“Did you not catch onto it yet? A week has passed since I have assembled your team. Where are the results?”

Armel inquired from a man, focused on the screen in front of him, and Armel-like dark-circles were appearing under his eyes. Armel peeked from behind the man at the screen, with eyes having worsened, and inquired further.

“512?”

“Yes, sir. 512 tracks and we still can’t get a hold of him.”

The man argued, urging for a break. Whenever he remembered the Armel who’d just arrived at the managerial post, looking youthful and handsome, he was filled with dread. For someone average looking, he might just scare the woman walking beside him.

“Baron, look till 550. No, 600.” Armel said, thoughtfully.

“Prepare the tracking team again.”

Armel looked across the office, which was empty except for them both.

“ Where are they?”

“Sir, they are out for breakfast.”

“Oh come on, it's been twenty minutes. Call them back.”

He began to lurch back to his room, abruptly halting, he said looking at his wristwatch, “And finish the work before… seven.”

“Sir, seven?”

“Did I stagger?”

“No, sir.” Baron replied.

“Quick, we need to finish this out by tomorrow. The sooner the better.”

And he continued to walk out of the office room.

As he walked out of the room, his phone buzzed in his suit’s pocket. In his stressful contemplation, he struggled to procure it.

The phone displayed, “Director”, and he hastily picked it up.

“Armel, why have I not received the reports yet? Have we not caught a single track?”

The oppressive tone and the old director’s aggression towards this case was prevalent. He must have been pressured by the government too.

“Sir, the team I have assembled has been working a lot. They have searched 512 tracks by now, and I am already pushing them. Anything further would be too much.”

Armel answered in his narrative voice, which had grown more huskier, probably from all the shouting and how much he had spoken since last week.

“Are you gonna teach me what’s going further and what’s not?”

The old man retorted.

“Employ them now, and I need a search of thousand tracks by tomorrow. ”

“Sir—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Manager Armel. You know how important this case is. By hook or by crook, do it till tomorrow. If another attack anything like the previous one completes again, we might as well resign ourselves. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir” Armel replied, building an enthusiastic, yet grim tone.

“Good. Meet you tomorrow.”

Beep

And the director declined the call.

“Ugh. Dammit.”

Armel flung his hand in aggression.

The aggression wasn’t directed towards the director, but just at his frustrating situation. He felt pummelled under the hands of his fate.

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“Phu, we need this done right now.”

He gathered his composure swinging around a couple of times.

He carried himself forward, slightly shifting his shoulders and adjusting his dishevelled suit.

“Divina, Divina!” He exclaimed, looking for the head of the tracking team, who had a habit of wandering in the room corridors, especially in the corner spaces for quick puffs of a cigarette.

________________________

Forty-two opened his eyes, on the sound of people, hustling down to the platform.

The train had reached Adair, the city of skyscrapers and luxury, which had crumbled from the fights between assassins of Tabiel guild, and a mystery figure that had filled the city with mist, just about a week ago.

He stood up, carrying a small, weary backpack on his shoulder, and a set of suit and pants, which weren’t quite his height.

His pants couldn’t reach his ankles, and his sleeves ended on his forearms, as he kept the suit open to not tighten it on his chest.

His hair was unkempt, from the long ride, yet his beauty was hard to miss, and veil.

He was here for his college degree, as a week had passed, and he wondered if it would mark a new chapter for his journey.

In the dual degree of master and bachelors, he had worked hard these past years, though his talent aided him in every aspect.

He constantly struggled to keep his identity as Forty-two and Reemus separate. No, to keep his false identity as Reemus and truly encapsulate the identity of Forty-two. And now, he seemed to be getting closer to his goal, and finding what he truly aimed to.

Following suit, he incorporated himself in the queue and followed behind the people, exiting the busy subway.

He walked out all the way through the subway to a cheap motel nearby, walking some distance and slithering as the misty threads through some.

The motel, named “Motel”, clearly contained another stupid, non-creative owner, though Forty-two was accustomed to being amongst them.

He, naming himself Reemus, lodged a stay for two nights, which took seventy gills of his hundred.

It would soon be noon, yet his graduation ceremony was tomorrow. He had arrived today, for something else.

He took the pair of Nadian gloves from his bag, and sat with them in his small, single room, yet much better from his smelly cabin.

