Thinking about locking ideas away brought his attention to the briefcase. He had put it under the bed, figuring he’d probably forget about it for a while, but just then he realized that he actually had some new ideas for unlocking it. He also realized that the only parts he had to experiment with were some of the batteries he’d originally taken with him. There were some basic parts stashed away that he could use, but he could wait a few minutes to plan out exactly what he wanted to do.

He wanted to sketch out the idea for a cylindrical ether battery that incorporated both his crosshatch pattern and a way to vary its output. He also had some notes he wanted to take about Force constructs that he’d thought of during the competition, and when he was at the museum. There was a lot of interesting things in that maintenance room, but it was the personal shield he’d heard the Oberon Guard confiscated which had grabbed his interest. It was such an interesting idea. A shield he could carry with him, one that would cover his body.

How the hell would he even go about designing it? Would the field be shaped? Would you have multiple shaped force fields surrounding the individual? How did you account for how their body moved? The only thing he could think of was that whoever was behind the design at access to glyphs he didn’t know about yet, glyphs that had a strange and very useful effect on forcefields.

There was currently no way to alter the shape of a forcefield while a construct was active— not that Hunter knew of, and he was pretty sure that such a development would be huge news, unless it was at the bleeding edge of etherium research, in which case it made perfect sense that it would be kept as secret as possible.

Not that it would matter anymore. Trey probably had a research team combing over the tech at that very moment.

He refocused before the unsolved mystery became too much of a lasting distraction.

He sat on his bed with the briefcase, and tried to remember all he could from the tale of the Journeyer. He deeply regretted the fact that he hadn’t brought a camera to take his own pictures of the paintings. He was sure he could find some photos if he searched around some libraries. Maybe Trey could help him with that. He almost wished that he had some way to access some publicly available database on demand. It would make his work so much easier.

He figured that would be a huge undertaking though. What company would want to carry the financial burden of installing all that infrastructure? It was kind of ridiculous notion, a utopian fantasy. An interconnected network of information, freely available to anyone who wanted to use it

He laughed at himself. What a silly idea. But who knows? Maybe one day someone would invent something like that, as hard as it was to believe. Wouldn’t the ancient Asutnahem think similarly of being able to fly in ships, and leave the world behind them?

He fiddled with the keypad, running his fingers along the alphabet. He had no idea how many characters the passcode would require. There was no option for numbers. He’d tried his name, his fathers name, the name of his deceased mother, the month he was born, the city he was born, the names of various glyphs. The list went on, and on. At this point, it was nothing more than a game to him. He never really expected to open the briefcase. All the obvious words had been used, and there were a lot of languages in the world. Finding the right word would be like finding a needle in a very large haystack.

He wasn’t sure he cared to find the needle.

The contents of the briefcase were a mystery— he'd guessed that they might be books, or some cash. He'd softly shaken the briefcase once, and those were the only guess he could come up with.

At first, he’d felt a burning desire to discover what was inside, but over time he’d grown at peace with the ignorance. Coming up with ever-stranger ideas about its contents was almost as much of a game as trying to guess the right word.

The first word he remembered encountering in the Asutnahem exhibition was their symbol for peace. He used the corresponding keys on the lock to type it in. No reaction.

He thought about the statue, and he remembered a mention of the Asutnahem symbol for balance.

The briefcase remained locked.

He made his way through the various paintings, trying various synonymous for self, knowledge, power, truth, discovery, hostility, reflection, eyes, and even tried peace again just in case he spelled it wrong the first time.

Nothing. The briefcase stayed stubbornly shut.

Then he tried ‘invitation.’ Still nothing. Flame also didn’t cause the briefcase to open.

He remembered the final symbol he’d noticed, the symbol for revelation. Hunter sighed, getting tired of the game.

He typed it in, and the keypad beeped.

The briefcase clicked open.

Hunter froze. For a moment he had no thoughts, he didn’t even breathe. The mansion seemed dead quiet.

He’d done it.

He slowly opened the briefcase, hardly believing what was happening. The briefcase was filled with small books. Journals, all bound together in groups. The very first one he saw, which was a single journal on top of all the rest, had a simple title.

For Hunter.

Hunter had just remembered to breathe, but all of a sudden his breath caught, his throat tightened.

He was nervous.

That was his fathers handwriting. He hadn’t seen it for years.

But who had brought left the briefcase in front of his home in the first place? Who had gained access to his fathers stuff?

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

If it wasn’t Trey, could it have been Jimmy? He probably would have said something, right? Unless this was all part of a conspiracy, which he genuinely couldn’t discount the possibility of.

But he was smart enough to know that paranoia was paranoia— just because he couldn’t discount the possibility, didn’t mean he had to believe it entirely. So far, Trey had proven himself to be reliable.

So he took a deep breath and carefully picked up the journal.

He opened it to the first page.

“My dear son, if you’re reading this, it means that I'm gone. My demise is not a surprise to me, and I've hired some reliable people to deliver these to you if I’m not around to do so myself.”

Tears hit the pages, and the ink started to run. Hunter wiped his eyes and tried to still his shaking hands.

He’d wanted nothing more than to talk with his father one more time, to be able to say goodbye, to tell him how much he loved him. To tell him that no matter what anyone said, he still believed in him.

This wasn’t quite the same, but it felt so close. He felt like his father was there with him, in that room.

He continued reading.

Ever since you were born, you struggled. I had hoped that your physical handicap would resolve itself as you got older, but it never did. But despite your handicap, you were always so intelligent and driven to learn and create. You remind me of myself when I was young. So curious, so bright eyed and ambitious. When I saw in you the same spark of sensitivity to etherium that I have, I knew that you were destined to walk a similar path. I knew you would come to see depths and possibilities in etherium and constructs that no one else can.

