The dimly lit room was thick with the stench of budget incense, and a lone candle struggled to cast a feeble glow on the jerry-rigged shrine. An orange juice bottle cork, screw-side up, bore witness to an odd ritual marked by a drop of blood and a few red smudges. Behind the closed door, a symphony of voices clashed in argument, eventually surrendering to the blaring tunes of a heated dispute.
Michael sucked in a lungful of the pungent incense, fixating his piercing blue eyes on the puny flame. Skepticism took a backseat as he muttered his words with grit. "Michael Mir, born January 2nd, 2000, twenty-three years old, virgin. I toss my faith to the wind, ditching religion. I'm calling out to anyone who's listening, with my word as the contract and my pure blood as the ink, let's make a deal. I'm throwing my most prized possession, my soul, into the ring for some power – the kind that lets me whip up the supernatural and nurture it, cut loose from this human shell. I'm ready, and I swear it from the gut. I call on He, She, and It, whoever's tuned in, please hook me up!"
Michael banged out the chant four times aloud, four times in his head, struggling to separate the two, and four more times in a hushed whisper, dumping every ounce of sincerity into his plea.
Silence thickened in the air, and the candle flame remained unfazed. Michael's clenched hands loosened, and the anticipation wiped clean from his face in an instant. He stood up, knees creaking in protest, snuffed out the candle and incense, and flooded the room with unforgiving light.
The clock blinked 22:59. Exhaustion weighed on him; he knew sleep wasn't coming until the music outside choked at 23:15.
After dismantling his makeshift altar, Michael tucked the candle and incense sticks into the bottom drawer of the "shrine" cabinet. The discarded cork took a discreet dive out the window – caution, even on the tenth floor of a twenty-story building.
Michael flipped on his computer, slamming shut the "Real Magic" forum tab without saving. He pivoted to YouTube, scrolling through fresh releases while keeping an eye peeled for updates on his favorite light novels.
A knock rapped on his bolted door, followed by his mom's voice. "Michael, you up?"
"Yeah, Mom. Dead tired. Headed to bed soon," he replied, annoyance oozing every time she rattled the handle despite his pleas.
"Alright then. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mom," Michael sighed, relief wafting over him as she gave up without pushing further.
With headphones on, he watched a few AMVs until the outside music flatlined. Fatigue draped over him as he shuffled to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and collapsed into bed.
"Another day..." Michael mumbled, mentally dissecting the ritual prep. Like the result, he felt zilch – skepticism overshadowing the night.
...
At twenty-three, Michael stood as the second youngest of three brothers and a sister. Coexisting under the same roof with his parents and the youngest sibling, Dan, his family spun a unique tale.
Clark, a twenty-eight-year-old brother, and Lessa, at twenty-seven, both flew the marriage coop. They owned their own pads, earned bank with degrees in electrical engineering and sociology, and popped out kids like it was a full-time gig. Clark had two ankle-biters, Lessa had one, creating a colorful tableau in the family.
Dan, the baby at twenty-one, found his jam as a musician with an online fan following. Meanwhile, Michael, shackled to the security guard grind at twenty-three, pondered the monotony of his eight-hour shifts and a wallet skinnier than a supermodel.
Peter and Mary, Michael's fifty-one-year-old folks, did the daily grind in civil service for the city. This ragtag crew made up Michael's immediate family, each charting their own course.
Michael's security gig, though a time vortex for contemplation, only fueled his musings on the dissatisfaction with his life and the foggy uncertainty of his thirties. Amid these deep thoughts, he found solace in pigging out on junk food, delving into light novels, watching everything from series to reactions on YouTube, and scrolling through 9GAG.
A true odd duck, Michael lacked a genuine passion for anything – not even life itself. His disconnection started at seventeen in high school when he clocked his perceived ugliness. The girl he silently pined for, never mustering the courage for a real chat, wrecked his world during recess. Catching her tonsil-hockey session with a dude from the next class slammed an unbearable ache into Michael's chest, obliterating his self-esteem in a heartbeat. Instead of recognizing his potential, he fixated on what he thought was wrong with him, brewing a shallow self-view.
The next challenge? Socializing. Pre-high school, Michael rolled with a tight-knit crew he dubbed the "Brotherly Friends" – eight buddies from elementary school who he figured would be buds forever. High school, though, threw a wrench in that plan. Five of them scattered to different high school and the remaining three, including him, ended up in the same class. The first year looked good, but as the second year unspooled, his buddies forged new connections, scored girlfriends, and, swayed by peer pressure or some weird maturation spell, dumped their old interests – Anime, Manga, MMORPGs, card games – deeming them juvenile. The drift felt like a slap, making Michael question if the friendship he invested years in was genuine.
