Diana wearily pushed open her apartment door, her red dress a macabre tapestry of blood, brains, and... was that a bone? She slipped out of the dress and inspected it with a tired sigh. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed; the blood, blending with the crimson fabric, spared it from utter ruin. She cast the dress aside and stepped into the shower, letting the water cascade over her as memories of the night resurfaced. By the time she collapsed into bed, she cradled her head in her hands.
“What the actual fuck is my life?” she whispered into the silence.
The next morning, Diana arrived at the precinct. She let her purse drop onto her desk and made a beeline for Captain Connors’ office, where Catalina and Richard awaited her. The captain’s desk stood conspicuously empty.
“Where is the captain?” Diana inquired.
“Dunno,” Catalina replied with a shrug. “So, I heard you guys got sprayed with Geier juice last night.”
“Catalina, gross!” Richard protested.
“What? I bet he’s been waiting to do that to Esposito for years,” Catalina snickered.
Diana rolled her eyes, weary.
Suddenly, Captain Connors stormed in, striding purposefully to his desk. “Detectives, good of you to come,” he announced as he took his seat. “I wanted to inform you that Detectives Huang and Alvarado will be taking point on this case.”
“What? Why?” Richard’s voice was laced with frustration as he glanced at Catalina.
“Don’t be jealous, Richy. Green’s not your color,” Catalina teased.
“I know the strengths of my detectives. Our analyst discovered an anti-prognostication field on the building, likely a ritual, meaning Detective Esposito will not be able to use her abilities,” Captain Connors explained.
“Well, maybe that’s true for Diana but not for me,” Richard retorted.
“So, you’d be happy working with Detective Alvarado?” Captain Connors queried.
Catalina draped her arms around Richard. “Oh yeah, come on. We’ll make a great team, Richy. It’s been so long.”
Richard’s jaw tightened as Captain Connors watched him expectantly. With a sigh, Richard gently pushed Catalina away. “Point taken,” he conceded.
Captain Connors nodded. “Detective Alvarado, have you heard from Detective Huang? He should be back by now,” he asked.
Catalina shrugged again. “I don’t know. He hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”
“Try to contact him again. In the meantime, work with Detective Gautier. I’ll assign you to another case, Detective Esposito,” Captain Connors instructed.
Catalina’s face lit up, a nearly malicious grin spreading across her lips. “Yes, Captain.”
Diana nodded politely.
Richard could only bite his tongue.
“Dismissed,” said Captain Connors.
The three detectives left the room. As they walked out, Catalina attempted to call Detective Huang, but there was no answer.
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The morning sun rose over the city of New Sodom, casting a light that revealed its similarity to New Nox. Skyscrapers infused with runes dotted the landscape, and phantasmic advertisements flew across the sky. However, New Sodom held a more hedonistic hue, with half of those advertisements promoting casinos, nightclubs, and other dens of vice. In a luxurious hotel room, ravaged by what seemed like a storm, broken furniture was tossed haphazardly across the space. A man lay unconscious on the floor, a wound on his head. The silence was broken by the ringing of a phone, echoing through the disarrayed room. The man awoke in a daze, clutching his head in great pain.
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image [https://i.ibb.co/7SpH5VB/57b119d6-2291-4878-a19b-8d7d4e9d7c08.jpg]
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“What the hell,” he muttered, holding his hand to his head and pulling it back to see blood.
He searched the room for the incessantly ringing phone.
“Shut up, I’m looking for you,” he complained, as the ringing aggravated the pain in his head.
To his relief, he finally answered the phone.
“What!?” he barked.
“Pendejo, where have you been?” said the woman on the line.
“I’m suspended, we both are, remember?” he reminded her.
“We got put back on the field. We were suspended for two weeks,” she scolded.
“Well, fuck, I thought I’d have another week off,” he said.
“Another week? Huang, it’s been two weeks! Get back here; the captain’s on my ass,” said Catalina.