But your affinity never rose. Your sadness when your first Affinity Rating results came back broke my heart. But I had hoped that with time, your rating would naturally rise. You’re my son after all, and my Affinity has risen to heights I hadn’t imagined were possible. I was so sure that you would eventually blossom.

Yet your AR remained infantile, but your intellect and your will to create never faltered. I love that about you, Hunter. I’m so proud of you…

..but I couldn’t stand to see you suffer. I resolved to discover a way to help you. No matter what. You might wonder why i’ve been so absent from your life. You might resent me for my distance, but it wasn’t because I didn’t value you, it’s not because I loved you less than my work. You were the reason why I worked so hard. You inspired me to go deeper than I ever have before.

Hunter remembered the day his father promised him to find a way to help him increase his AR. He was so ashamed of himself back then, a lot more than he was now. When he was younger, he hadn’t known that there was a way forward. He had almost lost hope.

His fathers promise had been a balm, it soothed his fears and let him focus on his interests. Soon after, he would start to see his father a lot less frequently. He would spend days, weeks, and sometimes months in his lab. Hunter grew used to the isolation, and the assistants his father had used as a proxy to keep Hunters life organized, but he never blamed his father. If anyone understood, it was Hunter. They were the same.

Etherium called to them, and spoke to them in a way that it didn’t speak to anyone else.

“..maybe I went too deep. Maybe i’ve seen too much. It’s my deepest pleasure to pass these journals on to you Hunter, because they not only detail my work, my theories, my plans, they also reveal the method I've developed to dramatically accelerated the growth of Affinity in an individual…”

Hunter was speechless. He’d actually managed to do it?

But it was impossible, right? Hunter given up that dream so many years ago, even before his father had died.

“…I don’t have any reason to believe that you will have any problems with practicing the method, which I've named the Etheric Arts— In fact, the only problem I think you’ll have with the Arts is the choices I made in order to develop them…”

He didn’t want to read any further. He started to set the journal down, but then he felt a sudden urge to continue.

He couldn’t stop. He had to know, no matter what it meant.

No matter how he’d feel about it.

“…it’s in these few fleeing moments of clarity that I can see what I've done, who I've become, and I sometimes regret the decisions that have led me here. But its too late to change the past, my hands are already stained in blood. My obsession seems to drive me beyond reason at times. All those lives taken, yet the faint sense of regret never lasts for long. I’m sorry, Hunter, this isn’t how I wanted you to find out. If I had my way, you never would have learned about this. But you have to understand, in order to see you live your life to the fullest, I would do anything, I would stop at nothing…”

He regretted ever having gone to that museum. He regretted ever wanting to feel close to his father, he regretted the curiosity that had driven him to keep trying to guess the right passcode to this cursed briefcase.

He wanted to throw the journal across the room. But he felt so utterly weak. He didn’t bother wiping away the tears, he didn’t try to avoid the pain in this chest, or the burning in his throat. He couldn’t have.

All of a sudden he could do anything but sit there and cry.

He’d been wrong.

His father hadn’t been who he had thought he was. For all those years after his fathers death, to everyone who’d ever said anything ill about Gideon Koar, Hunter had defended him. He’d defended a murderer.

After a few minutes, he started to calm down. Hunter couldn’t help but feel like he wanted to know more. He needed something, anything, to justify what his father had done. Nothing ever could, and he felt like an idiot for searching, but maybe he was an idiot.

After all, everyone else had seemed to accept the obvious about his father. Why hadn’t he?

Another episode of grief threatened to rise, but he pushed it aside as best he could.

He flipped to the next page of the journal. What followed appeared to be the insane scribblings of a madman.

“…I’ll spare you the details of what I had to do in order to develop these methods. They aren’t relevant. The sacrifices I made were necessary. A few deaths in exchange for countless lives? For your life? Maybe its a consequence of the man I've become, but it’s a trade that I have made in a heartbeat. I didn’t hesitate to do what I had to do. I hope you’ll understand…”

“…I saw something once I passed the first internal threshold. There is a darkness somewhere out there Hunter. Beyond the world. I can feel it within me, now. What is the power of an ant before the combined might of the Council? Take that contrast and amplify it a hundred thousand fold. That is the darkness we face, that is the horror I am trying to save us from. We are as ants, we are as dust in a vast cosmic wind, and believe me: we will be swept away. It will be the end of everything, Hunter. The end of the world. The end of time. I’ve seen it. You have to believe me…”

Hunters life had never been at risk. Had his father really thought that he was actually saving lives by killing?

“…but maybe you won’t. I understand how this sounds. What matters is that the Etheric Arts work. The year I decided to commit myself to this task, my AR was 102. I was among the 99th percentile of humanity…”

Hunter had always guessed about what his father’s AR was. He’d never been open about it before.

Now he knew, and he found that he hard trouble caring. So what? What good was all of that Affinity, if it belonged to a mad man?

“As of this morning, my AR now measures in at 283. Do you see now why I’ve taken these steps, Hunter?”

“283,” Hunter whispered. It couldn’t be possible. His father was a lunatic, delusional. He ought to close the journal, burn the rest of them, and forget he ever saw them.

But, he knew he couldn't. Not yet.

Yes, his father was clearly out of his mind, having spiraled down a moral and psychological hellhole.

But what if?

What if he wasn’t wrong about what he’d done? What if his father wasn’t delusional about this?

He shook his head.

It didn’t matter. What his father had done was wrong. It wasn’t worth the possibility. What if the Arts required someone else as a sacrifice?

He closed the journal, put it back in the briefcase, and hid it under his bed.

He’d figure out what to do with it before he left for the academy.