time nor the place for hesitation or dissent. He couldn't allow himself another mistake, not with what was on the line.
Gulping, he faced Cornelius who met his gaze with unwilling resolve, but Anthemion saw a sliver of fear in them, no matter how hard the man tried to conceal it, much like a flicker of light struggling against the encroaching darkness. Anthemion recognized himself in the man; the situation was the same as the one he had lived through, only with the tables turned. Now, he was the punisher administering undeniable justice. But it wasn't just. In that moment, it dawned upon him with cold astonishment that this was a warning for the man as much as it was for him. A grim yet effective reminder of what had been and what could be. A shocking demonstration of the Syndicate's superiority and a display of its ruthless might.
How could Anthemion resist a force capable of brutal violence against an obviously wealthy resident of the 4th district? He suppressed his thoughts, left them for contemplation at another time. It felt wrong to prey upon a defenseless man already lying on the ground, but he simply was powerless to intervene, and if it would help him earn favor with Lucian and amend for his past mistakes, it was only a small price.
He didn't particularly like violence, nor did he dislike it. It was merely a tool, something he himself had employed in the past to earn money, procure food, or defend himself. Violence had been an outlet, an escape. A means for him to channel his pent-up anger, born from the misery and hardships of his life, into strength. It had granted him a fleeting semblance of control over his life otherwise defined by uncertainty, even if it only left behind regret.
The first time he had struck someone and felt the flesh yield to his fist, he had nearly retched. But after his hands had been bathed in crimson, baptized by blood, and his body adorned with bruises of all colors and red-flowing cuts, he had grown numb. For a while, it became routine, a daily part of his everyday life, his existence.
He had allowed his thirst for it, akin to the need for breath, his craving for freedom through suppression. However, over time, his outlook had reshaped. He had reevaluated his actions, calmed, and matured. There was no satisfaction anymore for him in asserting his superiority over others, be it only through punches and kicks. The fun and longed-for relief in unleashing his pent-up anger had dissipated, gone like a bad headache. Those days were behind him, though not as distant as he would've liked.
Nevertheless, and despite his reservations, he recognized violence as a part of his reality.
He was no longer a small child. By affiliating with LUV, he understood the commitments he had undertaken and considered it a necessary cost on his perilous path to freedom and the salvation of his family. May the gods redeem his soul or condemn it to an endless inferno of fiery punishment after his inevitable death. His dire future didn't matter; those worries paled in comparison to the quivering and trembling of his sister during the month they couldn't spare enough money to pay for her medicine. Her pallid face, green with sickness, as he stood behind her, holding her hair back to prevent vomit from entangling it. The never-ending nights of nightmares, the fear of awakening with an all-too-familiar corpse in the bed to his side. He steeled his resolve, the specter of violence looming over him like a cruel crown.
Anthemion attempted a tentative kick to Cornelius' side, but Lucian's disapproving gaze signaled that it was inadequate, not enough. So, he mustered his courage and beseeched divine forgiveness for his atrocities. Taking a wide stance, he clenched his fists.
His punches rained down in a frenzy, knuckles ablaze with fiery agony as Cornelius' body jerked under the blows. Anthemion ceased the ordeal only when the man succumbed to the merciful embrace of unconsciousness. With each new strike, Lucian's smile widened, and by the end, he regarded Anthemion as if he were a precious and valuable gem.
Heavily breathing, Anthemion stepped backward, averting his gaze from the bruised and broken man before him. Blood dripped from his painful, throbbing hands, battered and swollen.
A high-pitched scream pierced the garden like a siren, followed by the tearful appearance of a small girl, alerted by the loud sounds. She rushed to her father's side, barely clinging to life. Anthemion would never forget the look in her eyes. The pure anguish, the sheer disbelief, and the pain manifested in her cries plunged a knife deep into his heart. She shielded her father as best as possible with her shivering form, a frail barrier. Her gaze flickered wearily between Lucian and him, as if they were monsters in human disguise.
