Himura Satō

Inside a dirty underground city, various screams and battle cries resounded in the small hallway. In one of the large rooms, there were four beings, fighting. I am one of them, I duck as one of the residents of this world raises one of his two right arms and tries to hit me with a right hook.

Instead it hits the wall, destroying a chunk of it and revealing the room next to it. I take one step back, quickly sheathing my scimitar. I then step forward, both hands are holding the large sword on my back. I pull it slightly before leaving the scabbard through the hole on its side. 

The being tries to block with its three arms, caught by how fast I managed to draw my sword. Even with a powerful vertical slash, due to  his thick muscles, I manage to only cut four centimeters deep. The being pulls back his left arm, ready to punch a hole in my chest.

A mage's staff, fitted with a blue gem, then strikes his stomach. The bloodied steel of the staff confuses the being before being knocked back. Its user is arguably stronger than him, I turn my back on him and look at the second being which she was fighting. She grabs a table with both hands and throws it up slightly before dashing the three-armed being.

Without even as much as a word, as if the both of us were one, I dashed towards the table, kicking it towards the insanely fast being, as I landed, I duck and grab a crossbow. Securing a bolt to it, I see the man dashing to the left, his sad expression still plastered all over his face. I fire the bolt before following up by throwing my oil lamp.

Instinctively, he cuts the bolt with the grotesque blade coming out of his right arm but then dashes back as the oil lamp lands and burns its surroundings. “I see.” I thought to myself before pulling out two filled waterskins from my pouch. He cautiously watches me as the fire gets to the broken table, trapping him. 

I took off most of my clothes and armor leaving only my pants as well as my pouch and three of my weapons, which only left me with my sleek single-edge blade made entirely of metal. I open both of the waterskins and a gel-like clear liquid pours out onto my body.

It covers my body like an oil and I slick my hair back before slathering my blade with it as well before approaching the being, still on the same spot, surrounded by fire. With a single step, I was set on fire, the being starts to become terrified at the sight of me but readies himself. And then, I dash towards him…

With an annoying ring from my alarm clock, I open my eyes, body sweating. There’s not much to expect in my mundane morning. I heated some left-over broth and took a nice chunk of rice then I placed them in a medium-sized bowl. I purposely take my time eating while watching the news. 

As the news reporter speaks about something uninteresting, I find myself staring at the mirror. Insanely pale white body to the point that asking if I am a vampire would be an insult to the vampire. My contrasting black hair was a bit long at the back but I like to keep it that way. From experience, the people around me seem to appreciate whenever I tie it into a low ponytail since it’s trending. Personally, I also split my hair in the middle but more importantly, I just like how low maintenance it is. You simply cut the back into an appropriate size, trim the sides then shorten my bangs for just a tiny bit.

I turn my eyes to the news as it starts to speak about the “Pixin” statistics. Unsurprisingly, seven people died near my area to some druggie high on pixin. The drug known as “Pixin” is a highly addicting energizing drug meant for soldiers that is characterized by turning your spit and eyes pure red.

But as the 13th War Of Kiloo-or came to an end and the soldiers addicted to pixin went home, they began to have violent tendencies as a side effect  and as people made more bootleg versions of pixin, the effects got worse until it spiraled to what it is today.

The announcer ended his announcement as I am fixing my hair. Like always, I wore a long-sleeve white button-up, black colored slacks, black shoes, brown belt, and a digital watch. My sleek satchel and motorcycle helmet was on the side of my door. 

On a table near the door were two things, an old wooden katana and a switchblade. As I grab the switchblade I hear the announcer speak the same robotic-like warning, “And remember, those high on pixin are people who renounce their right as a human, if you come across one, remember to take proper action even if it is a lethal one.”

After concluding his announcement, I walk to the door, satchel in hand and my switchblade safely tucked away. “What a world to live in.”  I say sarcastically before opening the door— “Argh!” I exclaim as the sun shines on me.

The mall three streets away had a reflecting roof which perfectly shone the sun on my apartment. I duck as I put on my motorcycle helmet. The sun still hurts my eyes but it was manageable.

Going to my apartment complex’s parking lot, I see my gray motorcycle with a note on it. “Stop crashing it!” It says. It was from the local mechanic, the new gray paint shows me that he fixed it after I drove it to some druggie the other night.

I laugh to myself before starting it. I headed out but before that I made sure to pass by her shop and honked a few times to thank him.

In eight minutes, I reach my destination. Ofree Academy, a college. I parked my motorcycle in a shaded spot in the parking lot and went inside the main building. 

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Unsurprisingly, most of the students lazed in the lounge area, thanking a particular student who brought and installed an air conditioner on their first day of being here. I thank him as well, as the heat was killing me, thankfully, though I may look pale, I still had the body of an average 18 year old so the heat was not boiling my blood.

Seven subjects for today, should've been nine but the last two professors stopped teaching for “unforeseen circumstances”, the academy says so anyway. 

I entered my first class, half of my classmates were already there, talking nonsense about the new technological breakthrough or something. Honestly, even narrating this to myself is boring me to death so I sit in my usual spot.

My relationship with all of them is purely just to have acquaintances, some of them might be powerful someday so better keep them in contact, especially when my career is a tough field to be in.

We talk about the same nonsense for a while but it is unbearable talking about things that do not even interest me. All six of my classes go on routinely. I talk to classmates, the professor arrives and teaches, then leaves, before doing it all over again.

My head hurts, talking to yourself is sometimes overwhelming. It makes you want to punch your disembodied voice but thankfully, the professor is here, Mr. Freemor.

