Chapter 33

Inside a dimly lit building which had resembled an empty gothic church, sat the handler, his form in silent meditation upon the cold stone floor marked by strange white lines. The atmosphere was eerie, illuminated only by the flickering light of candles strategically placed around the enclosure. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, adding to the serene ambiance of the space.

As the handler delved deeper into his meditative trance, the tranquility of the room was soon shattered by the sudden appearance of an unkempt man. He materialized out of thin air, blurring into existence as he stood before a candle stand with a nonchalant air about him.

With a matchstick clenched between his lips, he leaned forward to ignite the match against the flame of a nearby candle, casting an orange glow upon his rugged features.

Turning to face the handler, the visitor's gaze met the former's indifferent stare which had been previously closed in deep concentration. He regarded the intruder with a mixture of curiosity and a slight sense of anticipation.

Despite the interruption, the handler remained composed, his demeanor betraying little emotion as he awaited the stranger's purpose for intruding upon his meditative sanctuary.

Drawing in a mouthful of smoke from the lit match, the visitor exhaled a puff of dark smoke, its soft tendrils curling lazily around him before dissipating into the air. With a wry smirk, he regarded the handler before him.

"Michael, old friend, still as gloomy as ever, I see," he remarked, his tone laced with familiarity and a hint of mischief. The handler, known simply as Michael, remained silent in response, his expression unreadable as he observed his uncanny visitor.

The atmosphere in the dimly lit chamber crackled with tension, the only sound being the faint whisper of the candles and the occasional pop of the burning match. Michael's silence seemed to stretch on, a silent challenge to the visitor to explain his intrusion further.

Undeterred by Michael's stoic demeanor, the visitor took a casual step forward, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across his features.

"Ah, but come now, Michael, surely you haven't forgotten the good old days?" the visitor continued, his tone almost conspiratorial. "The thrill of the chase, the rush of the hunt... Those were the times, weren't they?"

However, Michael's expression remained unchanged, his silence serving as a testament to his patience. He knew all too well the visitor's penchant for manipulation and the danger his presence posed.

The visitor's smile widened, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he leaned against a nearby pew, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight.

"Still as guarded as ever, I see," he mused, seemingly unphased by Michael's lack of response. "But tell me, Michael, what brings you cooped up in this forsaken place? Surely not just for a stroll down memory lane?"

The visitor’s casual demeanor shifted subtly as he lazily laid on the floor, his gaze meeting the dark abyss of the unlit ceiling above as he spit out the lit matchstick into the air before catching it with his mouth, juggling to cure his boredom; it’s faint light barely exposing the things hidden above.

“Heh, I’ve taken a look at the kid” he then remarked causing a slight reaction to Michael’s indifference.

“But alas,” he cried dramatically, “If only, I could divulge such valuable information to a friend”, he continued with a hint of sarcasm.

“Do tell me, Raphael”, the handler intoned finally.

“So, you do talk, old friend; I was beginning to wonder if a banshee had gotten to your throat. I hear they’re great companions though I fear I have other preferences. If we’re talking Succubi well then, I may be persuaded.”

“But I digress dear friend, I’m here to inform you that the kid is indeed a potential powerhouse, a hidden trump card; even in my years of research, I have never encountered such a specimen until now, nay, he might be the advent of the Order, may Adam and Eve bless my poor soul” he smirked enthusiastically.

“621 might be a God, might I add”, Raphael paused as he glanced at Michael’s disinterested expression, waiting for a reaction until the matchstick he had launched into the air hit him squarely on the cheek.

He dared to wait some more as he stared directly at Michael’s emotionless eyes feigning ignorance to the small fire attempting to burn his cheek. “Tsk..how boring…” he then sighed as he sat up before snapping the match stick out of existence.

“Fine, fine, I get it Raphael get straight to the point, why don’t ya?” he pointed to himself mockingly.

“Alright, the little fucker is nothing special at all; there, happy?” Raphael began picking at his nose seemingly exhausted in trying to entertain the latter.

“I’ve taken a look at him thoroughly, going as far as using my top-notch skills to look but there’s nothing remarkable. He’s got about 17 meridians thus his potential is only so-so, practically useless I might add”.

“His only saving grace is that measly metal spirit root of his. Rare my ass, the old man better get his eyes checked, if it is an unknown spirit root, then it may as well be trash”, Raphael spat out disdainfully.

“I even found out that he damaged parts of his meridians somehow. Had to waste one of my special pills just to fix them, they’re expensive you know; heck I doubt the numbskull even noticed the obvious leaks in his meridians.”