Lucian only laughed and departed. Anthemion lingered momentarily, wrestling with words he wished to convey, yearned to offer solace, hesitated to tell her that he was sorry, to say anything at all. But in the end, he turned as well.
This marked the first instance he had raised his fists at the behest of another, and not to ensure his or his family's survival. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had transgressed a line best left uncrossed.
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The way back to the 9th district was far too long for Anthemion’s taste. He felt hollow and miserable. He had committed numerous actions he wasn't proud of, his misdeeds as countless as the stars. Yet, never before had someone regarded him with such a look of pure horror, disgust, and raw angst, as the little girl that had gazed upon him. It was as if she had stripped away his facade, unveiled the poor excuse for a human being he was, and gazed beyond this illusion to his very rotten core, encountering nothing but darkness within him – an endless abyss. What had become of him? A mere brute that could only resolve his matters with flying fists and violence? A man who obeyed and followed the orders of mad men like Lucian? There was no honor in enacting the role of a forceful suppressor.
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He had seen accusation in the girl's eyes, and his own conscience had found him guilty. Was this truly the only path? Was he prepared to sacrifice this much of his integrity just for wealth? And what would become of him if he continued down this road? On the other hand, Lucian displayed no moral qualms or remorse. On the contrary, he seemed even more energetic than before, as if invigorated. He regaled Anthemion with stories akin to the one that had just transpired. He spoke of men so terrified that they kneeled and groveled before him, and women willingly sharing his bed just to be spared his violence, all without him even saying a single word. He laughed, cheered, and talked, and Anthemion mustered a smile when expected, though his mind was distant.
Only when Lucian's voice grew serious did he will himself to leave his mental turmoil behind and focus. “You know, Ant, I didn't think you had it in you,” he began, accelerating recklessly past the speed limit, overtaking the other vehicles on the road before executing a sharp turn to the left, rendering the countless lights illuminating the city's nightlife to a singular blur of colors beyond the window. “But you surprised me today, really. You showed courage and some potential.”
Anthemion nearly gagged as Lucian complimented his actions - the beating of a defenseless man before his daughter's eyes. With his eyes still fixed on the road, Lucian added further, allowing a hint of warmth to color his tone, a nuance Anthemion had never heard from him before, “You understand what happened today?”
For a moment, Anthemion hesitated, briefly considered giving a nonsensical answer, or even denying it. But, the gravity of the situation and the potentially disastrous consequences of lying quickly extinguished those thoughts. He simply nodded.
“Good,” Lucian continued. “Then there may be a place for you among us in the future. You know, even if you are all muscles and pure power, you also need wits. A little intuition that whispers to you what is right and what is wrong, who you can take on and who you cannot. You must find a place in the structure of our group and live by it, for disturbing the status quo would result in nothing but casualties and death. Do you understand?”
Anthemion nodded once more, firmer this time.
“Do you understand this opportunity? The power of LUV?" Lucian asked.
"I walked into the residence of a high-ranking and respected member of the social elite in the 11st Dominion and thrashed him, frightened his daughter, and slapped his wife around like a mere moth. Yet, the guards tasked with protecting these despicable humans – those who accumulated their wealth through the unjust exploitation of ordinary workers and the vulnerable – did nothing to help them. Do you know why?" He made a short pause, as if waiting for Anthemion to answer, before elaborating himself, "Because they fear us! Because we control them!”
His speech concluded with a faint snicker. “Not that their guardianship could have altered the outcome in any way. Perhaps a few more casualties.” The gleam in his eyes suggested to Anthemion that Lucian was rather disappointed in their lack of action. After that, the thug fell silent for the remainder of the drive, only grunting or mumbling thoughts to himself, paying Anthemion no further attention.
The man truly was an enigma. He just couldn't figure him out. Lucian shifted from murderous seriousness to brutal aggression, from sadistic madness to calm analysis in the span of a heartbeat and without any apparent reason or connection. It unsettled Anthemion, leaving him with a sense of unease.