He placed the gloves on the floor, removed his uncomfy, tight suit and shirt, and switched to just shorts, leaving his upper body bare.

He sat down straightening his spine, closing his eyelids, and focusing on the space on his forehead, just above the middle of his eyebrows.

The power of mist in him, awakened, swirling around him, silently, as four silver threads of mist, yet not as hazy, but vivid, formed around him. They encircled his body, moving up and down, switching positions, as he began to levitate above the floor.

The room had no windows, and the door was locked, so he indulged without any precaution.

In the space just above his eyebrows, a mark of swirling, silvery mist of four threads formed. As the mark appeared, his attractive face and body appeared unearthly, and exaggeratingly beautiful. A beauty which could halt the breath of its admirers, in awe, and desire.

Soon, the circles of four silver threads broke and reached the Nadian gloves, wrapping around them, and lifted them in the air.

The divine face of forty-two twitched slightly — a bead of sweat rolling down his temples. As the silvery mark on his forehead began to glow, and the four silver threads were encapsulating the black gloves.

The gloves began turning silver, as the threads circumambulated them line by line.

In a couple of minutes, the gloves had turned silver, exhibiting a translucent, silvery glow which was vivid, yet ethereal.

Forty-two, having realised the completion of the task, gradually got himself out of the meditation, landing back. As he began to feel his body again.

Having exhausted himself, he lifted himself up with the help of a bed, just behind him.

His mark was still pertaining, and his body appeared divine, as it abruptly disappeared.

Forty-two’s mark wasn’t just a mark, but his identity. Since the fact of his mother, just being a foster mother, was revealed, he hated Reemus.

The Reemus who couldn’t live with the celestial mark which was true identity, wasn’t like forty-two. Someone who could embody its power, and harness his divine form.

The celestial mark that is just named such, unknown of its origins, is the highest form of talent in the field of mysticism.

The individuals with celestial marks, if lived, would embody a power beyond all norms. So, he wondered at times, how he, who still has to use a fake identity of Reemus, be able to hold such power and individuality.

Is that familiar manager of Mysticals living a life I want?

He revelled in his thoughts, seating himself on the bed.

These so-called officials, and holders of justice. Do they possess the power to uphold justice? Do they? If I unseal my mark, and wreak havoc in their headquarters, will those high above, enjoying life, be able to stop me?

Just because those higher above them, those celestial-mark holders, are puppeteering them to kill me before I gain power, they think they can kill me?

No… those mark holders will personally kill me, if I do too much. I don’t have enough threads yet. I should sanctify my tracks just in case.

He manifested a small, black ball out of thin air on his hand. This was one of his three artefacts, the others being the cold-metal mask, and the newly added Nadian gloves which he had connected his subtle body with.

They resided in the empty space of his subtle body which existed in a realm more subtler, or divine than the physical realm. A realm where time, and space functioned much differently, and which could only be accessed by meditation.

The subtle realm and its discoveries, were the reason for the existence of mysticals, and the mysticism which appeared magical, divine, or demonic, from the view of the physical realm.

Being a celestial-mark bearer, he had an intimate connection with the subtle realm from his birth. Many times losing consciousness amidst chaos, only being able to control it later in life and harnessing prowess.

The black ball, which we had named the abyss, was housed in his subtle body, and recalled whenever — especially, because of intense affinity with it.

The abyss darkened the room to the extent of it being devoid of any light, as the silvery magic residue of his meditation shone across the room before him.

It devoured all these particles, darkening everything, and in a couple of seconds, the magic particles were all gone, leaving no trace.

He retracted the artefact, back into his subtle body, and the room brightened again, though, the only source of light was a small bulb lighting a corner of the room.

Having accessed the subtle realm, he checked his phone, which was barely clinging to life. The noon had long passed, and it had been four hours since.

In meditation, the time apparently appears short and fleeting. A couple of minutes could pass hours in the physical world.

Having just formed a connection with an artefact, and using another right after, he had drained himself significantly.

To maintain his markless form, he needed to revel into the subtle realm for some time. So, he lay down in the bed, as his long legs slightly dangelled from one side. And he lost his sense of body, moving into this subtle body.

Time passed, from afternoon, to evening, and then night, yet forty-two lay lifelessly in the bed.