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——Birth of Dark——
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“He is supreme. He is almighty. He is a piece of shit. He is the Evil Lord Cassiel.”
-Lailah, A Guardian Angel of Morael
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Blood.
Maybe it was the colour. Or the smell. But seeing it for the first time, he felt something eerie awakening within him.
“Shit!” Cassiel huffed. His neck felt straitened. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” The black mace fell from his hand as his grip loosened. The more he observed the boy bleeding beneath him, the more his breathing harshened.
The cave was damp and dark, but he could see vividly. He’d sinned, and he realized it.
The more he looked. The more he got sunk into reflection—rumination.
How had it started? He could not remember. Getting into fights for silly reasons was a day-to-day activity for him. But today, what happened?
That’s when, in midair, words materialized themselves in front of his eyes.
❖You have tainted the holy ground of Morael with blood and violence.❖
His heart raced.
❖You have been marked as a Subject.❖
❖Should humans be allowed to wield the power once withheld by the Gods? ❖
❖What of the consequences should they retain such might?❖
❖You shall provide the answers.❖
“What?” he winced.
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“I’ve no desire for war.. or peace.”
-Cassiel Dread Klus, the Evil Lord
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Profile#0
Born: Jan 1, 0001 in Morael, Redsphere.
Codename: Dark ▪ Birth Name: #######
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Titles: Lord of the Demonic Syndicate | Regressor | Lifeless Reaper | Cannibal | ###### | ######
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Number of Experienced Regression(NER): ##
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Current Age(After Regression): 27 ▪ Total Age: ####
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Former Spouses: Lailah, Siouxsie Wright, Zephyr Morgan, Mayze Barclay, Ulsa Soulton, Layre Creighton, Eldia Bloodworth
Present Spouse: Elaine Shade
—Traits—
Eyes: Black ▪ Hair: Ebony ▪ Height: 6’’3’ ▪ Weight: 190 pounds
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Level: ##
Skills: ####### | ####### | ####### | #######
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The majority of a person’s life is spent chasing things like money, women, fame, etc. I’m not one of those people. At least I don’t believe myself to be. I also do not think of myself as special or unique. But the circumstances I was raised under were not just unique; they were—exceptional.
Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? When it all started. When I once poured my heart into a piece of paper.
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—Regressor: Prologue—
The Note
“‘Why must I struggle?’ Simplicity should be the way of life. In fact, for most, it would be the ideal way of life. Problems are a curse. The fear that one’s day might not go as planned is imminent.
How easy would it be if kids could simply go to the class, make friends, maybe meet a girl and enjoy their day? But life’s unpredictable.
Maybe you do meet a person, but he turns out to be impulsive. And now you are on the bathroom floor with most of your bones broken.
Maybe you do meet a girl, but it turns out other boys are interested in her. And now, in front of her, you’re on the floor with your mouth bleeding.
Fear breeds anxiety. So, you do nothing. You detach yourself. You remain in a corner. You meet with no one. You talk with no one. But you still come to school.
Why?
Because you must not let your parents know your situation in your class.
Still, nothing’s solved.
You still fear.
You fear that while eating lunch, one kid might come up and smash your head on the table. You fear while walking, you might bump into someone and offend them. You fear and fear until it consumes you. And it keeps on consuming you till it morphs. Morphs into something worse. Hatred.
But not towards the bullies or the girl. But towards yourself. Towards your own weakness.
In the end, you realize just how much you hate yourself.
The realization then forces you to take action.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
You now have a choice.
End it all. Kill yourself. Let everything end. Be released from it all. So, you take a knife and point it towards your wrist. But you cannot do it. You make excuses. You think of your parents. You try to conjure up that one reason to live. But nothing. You cannot do it.
Then, you understand why.
You have always feared but never taken any action. A coward, you call yourself. You realize you do not even have the gut to kill yourself.
You become self-aware that the only thing you will ever do is fear, no matter the circumstance. You can neither kill yourself nor change yourself.
But then the clouds fade. Your vision becomes clear. You can tell now. What is it that you want. All your life, what you have strived for.
Now, you start to question your awareness. The question in your mind again starts to morph.
“When did I ever truly strive for change?”_____
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Life#1
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“‘When did I ever truly strive for change?’ Quite dramatic for a boy your age. You’re 14, right, Alistair?”
It was dramatic indeed. But I was a 14-year immature boy who barely knew anything. Expressing your feelings can be a good thing, especially with your friends or family. But, what if you had no friends and the relation with your parents was a bit awkward.
Well, I did what any archetypal loner would do. I wrote on a piece of paper. It felt good. But my luck was shitty; I expressed myself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
That’s how I met the man who just asked me that question. Dr Winmore. I still do not know his full name even after all these years.
At that time, he was hired as a juvenile counsellor. He even looked like one typical therapist with his square glasses and oiled black hair.
To the young me, he looked like a mystery. But so did I to him. I had sparked an interest. He read my note in front of me while sitting behind a table across from me. I sat there with my arms cuffed.
Winmore read the note maybe twice or thrice. After that, he placed the sheets on the desk in front. His eyes fell towards the cuffed boy, me, seated opposite him.
From his view, I must have looked like a deranged young boy who continually used his left arm to scratch his right arm.
The scratch marks had started to redden, and little blood had begun to surface.
I remember our gazes had met more than once that day. And my eyes didn’t emit a hint of nervousness or anxiety. In fact, they looked thoughtless, dead, and observant. So, he must have wondered why did I do it? Why was I inflicting self-harm?
“Here’s what they don’t teach you in school,” he said after a pause, “When a child your age commits a crime, he gets sent into juvenile. But the thing is, if he shows potential to one day awaken an unnatural skill, he’s hanged no matter the age.” He leaned back. “You see, the ones in the high seat are very conscious about the rising numbers of people who wield supernatural abilities. And you, Alistair, show high potential.”