John's almond shaped eyes burst wide open. Two weeks? No, he was sure he’d only been here for a week.
“Just get back here... hey, Richy I found h-” Catalina hung up.
John pulled the phone from his ear, looking around at his chaotic surroundings. He realized he wasn't wearing his own clothes. Instead, he was in smart trousers and a white shirt with small splatters of blood. He hurriedly reached for his pocket, wallet yes, keys yes that’s good, and -. No, no. It's not there.
John frantically searched the room for the better part of an hour but couldn't find what he was looking for.
“Shit!” he shouted, punching and shattering a mirror.
He looked at his shattered reflection. He had almond shaped eyes and olive skin, with an athletic frame. His face, usually sanguine, now turned sour. He found a blazer on the broken bed and headed out of the room.
When John arrived on his hotel floor, he was greeted by the vibrant sounds and lights of the casino, which was alive even in the early morning. He hurried toward the reception area, every step filled with purpose. He needed to ask them for the camera feed to see what had happened to him. But before he could reach the reception desk, a loud voice interrupted him.
“THERE YOU ARE!!!” the voice shouted. John was suddenly forcefully hugged from the side, almost causing him to tumble.
“The fuck?” John exclaimed.
The person the voice belonged to looked at him in confusion. She was a petite woman with olive skin, long umber hair, and rose-colored eyes that shared John's almond shape. Despite her current look of befuddlement, she had a fiery demeanor.
“Where were you? You bastard, why did you leave?” she accused, her rage boiling over as she attempted to slap John. Even in his confusion, he caught her hand on instinct alone.
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image [https://i.ibb.co/7yCKmcQ/8871bd4d-565a-43e1-91a7-ba974fdbaae9.jpg]
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“Listen lady, you’re gonna have to start making sense,” John said.
Her mouth gaped open. “Lady? Lady!? I’m your wife, you asshole! Let me go,” she demanded, wrenching free from his grasp.
John's brow furrowed. "My wife?" he thought. He knew he wasn’t the marrying type; the whole idea felt too constricting. However, when he drank, he was known to bend the truth to get what he wanted, and she was just his type. Maybe he promised to marry her and forgot? Wait, if she was with him, she might know what happened last night.
“Oh, sorry honey, I’m still a bit drunk from last night. I think I hit my head,” he said, pointing to the wound on his head.
She gasped, putting her hands over her mouth. Then she went to comfort him, wrapping her hands around him. “I’m sorry, you need to be more careful,” she said.
“Do you remember me? I’m Rhea,” she asked.
“Yeah, and we met at a... strip club?”
This slap he did not see coming.
“I’m not a stripper, you asshole!” shouted Rhea.
"Thank the gods above," thought John. That would have been such a cliché. Rhea realized what she had done.
“Sorry, did I make it worse?” she apologized.
“You think!” he shouted, holding his hand to his head as his entire world started to spin. Suddenly, he realized he was going to faint. No way. Taken down by a woman of five feet without magic? If Richard knew, he wouldn’t let this go for at least a week. John's world went dark.
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Theo sat patiently in the waiting room, his foot tapping against the wooden floor as he read a book. Growing bored, he glanced around at the simple, wood-paneled walls devoid of any magical embellishments, which seemed odd for a place where the Archmagus Council convened. Perhaps they preferred the austere environment of their pocket dimension, much like his own sterile home.
The door creaked open, and Theo stood as Cynthia emerged, her expression almost solemn.
“They want to talk to you, father,” she said.
Theo nodded and journeyed into the next room. It mirrored the waiting area with plain wooden decor, except for the seven raised platforms arranged in a circle. Each platform held an Archmagus, their faces hidden behind white masks and their forms draped in blue robes. This anonymity was intentional, ensuring Theo couldn't discern which Archmagus he was addressing; some among the twenty-one in the world kept their identities secret even from their peers.
"Thank you for your patience, Theo Marvel," echoed a voice that seemed to emanate from all corners of the room.