I look at the mirror to see my pleasant expression still holding up well. “How long do I have to keep this up?” I think to myself. I then look at the professor. 

While I take notes from his lesson, each of his words echoes in my mind, pounding it into my brain so that I could recall it for the test. “We are beings of the present, not the past nor future. To worry about oneself in the context of the past or future is to reject your current state of being. Never in your small, meaningless lives should you be worrying about anything but the present because in the end, you will reach your future whether you molded it in the present or not.” Professor Freemor states as he closes an unknown book, marking the end of his class

“In reality, we barely count as beings from the present, it’s the only state in which we are able to exist but we are never able to stay in the present. Every millisecond, our present becomes the past and then we hop into a new present dictated by the past. We are and will always be the horse that endlessly chases the carrot on the stick, the future which is held by our rider, the past.” My mind added as his previous words echoed through my mind.

I close my eyes and then I open them again. My vision no longer blurry, I find myself in the hallway along with many of my classmates. “Say Satō, how’s that freelance thing going for you?” One of the guys asks. “Great, my previous wins from art competitions netted me some great attention, now I turned it into paying customers, though if all goes well, I might not be a freelancer anymore.” I responded. 

My classmates sang praises for me, genuinely impressed, though I don’t see why since I planned this years ago so I felt this was expected. They are probably just being nice and supportive. Before reaching the gate, I split up with them. I said my goodbyes and just smiled as they left.

I sigh, as I return to being expressionless. To the left of the main building were multiple buildings. These two-story buildings were separated into small rooms which housed members of certain departments.

Inside the art department, in a certain room on the second floor lies a beautifully empty canvas, around it were multiple palettes of color. The clumps of paint were dried from yesterday so the outer edges were hardened. 

In the distance were me sitting, pondering as I looked at the canvas. Pure like its color, it was maddening. The image of purity is the image of stillness and that fact was infuriating. Yet even so, I can’t seem to pick up my brush and defile its purity.

I’ll admit that painting is not my forte, the creation of concepts and ideas, concept art is what I truly excel at even if there is no use in the field I am in. To trust the process and to draw with your emotion, yet nothing drives my hand to pierce this canvas.

At that moment, I got a call from my phone. It rang once, then twice… As I slowly pick it up, I hear her voice, that begging tone that I despise so much. I ended the call after talking, then I breathed in, then out. I closed my eyes and before I could breathe in…

Another white hallway, a feel of sterilization lingers. White, an abomination that removes all emotion, pure calculation. Moving through the hallway of this depressing building, I find a certain room. Inside were my people, my family.

Father like always, expressionless. Mother still in her begging tone. My older and younger siblings… I have already forgotten their name. Surrounded by a pure white screen, another laid on top of a white bed, my grandmother seems to have requested for her personal colorful blanket.

Beside her is a glorified timer, beeping showing her heart rate as if that matters now. She sleeps like a kid. As I waited beside her, each beep from the machine felt louder and louder, or maybe it was my heart. I could feel it somehow…like an hourglass with very loud sand.

A hand pats my head, with eyes that sees through everything, she stares at me. “Find…” The rest of her sentence becomes blurred as my breathing becomes ragged. White cover, the somewhat rusty creak, cold emotionless eyes.

I find myself riding my motorcycle at high speed. When will it be “I am doing…”? Midnight approaches as I hear a scream beyond me. I accelerate before performing a wheelie then slamming the front wheel into a man.

I pulled on the brakes but the speed was still too much so I jumped out and let the motorcycle crash into a nearby pole. From my satchel, I pull out my switchblade. Still wearing my helmet, I deepened my voice and spoke. “Fuck off…”

The woman, whose single-shot stun gun and steel baton are no longer functioning, runs in fear, leaving me all alone. “Kinda wish that she didn’t leave.” I said as thirty-ish pixin-induced people.

With pure red eyes and drool, they dashed at me. The first one holding a pipe tries to smash my head diagonally. I put my left foot back, putting my body to the side of the pipe and at the same time, I stabbed him in the throat.

I grab his pipe and dash back, almost falling on the guy that I crashed into. A quick look tells me that he’s still alive despite crushing his skull. I kick his head, stabbing the shards of his skull deeper into his brain then continue to run away. 

“Haah…haah…haah…” At the fourth street, I was already out of breath. I know I can still fight, but my body can barely keep up and so I regressed into a coward and ran away from them. But they won't stop, soon I’ll have to fight again.

It seems that fight would be now as one of them appears wielding its makeshift cleaver, I dodge to the right, then wrapped my arm around his extended right arm before punching his stomach with my right, stunning him just enough that I could slash his throat open.

That was stupid. Blood pours into my eyes, the consequences of my action appear quickly as in my blinded state, one of them slams something thick into my skull. It didn’t hurt, the shock was more overwhelming. 

As the shard of my skull stabbed my brain, the man kept hitting me, my brain became mush, at the same time the rest wildly hits me as well, my arms, legs, any tangible thing that they could see they smashed, stab, and slash. 

It didn’t hurt but something inside me did…I lost, is that why? It was one against thirty, why did I expect? You are a nobody, an abomination in this colorful world. As the blood pours into my pale white arms, in my barely functioning brain, I still managed to hate it.

I could feel my final blow coming soon, yet time never stopped, no light that appeared, no memories that recalled. Pure and utter darkness, a consciousness but no body. I have been narrating my death for quite a while, maybe time did slow dow– 

“A large whack… flesh squished…and blood splattered. 22 dead…” The reporter said, almost in a mechanical tone.