I knew that even before he informed it. After all, I was aware of the consequences when I decided to do what I did. But what I didn’t know was his plans. And what he did to kids like me.
Winmore placed two sheets on the desk near me and one pen in the middle.
“Now, here are your options.” He gestured using his arms. “If you sign the sheet on the left. You get hanged. You wrote that you lacked the gut to kill yourself in your diary. Well, good for you. The government will do that for you.” His lips curled into a smile. “But if you sign the sheet on the right, you’ll be sent in a hellhole. A hellhole that I crafted. On the surface, I’m might look like a typical therapist for juveniles, but I run quite an organization, you see. There you might end up dying in the worst way possible or living in the worst circumstances possible. The choice is yours.”
What do you think I did? What would you have done?
I signed the sheet on the right. Why? To understand that, you would first have to understand my story.
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—Regressor: Initialization—
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The sunlight crept through the forest. “Run shitheads!” A man shouted. He was young, tall, and muscular. In the intense heat, he wore black leather pants and a black t-shirt. His green eyes echoed with the sunlight, giving his face a very handsome look. That attractive man wasn’t me. He was the trainer. I was one of the kids huffing in the forest.
“Damn it. Damn it.” I murmured and huffed intensely. From my toes to my back, everything ached, yet I ran. Why? I asked myself. Was it the persuasive tone of that man, or was it because I was in the phase of life where stupid decisions seemed like the right choice to take that I decided to sign the sheet on the right.
Running wasn’t easy. The ground was no smooth land. Pebbles, broken branches, bones were spread across. My feet were bleeding. But so were the ones of the kids running beside me. If they had not stopped, then how could I?
Gods know how many holes had been ruptured in my feet. My eyesight had also started to get blurry. But I forced my eyes open. I was marching through a forest, not an open ground. Obstacles that needed to be avoided were everywhere, such as trees or bushes. And losing sight of the trainer would mean getting lost in this forest, aka imminent death.
So, I followed.
After 3 hours, some kids lost their pace in front of me, and some fell unconscious. But I kept on moving forward. After 5 hours, the trainer crossed the white line. It was the line that separated the forest from the tunnel gates.
Soon after, other kids too crossed it, and so did I. The other side of the line had a cemented floor, and after that were colossal metallic gates.
I fell on my knees on the floor and started gasping for air. Then, my gaze fell towards the trainer, who observed the stopwatch facing the forest.
After a while, I heard a click from the watch. The white line started to morph into Red, and a blaze of fire formed a wall around the line.
This was my 3rd time seeing it form, yet it still amazed me. Magic, I thought. The kids who had failed to cross the white line would now get stuck in the forest. There they would likely starve to death or get eaten by monsters.
I looked around to see our numbers. On the first day, there were over 10,000 kids, by my estimation: the second, 1000, and now about 900 to 950.
Barely 50-100 fell behind. A frustrating matter. Others were growing too. I looked towards the firewall. It was semi-transparent, so I could see the kids crying on the other side.
My heartbeat increased.
I feared that I would too fall behind and end up like them.
Clunk!
The metallic door opened after a while. All of us were set up in a line and guided inside by soldiers carrying semi-machine guns. The inside was dark, with only one blue LED on the ceiling that pointed directions periodically.
At the end of the tunnel, another thick metallic door opened. The soldiers halted while the rest of the kids and I entered.
This was the most dangerous yet most crucial part of the day.
Once all 900 of the kids entered inside, the metallic door closed. We were now all in a white room. Its length is at least 200 meters and width about 100 meters. Even if I look up, I can barely see the ceiling.
“It’s mine,” “No, it’s mine,” “Argh!”
It started—the chaos.
In the centre of the room, there are three long desks. Atop the 1st are piles of hard bread which we can eat as food, atop the second, milk bottles. And on the last, bandages.
I marched near the tables. I had no intention to hurry like the others. My legs were already killing me.
Obtaining food was vital. I do not know how many pieces of bread are placed on the table. But from what I observed yesterday, less than half of the kids went to sleep with a full stomach.
When I arrived near the table, there were still some piles of bread and milk bottles remaining. I took around five pieces of hard bread and three bottles of milk. That would be enough for the night. There was no limit on how many you could take. So, long as you could take it. Others fought intensely over food. And one day, I would have to fight too. But not right now.
No one blocked my way or disturbed me because of the red band on my right arm. We all wore the same dress—a blue t-shirt, a grey jumper, and soft grey trousers. But the thing that separated us was the coloured band on our right arm.
On the first day, all of us were given bands based on the severity of the crimes we committed. Yellow for burglary or minor offences. Green for attempted murder or rape. Purple for man-slaughter. And red for massacre or genocide.
Many of the kids were my age, and green and yellow was the most common band. After all, how many 14-years-old would actually commit murder? I have only seen about 20 people with a red band, including me.
At first, I didn’t make much of it, but it did give me a minor advantage. Others feared me. After all, purple and red meant murder, and people are afraid to mess with murderers.
In truth, I’m not very strong. Yes, I killed five people. But I won not because I was strong, but simply because I was smart. You do not need to be physically stronger to kill someone; given the right circumstances and meticulous planning, even a skinny man can kill a person 5-6 times his weight.
My height is average, so is my body build. I’ve been bullied since young, so at least I have high endurance. I can take hits. But lack any form of combat experience.
Right now, no one has attacked me. But if the others get desperate, they won’t see who they are attacking. They will go after anyone with food.
I gulped.
In a cage surrounded by starving beasts. How long until I’m exposed?
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