Theo felt a twinge of helplessness not knowing where to direct his gaze or voice. He swallowed his pride, aware they were observing not just his magic but his demeanor aswell.
“I should be the one thanking you for taking the time out of your busy days, but this isn’t a place for flatteries, what do you think of my work?” Theo asked.
“We understand the homunculus is not solely your creation,” the voice reverberated.
“I built upon the research of a former colleague, but the creation itself was my endeavor,” Theo clarified.
“How many alchemical circles did it take?” the voice continued.
“Ten,” Theo replied.
“That is quite impressive, did you make the soul with an alchemical process as well,” questioned the voice.
Theo’s suspicions were now confirmed. However, in this room he could not lie, but some truths are open to interpretation.
Theo hesitated. "No," he answered carefully.
“So, it’s compounded with necromancy and not the product of a single alchemical work?” asked the voice.
"The soul was not present in the beginning; it could have developed after, I do have to admit it was unforeseen, " Theo added, “could” being the operative word in his sentence preventing him from lying, in truth Theo suspected that this had to do with his creation’s recent trip to hell.
A tense silence followed as the Archmagi telepathically deliberated. Theo wished he could eavesdrop, but his skills in bewitchment and prognostication were lacking.
“We have decided that you shall be accepted as an archmagus, the research of the archmagi’s library will be available to you and you will have to contribute to its archives once a year, however we will be putting this alchemical work of yours on the list of restricted works and forbid you to make any copies of this homunculus , or make any other like it we assume you understand why,," the voice informed him.
"The soul, I understand," Theo acknowledged, though internally, the setback concerning his creation's soul nagged at him. However, he already had plans in motion, set since the funeral.
A strange coin, covered in intricate runes, materialized from thin air. Theo's face lit up with pride as he watched it settle into his hand.
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image [https://i.ibb.co/DwfcCv2/5af1f527-1352-4b6a-a903-a577ee3077d9.jpg]
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After being dismissed, Theo walked out, passing Cynthia.
“How did I do?” she asked.
"Adequately, although there is a small setback but no matter, you’ll have a new sister soon," he told her.
Cynthia's eyes widened in surprise.
"No, you’re not being replaced, but you must have known you would not be unique for long, come on or you’ll be late for class," Theo reassured her as they exited through the portal at the room's end.
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Catalina gingerly stepped over the pool of blood on the floor, mindful of where she placed her feet. This crime scene, though reminiscent of another from two weeks ago with its splattered blood and eerie ambiance, lacked the severity of that previous mansion massacre where the body count was far higher. Here, in this upscale penthouse, the remnants of a family of five had already been removed, leaving behind crimson flames licking the furniture and walls without consuming them—a strange phenomenon that intrigued her.
Investigation bored her; Catalina preferred swift justice delivered through a fireball spell, but her superiors had deemed her too qualified for street duty. So, she left the investigating mostly to her partner, Richard, and their team—Angela, John, and Diana—although Angela, with her doubts about Catalina's competence, would sometimes step in.
But for now, it was just her and Richy who made her pick up her slack.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
As they combed through the penthouse, Richard grew convinced they wouldn't find physical evidence. "Catalina, let's leave. We're not going to find anything here," Richard suggested.
"Oh, my gods, yes! I was getting so bored," Catalina exclaimed, eager to move on.
Richard narrowed his eyes. "I guess this is going to be a cold case then," she continued.
"No, from what we know about the assailants, they were meticulous in covering their tracks. They've done this before, and they're likely A-ranked casters given the strength of the anti-magic ritual," Richard informed her.
"How do you know it was more than one person?" Catalina inquired.
Richard frowned. "I just said why."
"No, you didn't," she retorted.
"They cast a ritual. You can only do that with two or more casters. How do you not know this?" Richard accused.
"Sorry, Richy, I've always been more of a practical caster, you know that. But how did none of the neighbors hear what was happening?" Catalina wondered.