“Actually, there’s that guts of his, the absolute gall of the fucker to dare ask me to teach him my treasure. Surely, it wasn’t your doing right, old friend?”

“So now it’s your turn, what the fuck did you see in that shit-stain that I couldn’t see?”

“Do tell me, Michael.”

Michael's response was slow and deliberate, his voice carrying an otherworldly calmness as he uttered just two words: "His background."

Raphael's interest was piqued, his eyebrows raising in surprise at the unexpected answer. Before he could press further, Michael reached into the shadows, retrieving a document shrouded in mystery. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he sent it gliding towards Raphael, who caught it with a mix of intrigue and apprehension.

As Raphael unfolded the document, the parchment crackled softly in his hands, revealing a meticulous account of 621's origins and the circumstances surrounding his journey to the handler's domain. His eyes scanned the text, absorbing every detail with a mix of surprise and fascination.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Raphael delved deeper into the revelations laid out before him, his expression shifting subtly with each passing moment. Shadows danced across his features, casting an enigmatic aura around him as he absorbed the secrets contained within the pages.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of silence, Raphael looked up, his gaze meeting Michael's with newfound respect and wariness. "Well, well, Michael," he murmured, a note of admiration in his voice.

"It seems there's more to this pawn than meets the eye" he remarked with an obvious hint of sarcasm.

Indeed, this was only a pretence as Raphael immediately set the document alight, his expression bleak as he feigned interest.

His frustration crackled in the air like lightning as he watched the document he had just received crumble to ash before his very eyes. The flames consumed the parchment with voracious hunger, leaving nothing behind but smoke and the bitter scent of scorched paper.

"Forgive me, old friend, but what horseshit was that?" Raphael exclaimed, his voice laced with annoyance as he gestured towards the smoldering remains of the document.

"There's hardly anything recorded which aims to give any reasonable explanation for his background."

Michael's response was a mere tilt of his head, a silent acknowledgment of Raphael's outburst. He exuded an air of enigmatic calmness, his features shrouded in shadows as he listened intently to Raphael's tirade.

"Precisely," Michael murmured cryptically, his words carrying a weight of significance that hung in the air like a thick fog.

Raphael's confusion deepened at Michael's cryptic response. "So what?" he demanded, his frustration evident in his tone. "Numerous amounts of pawns have unknown pasts with even more obscure backgrounds. Heck, the lot of them were probably abandoned.”

“What makes him different from us?" Raphael retorted.

"It's not his unknown past that sets him apart," Michael explained calmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "It's the fact that his background is too clean, too meticulously altered."

But Raphael remained obstinate, refusing to entertain Michael's theory. "And what if he's just like the incompetent fools?" he challenged, his frustration boiling over.

"Then he is merely so," Michael replied, his voice a whisper in the darkness.

“You’re insane”, Raphael commented, “are ya sure you didn’t get your brains fondled by a banshee?” he lamented.

“And what of his meridians,” he continued; “do you actually expect me to teach the fucker? I know our manly bond runs deep but that is a hard ask even for you.”

Michael’s enigmatic amber eyes, seemed to reflect the void at this point as he thought for a moment before replying indifferently,

“I’ll leave it as you deem fit.”

….

In the same dimly lit chamber of the shopkeeper’s eerie lab, 621's movements were methodical as he meticulously wiped the blade of a knife with a dry cloth, the metal gleaming faintly in the muted candlelight. It was the same knife which had skinned him earlier.

Each stroke of the cloth was deliberate, as if he sought to cleanse the blade of not just physical residue, but the lingering traces of his own confusion and apprehension.

As he worked staring at the stone table before him, memories of the shopkeeper's actions during the operation flooded his mind, each moment etched vividly in his memory like scars on his flesh.

He recalled the cold, calculating gaze of the shopkeeper as he wielded the knife with practiced precision, the sound of metal slicing through flesh echoing in the chamber like a macabre symphony.

Despite his best efforts to rationalize the shopkeeper's actions as part of an aptitude test, 621 couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was more to it than met the eye. His instincts screamed at him, warning of hidden agendas and ulterior motives lurking beneath the surface.

Why had the shopkeeper subjected him to such invasive tests? What was the true purpose behind the operation, beyond the facade of an aptitude test? And most importantly, what did the shopkeeper hope to gain from it all?

With a final swipe of the cloth, 621 set the now pristine knife aside, its surface gleaming faintly in the ambient light. Rising to his feet, he cast a lingering gaze around the chamber, the air heavy with the weight of unanswered questions.