Coming to a halt in a dimly lit corner before a rusting metal fence and beneath the flickering illumination of a dying street light, Lucian shooed him out of the car. Without another glance, he drove off, leaving Anthemion in the shadows.
Only under the star-studded night sky and the bluish-white radiance of the moons did the 9th district truly come alive. Prostitutes, thieves, dealers, and other denizens of the darkness emerged from their daily slumber to indulge once again in pleasure and heinous crimes, until the very day of their death, granting them the endless freedom of the afterlife.
They filled the streets and dim alleys, poisoning those who had so far managed to remain untouched by the horrors of life in this District. Anthemion navigated his way swiftly through the darkness, deftly avoiding streets, people, and barely lit corners he had learned over many years to steer clear of.
Only when he entered the relative safety of the sky-train, suspended high in the air, reigning over the District like a born sovereign, did he allow himself a moment of relaxation. With his hood pulled low over his face, obscuring his features and shrouding him in shadow down to the nose, he pulled out his smartphone and scrolled, bored, through the internet.
It didn't take long, perhaps less than half the drive, and only a small number of cat videos and memes, for him to stumble upon life-altering news – and not for the better. The screen displayed jarring images of thick smoke billowing into the sky, forming huge columns over the remnants of a once-so-modern building complex, now reduced to nothing more than smoldering ruins. Pictures depicted people with smoke burning in their lungs and tears in their red eyes dashing about, rescuing those trapped under stone from being squashed to death, and healers, Conduits capable of casting healing spells, attended to the wounded where needed.
Countless battleships patrolled the sky, blocking out the light of the moons, only to replace it with blinding rays of white flashlights, scanning for survivors. Amid the chaos, on the ground and even in the air - a feat achievable only by a fewer number of extraordinarily skillful spiritual energy manipulators - were Conduits in union uniforms, akin to deities for lowly men, degrading themselves to provide assistance.
The spirit-mine his father worked at, the most important source of his family's financial income. The single factor that prevented them from plunging even deeper into the abyss of poverty, the precarious thread that held their entire lives intact and their heads just above water, had been nearly entirely eradicated following a catastrophic assault by unidentified terrorists. It was an attack on the heart of modern society, a business operated directly by the noble family Nuvolamura - nothing short of an act of war. It promised mayhem.
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This night he ran home, his shoes squelching as he made one fast turn after another, leaped over fences, and maneuvered narrow, barely safe passages. The weathered building of his childhood stood high and mighty, even if grayed and with fragile paint. Some windows were rudimentarily barricaded with wood and plain steel, others spilled a faint light into the night. Anthemion pressed against the main door, hard, and it swung open with a piercing screech. The lock that once barred unwated entry had lost its function long ago, and nobody cared enough to replace it. What was there to steal in a place devoid of valuables?
The corridor reeked of urine; amid the stifling atmosphere, a lone man crouched on the floor. He raised his chin and his cracked lips curled into a smile. A sound resembling an animal's hiss escaped his throat, perhaps a distorted form of laughter, displaying rotten yellow teeth. Tears shimmered in his eyes, yet he could not stop his maniacal cackling. He tried to mumble words, stared Anthemion deeply in the eyes, but all that escaped his mouth was a low cackle of madness before laughter consumed him again.
Anthemion maintained eye contact for a few more seconds; then it proved too much to bear and he skipped past him and ran up the stairs. It pained him deeply to witness the proud man he had once known as a young child, a protector of some kind, that had introduced him to life around here and showed him ways to not only survive but truly thrive, reduced to an empty, hollow shell of his former sharp and clever self. Sadness threatened to engulf him once more, but he rallied against his emotions, burying them. He wouldn't let the present sully his memories.
Drugs were truly the bane of every person living in this District, subjected to its horror and unable to escape or hope for a brighter future; people took them not to feel good, on top of the world, but rather as a means to escape pain and misery. Drugs were the true rulers of his District, reigning with an iron fist, and with them the drug dealers and gangs. Thankfully, Anthemion had stopped every usage after what had happened to Lewis. This decision stood as the single positive outcome in the midst of his friend's tragedy.