"A spell to trap or cancel sound, most likely. We need to focus on finding out if they had enemies and on dispelling this ritual," Richard explained.
"I'll question the neighbors. There might be some hot gossip," Catalina decided before leaving through the elevator.
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Kyle and his classmates filed into the expansive gymnasium, its floor adorned with faint, translucent runes. On the bleachers awaited the school nurse, a sight that soured Kyle's mood; he detested dueling, but Mr. Matheny had insisted on focusing their classes more on combat. Marcus and Jenkins, however, were enthusiastic, in stark contrast to Mr. Matheny's stern expression. As they reached the center, the nurse descended from the bleachers.
"Today, I want you to go all out against each other to reveal your true weaknesses," declared Matheny.
"That's what I'm talking about!" exclaimed Marcus.
Several students shared Marcus's enthusiasm, but Cynthia, who was the closest thing Kyle had to a friend now, appeared troubled. Despite his apprehension, Kyle leaned toward her.
"Are you alright?" he whispered.
Cynthia scowled. "It's nothing."
"Since no one attended my remedial classes, the losers will attend them after school," continued Matheny.
Groans and moans echoed from the students.
"First, I'll have the two best fighters demonstrate how you should be going all out," Matheny announced.
Curious, everyone looked around to see who Matheny deemed the best after Cynthia.
"Marvel, Oles, come to me; the rest to the bleachers," directed Matheny.
Marcus fist-bumped Erick.
"I got this," bragged Marcus.
However, Erick's lack of enthusiasm was evident, though he didn't voice it.
"Sure, man, you got this," Erick lied.
As the students settled on the bleachers and Marcus and Cynthia took their positions, anticipation filled the air. Matheny stepped back.
"BEGIN!" he shouted.
"GLACIES ILLUM INCLUDAT," chanted Marcus, sending a blast of ice toward Cynthia, who countered with her own incantation.
"Glacies redeat ad aquam."
The ice turned to harmless water, washing over Cynthia. Jenkins leaned toward Erick on the bleachers.
"I wish I could get her that wet," Jenkins joked.
Erick stifled a smirk. "Get someone wet first then you can aim that high."
Marcus cast the same spell again, this time larger, but Cynthia skillfully turned the ice to water once more. Marcus continued casting, and Cynthia realized his strategy—tire her out with upcasting, as lion type that would not tire him out as much as her. Impressed, Cynthia countered with a spell to reduce the ice's size, narrowly evading it as Marcus closed in.
"Gladii glacialis," Marcus incanted, summoning an ice sword.
Marcus, stronger and more physically capable than Cynthia, would have the advantage in close combat and rushed at her to close the distance, but Cynthia had her own plan in motion. Marcus just needed to approach and step into the pool of water that had gathered underneath her. However, just as Marcus's foot was poised to touch the water, he leaped, evading her trap and charging towards Cynthia with a slashing attack. Cynthia's eyes widened in surprise, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
"Minue tuam magnitudinem!" she exclaimed, shrinking herself to dodge Marcus's blade as he struck at thin air. She darted away from the water.
"Aqua redeat ad glaciem," Cynthia commanded, turning the water to ice. Marcus slipped and hit his head.
"Oh, he's fucked," muttered Erick.
"That's not enough to take someone of his build down," Cynthia thought. "Glacies vertatur in vaporem," she incanted, heating the ice into searing steam, sending Marcus flying before crashing down.
Penelope winced at the sight.
"Enough!" declared Matheny, signaling the nurse to heal Marcus.
The nurse rushed over, casting healing spells on Marcus's head injury and burns. On the bleachers, the class watched with various expressions—disappointment, indifference, and inevitability. Surprisingly, even Erick wore a resigned expression.
"Damn it, I really thought he was gonna win at the end," lamented Jenkins.
Roseanne shot him a disdainful look. "Then you're even dumber than you look," she quipped.
When Marcus regained consciousness, he stalked over to Erick, wearing an angry expression the entire way.