But 621 was not one to dwell on uncertainties for long. With a steely resolve, he squared his shoulders and set about his task with renewed purpose. If he was to uncover the secrets hidden within the shadows, he would need to be vigilant, resourceful, and above all, patient.

As he resumed his duties, 621's mind remained sharp and focused, a silent sentinel amid the swirling currents of doubt and intrigue. For in the heart of darkness, he knew that the truth awaited, patiently biding its time until the moment was right. And when that moment came, 621 would be ready.

Despite all that, 621 found himself drawn to the door and it wasn’t long before he found his fingers trailing along the surface of the mysterious door. His mind swirled with a kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions.

The crimson hallway beyond held secrets that beckoned to him like a siren's song, its walls whispering tales of anguish and despair that echoed in the depths of his consciousness.

With each groan and whimper that had reached his ears, 621 felt a surge of curiosity, a primal urge to uncover the truth behind those haunting cries. He recalled his past encounter with the crimson hallway, the fleeting glimpses of shadowy figures and the haunting echoes that had stirred his imagination.

Despite the chill that crept up his spine, 621's curiosity burned like a flame within him, driving him to seek answers where others might fear to tread. Soon, he pressed his entire palm against the cold surface of the door, feeling the faint vibrations that pulsed beneath his touch.

The door stood as a barrier between him and the unknown, a threshold that begged to be crossed. But as 621 gazed into the abyss beyond, he knew that the journey ahead would be fraught with peril and uncertainty. Yet, it was a risk he was willing to take, for the truth awaited him on the other side, shrouded in darkness and mystery.

With a steadying breath, 621 pushed open the door, stepping into the crimson hallway with determination in his heart.

As soon as he stepped out into the crimson hallway, he was immediately enveloped by an oppressive atmosphere that seemed to press down on him from all sides. The air hung heavy with a sense of foreboding, still thick with the scent of decay and despair.

Before him stretched a corridor bathed in a sickly red glow, the walls lined with faded tapestries that depicted scenes of suffering and torment. Strange symbols adorned the floor, pulsing with an eerie energy that was both distinct and eerie.

As he ventured deeper into the hallway, 621's senses were assaulted by a cacophony of sound—a symphony of moans and wails that echoed off the walls, filling the air with an unsettling chorus of anguish.

The stench of decay grew more potent with every step forwards, assaulting his senses with its foul odor. It was a sickening mixture of rotting flesh and stale air, lingering like a malevolent presence in the corridor.

Approaching the nearest chamber, 621 could see that the door was slightly ajar, inviting him to peer inside. With cautious steps, he approached and pushed the door open, revealing a scene of utter desolation.

The chamber was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from flickering torches mounted on the walls. The air was thick with dust and the smell of decay hung heavy in the stagnant air.

Inside, 621 could see that the room was sparsely furnished, containing only a few decrepit pieces of furniture and an assortment of rusted tools scattered across the floor. Chains hung from the ceiling, their metal links stained with rust and dried blood.

But what caught 621's attention the most were the figures huddled in the corners of the room—shadows of their former selves, their bodies emaciated and their eyes hollow with despair. They muttered and whimpered to themselves, lost in a world of torment.

621 decided to approach the two huddled individuals with a guarded steps. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that their eyes, once windows to their souls, now held only emptiness and despair. It was as if the spark of life had been extinguished within them, leaving behind nothing but vacant stares that seemed to pierce through 621 without truly seeing him.

Drawing even closer, 621 could now see the tangled network of black tubes that snaked across the floor and up the walls, connecting the two figures to some unseen apparatus hidden in the shadows. He followed the tubes with his gaze, tracing their path until they disappeared into the walls.

The sight filled 621 with a sense of unease, for he could only imagine the purpose behind such macabre contraptions. Whatever experiments or tortures had been inflicted upon these unfortunate souls, it was clear that their suffering had left them broken and beyond salvation.

He waved his hand in front of them out of curiosity but to his dismay, neither acknowledged his presence, it was almost as if they treated him as nothing but another presence in the decaying room. 621 was keenly aware that they were both still alive but it would seem that their spirits were long destroyed.

He reached out to inspect the tubes that bound the figures, his touch was light and fleeting, a mere formality rather than a gesture of compassion. The tubes were elastic and durable, all of which were deeply imbedded into their bodies.

621 tried pulling one out but he felt a resistance linger and decided to stop his efforts for he was certain that the individual would die after pulling out the black tube. He knew well that he shouldn’t overstep his boundaries for who knew what the consequences could be in interrupting the shopkeeper’s shady operations.