Seraphina was glad that she was unburdened by trivial things like physical exertion. Because the mystery boy that was currently tearing down the labyrinthine halls of the manor basement would’ve left her panting just trying to keep him in sight. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, she’d describe him as something of a tramp.
Unkempt hair, clothes that were too big for him and clearly had been overworn for years of heavy use. His mean prank on her when she was hiding in her wardrobe hardly ingratiated him to her. Despite that, she couldn’t help but be drawn by his sense of purpose. She’s seen her fair share of men over the centuries, many of them blustering blowhards that fold as soon as things got tough. By all rights, this boy should be panicking; but he seemed to have a course of action, even though he was up against a fate worse than death should the beast that was currently making a mess of her beloved house catch up with him.
Her master deliberately made the basement hard to navigate. He was the paranoid sort, and being a foreigner in a land as insular as Japan had only increased it. What possessed him to seek residence in this godforsaken country was beyond her, but Master Huxley always had a good reason for his actions and she trusted him even beyond the grave.
The Boy skidded to a halt in front of the double doors that led to her master’s private study. To the untrained eye, it was just a pair of doors, but to those who were attuned or just sensitive to spiritual energy, you could make out the circular glyph that floated just off the pair of doors that held them barred and shut.
The Boy reached out to try and work the handles before Seraphina could shout her warning. “Wait, don’t touch tha---”
“Yeeeooow fuck!” The Boy jumped back as the glyph sparked and sent a jolt of energy into his hand. It didn’t cause damage but it was painful. The boy kicked the doors and got jolted again. Making him curse in rapid succession.
“I tried to warn you…” Seraphina groaned as she bumped her head with the handle of her broom. Having seen this sort of thing play out numerous times over her long years. “Do you really think my master was so careless to leave his private study unprotected?”
The Boy spat on the ground, refusing to reply to her as he held his hand out just from touching the door. His face scrunched up in concentration, and Seraphina could’ve sworn he was talking to himself from the small movements his mouth was making. A few heavy thumps above them made her look up at the ceiling in worry. The beast was surely looking for the study as well.
“Fuckin’ hell…” The Boy murmured as he took his hand back and drew his gun. “Magnetite is thick beyond this door.” He leveled his gun at the door and rapidly fired off three shots, aimed at specific spots in the glyph. His bullets tore large holes into the glyph and made the door violently blow inwards as the glyph gave out. Even she could feel the wave of residual soul energy wash out like a wave. They had been in this country for years and she’s never felt this before.
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The Boy clicked his tongue as he walked and checked the magazine of his gun. “Fuckin’ Red Labels… this just got so much harder.” He grumbled and eyed the inside of the master’s study.
It was fairly typical as far as studies went. Lined with tall bookshelves chock-full of many kinds of books and random knick-knacks. Central wooden desk with a plush chair. The northern wall was dominated by a tapestry of a falling angel that stood floor to ceiling. A testament of what happens when pride gets the better of someone, as her master told her.
The Boy ignored the tomes and made straight for the tapestry. Giving a derisive snort as he grabbed the edges and forcefully threw it to the side like a curtain. Revealing a set of metal double doors that looked more at home in a school than in a house of this style. Seraphina was about to offer a complaint at how roughly he was treating her master’s personal study but was cut short as he forced the doors in and opened them. Revealing a cavernous room that was pitched black. The Magnetite hit them like the heat from a blast furnace.
“Son of a bitch!”
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Solomon liked to think of himself as someone who wasn’t phased by much anymore. But standing there, shining a light into the dark room, seeing the flagstone floor marked with a summoning circle and surrounded by candelabra in a near exact copy of the setup that forever changed his life. For the briefest of moments, he was that scared six-year-old again.
Solomon recovered quickly enough, shining his light around. He could faintly make out stains on the walls and ceiling. The telltale signs of a demon-binding ritual that ended poorly. If a host body and soul couldn’t contain a spirit or even one of the Fallen; the host would violently be torn apart by the overwhelming energy they were trying to contain. The ritual required the donor’s life force to even call the being to the circle in the first place. If the story of what the ADOTF officer said was true then whoever led this group used the kids as tribute. Likely sucking the Magnetite and thus life right out of them all at once.
I… Remember this room. One of the voices intoned, Murmur. They demanded I bring the soul of one of their ancient warlords back to settle a question of succession. His soul was too greedy and kept demanding more Magnetite like an addict… so many children were drained… Can you see them Summoner?
Solomon strained his eyes as he shifted the light. He thought he was imagining things, but he thought he saw a small crowd of shapes at the far end of the room. The longer he looked, the more he could make out. They were featureless, but he could tell that they were vaguely in the shape of young kids. A thumping above them made the shapes scatter and curl into balls. Wordlessly wailing in fear. They were but echoes of souls long since passed on but the mere act of seeing them brought him back to worse times.
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20XX One month after Incursion Day, Pahrump front lines.
Keep running! That's what he told himself even as his arms ached, and his back was ladened down with ammo boxes. Follow the trench! Ignore James as he was snatched up by a flying one. Pretend Issac didn’t just get his head bit off by another. Just keep running!
Solomon was ten at the time. Drafted into the National Guard. There wasn’t any use for orphans like him and every able-bodied man needed to be on the front trying to hold back whatever the hell those things were. He dropped the ammo off at one of the forward gun nests. The Browning heavy machine gun was the only thing keeping their section of the trenches from being overrun. He was the only one of his runner team to make it, again. The gunners shooed him away, calling him bad luck. Misfortune always seemed to follow him. He’d gone through several squads so far. He’d be the only survivor. He couldn’t tell anyone he had demons protecting him. The church nuts were already frothing at the mouth with these things appearing. They’d burn him at the stake, or so Andras and the others told him. Just keep running. Grab more ammo. They’ll protect him… They always protected him…
He was halfway to his second stop when something big crashed into the nest he was running to. A mass of teeth and claws ripping and tearing the men manning the machine gun. They didn’t even have time to scream. The daemon turned what resembled a head to him and pounced. A startled cry and the daemon fell dead, sliced in half, and dissipated around him. The only thing snapping him back to the moment was his demons yelling at him.
Keep moving, Summoner, Summoner!