"If that were me personally, I wouldn't take that, but hey, that's just me," Jenkins joked.
Marcus shot up from his seat, ready to confront Jenkins, but Erick intervened.
"Hey, come on, man. It's just Jenkins being an asshole. Besides, you've beaten him twenty-one times already and you—" Erick turned to Jenkins. "Chill out. Not the time."
"I don't know, bro. I really feel like knocking his ass out," Marcus admitted.
"Come at me, bro," Jenkins challenged, standing up as well.
"Okay, guys, I don't want to state the obvious, but you both can calm down of your own free will or not. That's your choice," Erick said calmly.
Marcus glared at him, muttering, "Fucking control freak," as he moved to sit next to Penelope.
Erick knew Marcus's anger would pass soon enough. It was always fleeting.
"Blaze and Detmer!" bellowed Matheny.
Erick glanced across at Kyle, who looked at him with a mixture of terror and uncertainty. Suppressing a smirk, Erick descended the bleachers to the gymnasium floor.
As Kyle prepared to descend, Cynthia couldn't resist a jab. "You're gonna lose. Just don't embarrass yourself too much."
Her words only added to Kyle's nerves as he walked down the bleachers. He knew Erick's main skill lay in Bewitchment. Kyle needed to clear his mind, to resist Erick's influence. Taking a deep breath, he reached the center of the gymnasium, positioning himself opposite Erick.
"BEGIN!" Matheny's voice rang out, but neither Kyle nor Erick moved, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
"I'll wait for him to cast something, resist it, then counter," Kyle strategized silently.
"Hey, Kyle, by the way, sorry about your friend. I didn't offer my condolences. I know she meant a lot to you," Erick said with unexpected sincerity.
Kyle's thoughts turned to Amber's passing, a painful memory.
"Than—" Kyle began, but Erick cut him off.
"I Dormi," Erick incanted.
Kyle's eyelids grew heavy, his body betraying him as sleep began to claim him.
"Asshole," Cynthia scowled.
"Surrounded by idiots," Roseanne commented dryly.
Erick wasted no time, rushing towards Kyle and landing a powerful right hook to his face.
"Oh shit!" Marcus and Jenkins exclaimed in unison.
Kyle's world began to fade to black as he heard Erick mutter, "See, Detmer? You can't take me."
Confused, Kyle struggled to grasp Erick's cryptic words as consciousness slipped away.
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Catalina sat on a bench, enjoying her ice cream as she took in the city's sounds: honking cars, arguing people, and wailing police sirens. Despite the chaos, she found it pleasantly soothing. Her peace, however, was interrupted by Richard.
“What are you doing? Have you interrogated everyone?” Richard asked, visibly annoyed.
“Yeah, but they didn’t have much to say. Plus, they were kinda boring, so I came here and got some ice cream. Want a lick?” She offered him her cone.
Richard, on the brink of losing his temper, managed to restrain himself. None of the people he had interrogated saw anything either. Whoever did this was meticulous. They’d have to wait for forensics to get back to them, which meant more interrogations—friends, coworkers, classmates, extended family—to see if the victim had any enemies. This was going to take a while, and it wasn’t the kind of case Richard wanted to work on. He sat down next to Catalina and snatched the ice cream cone from her hand.
“Hey, pendejo, I didn’t say you could have the whole thing,” Catalina protested.
“Did Huang get back to you?” Richard asked, taking a lick.
“Nah, I’ll call him again,” Catalina replied.
She pulled out her phone and dialed, but someone else answered.
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice.
“Who’s this?” Catalina asked.
“Rhea. Who are you?” the woman responded.
“Catalina. Is John there?” she inquired.
“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you. Jonny is a little busy right now, but he’ll get back to you,” Rhea said before hanging up.
“He’s with some chick. He probably won’t get back to us soon,” Catalina commented.
Richard sighed, resigned to the fact that he was going to be stuck with Catalina and this case longer than he wanted. He stood up, handed the ice cream back to her, and said, “Well, come on. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” Then, he started walking towards his car, with Catalina following behind.
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The sun began its descent, casting a golden hue over the horizon, but Kyle remained trapped in Mr. Matheny’s remedial class. Alongside him were Penelope, Roseanne, Rick, Marcus, and Leah—the latter having to confront Matheny himself, which seemed wholly unjust. Matheny’s voice broke the silence, commanding their attention.
“When you enter the real world, defending yourself becomes paramount, as authorities won’t always be there in time,” Matheny proclaimed, his gaze fixing on Marcus.
“Mr. Oles, you must vary your attack and defense. I know you can cast a few abnegation cantrips—use them. Right now, you’re a glass cannon,” he remarked, then shifted his focus to Kyle.
“Mr. Detmer, you need focus and resilience. Your skill means nothing if your attitude gets you killed. The same goes for you, Miss Scarlet,” he said, turning to Penelope.
“When your life is at stake, kindness is always a weakness,” he admonished before addressing Roseanne.
“Miss Nakamura, never underestimate your opponent. Assume any mage or entity you face is more powerful than you,” Matheny warned.
Roseanne’s face burned with rage; she had lost to Jenkins, his half-completed spell rebounding on them both. Jenkins, with his strong constitution, had endured the hit, but Roseanne had not.
He turned to Rick. “Mr. Martinez, diversify your arsenal. You have very few cantrips useful in battle,” he advised before facing Leah.
“Miss Erickson, enter a fight afraid, and you’ve already lost,” Matheny declared.
The rest of the lesson was spent demonstrating useful cantrips and self-defense tactics. By the end, Kyle was thoroughly exhausted and eager to leave. As he made his way out, a gentle touch on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see Penelope.
“I wanted to apologize for what Erick did. It was unfair,” she said softly.
Penelope had always been kind, but Kyle barely knew her, only ever hanging out with Amber and occasionally Cynthia if Amber was there.
“T-thanks. It was my fault; I shouldn’t have let it distract me. I do need to toughen up,” he chuckled nervously.
Penelope gave him a look filled with pity, the kind of gaze one doesn’t want from a beautiful girl.
“Do you hang out with Cynthia on weekends?” Penelope asked.
“Uh, not really. We usually hang out when Amber’s around, and we talk during class sometimes,” Kyle replied.
“Do you have any other friends to talk to?” Penelope inquired, her voice laced with concern.
“Not really,” Kyle said, avoiding her gaze, feeling a pang of shame.
“You can talk to me if you need someone. I have... experience with losing people,” Penelope offered.
Kyle paused. “Everyone here has lost someone. Your cousin lost his girlfriend. Why me?” he asked, suspecting an ulterior motive.
“Because you're alone,” she said simply.
The words pierced Kyle’s heart. He had his dad, but they rarely talked. His brother was studying at Gnostia and was too busy to call. She was right—he was alone.
“Think about it,” Penelope continued before walking away.
When Penelope arrived home, she found Erick in the dining room, surrounded by tomes, engrossed in his reading. Summoning her courage, she confronted him.
“What you did to Kyle was unfair and cruel,” Penelope scolded.
Erick looked up, bewildered, then dismissive. “Detmer needs to man up. It’s character-building, Penny,” he replied.
“His best friend died. You didn’t have to use her death against him. You should understand—Federica died too,” Penelope said.
“They never found her body. She could be alive. Plus, it’s all her fault anyway,” Erick retorted.
“Look, I know we all grieve di—” Penelope began, but Erick cut her off.
“Who says I’m grieving? Federica is probably still alive, hiding somewhere. It’s what she does,” Erick insisted.
“And how do you feel about that?” Penelope asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it. You couldn’t possibly understand. Now leave me alone. I have work to do,” Erick said.
“I can try to under—” Penelope started, but Erick interrupted again.
“Leave, or I’ll make you leave,” he threatened.
Penelope left, tears welling in her eyes.
She would be alright, Erick told himself. They fought sometimes, but he had more pressing matters. He was researching shruv-zeelers, demons that make deals in exchange for souls. He needed to find a way out of his contract. Unlike others, he remembered hell and Sir Crowley with his dapper suit and demonic eyes. From his research, Erick knew shruv-zeelers were easy to summon but hard to control, offering assistance for a steep price—usually souls. He put his hand on his head, regretting his lack of caution in the deal. He had aimed to keep everyone safe, but had he doomed them all? Were their souls sold, or just his? He needed to dig deeper, find more answers.
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Jenkins stepped out of the elevator and onto his floor, the sleek apartment complex offering a panoramic view of the city through its glass walls. He reached his door, turned the key, and entered. As he made his way to the living room, he noticed the TV was on, and a strange woman sat on the couch, half asleep. His gaze drifted to her fingers, recognizing the ring adorned with familiar runes.
“Mom?” he called out.
The woman broke from her daze and looked at him.
“Oh, hey honey, you okay?” she replied.
He blinked, and her face shifted again. This was common—her face always changed. He could only identify her by the ring she wore. In truth, he didn’t really know what she looked like.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming home,” he said.
“Oh, it’s just a layover. I’ll be gone tomorrow night,” she responded.
“Oh, so uh, guess what hap—” Jenkins began, but his mother cut him off.
“Look, honey, it’s been a long six months, and I just want to relax. We can talk when I get back. Come on, you’re a big boy now,” she said.
“Uh, yeah, sure. I was just dropping my stuff off. I’ve got to head out, gonna hang out with some friends,” Jenkins replied.
“You go do that,” she said, switching the channel and her face.
Jenkins placed his bag in his room and left the apartment. At times like this, he wondered why she kept him around.
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Amon didn’t mind being summoned. It kept the souls flowing, a welcome distraction from the monotony of hell. Yet, serving his Archdemon, Sir Crowley, had grown wearisome. Balancing Crowley’s demands with the violent whims of the mages who called upon him was exhausting. Just the other day, a mage had ordered him to annihilate an entire family.
As the eternal second of portal passage elapsed, Amon emerged atop a building, overlooking a city bathed in the glow of night and vibrant, spectral advertisements dancing in the sky. His invoker, a hooded figure much like the last, awaited him, but Amon sensed this was not the same mage.
"I offer you twenty percent of my soul for you to deal with the little problem I have over there," said the figure, pointing to a warehouse below.
"Done," Amon replied, clasping the man’s hand to seal the pact.
"Ars Maleficarum: Ignis Inferni," Amon chanted, as crimson flames enveloped his feet, lifting him toward the warehouse.
Upon arrival, a peculiar scene unfolded: a lone mage in a suit battling other mages, but their combat was purely physical. The solitary mage dominated, striking swiftly, evading deftly. He disarmed an attacker with a swift break, tripped another, kneed him in the face, then slammed his head to the ground. Amon was impressed. But why no magic? Then he noticed the black sphere hovering over the mage’s head—a spell siphoning the Aether, preventing any casting. This explained why his invoker had summoned him from a safe distance.
Only one opponent remained, and the mage was mercilessly pummeling him, his face emotionless, his hands stained with blood.
In the corner, a woman sobbed. "It's all my fault," she whispered.
The man halted, confusion softening his expressionless face.
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John blinked, bewildered. What had transpired? The last thing he recalled was collapsing from a slap. He glanced down at the man beneath him, whose face was a swollen, bloody mess. Reaching into his pocket, he felt it—the coin, inscribed with runes typically reserved for archmagi. John was no archmagi, but this keepsake from his father held its own powers. He saw Rhea crying in the corner and hurried to her side.
"Are you—"
"Watch out!" she cried.
Instinctively, John dodged, barely avoiding Amon’s blade.
They repositioned, John locking eyes with Amon, and Amon with him.
"This one is going to be tough," they both thought.