In his contemplative moments, he weighed his aspirations against the bonds portrayed in TV and movies. The realization struck him hard – if the enduring companionship of his high school days could crumble like a house of cards, perhaps he never truly grasped the essence of "real" friendship. Despite forging a couple of acquaintances in his third year, he maintained a careful distance, more for convenience than a genuine connection.
Grades emerged as the third hurdle in his journey – a towering mountain to higher education and a lucrative gig, compounded by his ingrained laziness. From middle school through his sophomore year, Michael struggled as an apathetic student. The turning point arrived as he approached eighteen, teetering on the edge of adulthood and no longer legally tethered to parental support. Only then did he summon the will to turn things around.
Alas, his efforts lacked the required gusto. Upon donning the cap and gown, Michael faced the crossroads – plunge into courses and part-time work or leap headfirst into the workforce. He chose the latter, masked behind the veil of "taking time to think," squandering years with excuses and job-hopping until seven months ago when he snagged a gig as a security guard for a private contractor overseeing Marshel’s Warehouses.
Today, family ranked high on his annoyance meter.
Concerning matters of the opposite sex, Michael nonchalantly dismissed any interest and grew accustomed to not giving a damn (props to H-Anime). Friends? He found solace in the two survivors from high school, though the link felt more like a convenience than genuine camaraderie.
University or college? Almost six years post-graduation, he continued sidestepping the required courses to fix his dismal grades.
Yet, family persisted in yanking his chain. Comparisons to his siblings became a routine, not just from his parents but extended family members and even his brothers and sister.
“Get out more.”
“Land a real job.”
“You've got free time, work two gigs.”
“Aren't you interested in making money?”
“What's your plan at forty or fifty?”
“How long you planning to bunk with Mom and Dad?”
“Scared to admit you're gay or something?”
“Look at your brother – kids, top job, stunning wife, and their own place.”
“Your sister tied the knot, and you never bring anyone home.”
“Why not hang out with your brother and his buddies? They dig you.”
“Quit being a room hermit; it’s bad for your back.”
“Reading's cool, but pick something productive.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“You're twenty-three; cut the gaming crap.”
“Your gut's almost as big as Dad's, but at least he lifts.”
And on and on...
Fully aware that the nagging came with the territory, Michael responded with nods, understanding, and a willingness to meet halfway. These familial drills played a pivotal role in sculpting Michael's passionless mindset. Yet, it wasn't all misery for his character. Time acted as a balm, bringing about some shifts in Michael’s persona from his teenage years into adulthood.
Though a stranger to romantic entanglements, Michael exhibited kindness and straightforwardness in the company of women. His considerate nature was recognized by acquaintances, and his sparse friends, whom he caught up with perhaps once a month, were always a phone call away.
While a degree lingered on his “Goals List,” Michael occupied his time with self-study in drawing, video editing, writing, and a second language (Japanese, with a vocabulary largely borrowed from Anime). His job choices consistently leaned toward short hours and minimal responsibilities. Yet, when sudden requests came from his bosses or family, he professionally complied without a whiff of complaint.
Despite not always seeing eye to eye with his family, Michael felt loved, especially by his nephews and niece. Like any person, he bore a mix of good and bad, firmly believing that the majority's life choices didn't necessarily define the individual.
Yet, for Michael, a life without passion was a life not worth living. The good could do without him, and as for the bad, he was better off. To navigate his daily struggles, he clung to childhood dreams that, instead of waning with age, became the primary wellspring of strength.
Despite entertaining whimsical notions like “Dragons nestling in China’s mountains” or “Winning the lottery is within reach,” Michael wasn't completely delusional. He maintained a clear boundary between reality and fantasy. As long as it harmed no one, he saw no harm in entertaining unconventional ideas aloud. However, certain interests, like his growing genuine fascination with black magic, Chi cultivation, mysticism, and conjuring, were best kept tucked away from prying eyes in Michael's estimation.
…
RINGRINGRING!
At 07:15, the alarm clock blared, jerking Michael from his slumber and marking the kickoff for his 08:00 grind.
“Morning, dad.”
“Morning, Michael.”
The exchange, brusque and devoid of morning zest, unfolded as both men wrestled with the twin challenges of weariness and haste. Mary, with her workplace within arm's reach, enjoyed the luxury of rising a cool half-hour later. Dan, the unpredictable workhorse, rarely materialized before nine, occasionally squeezing in a return to bed after a brief rendezvous with consciousness for a bathroom break.
As Michael wrestled his feet into his shoes, the previous night's failure lingered like a stubborn ghost. A flicker of contemplation danced across his mind—maybe it was a stroke of luck that he didn't hit the jackpot.
‘If some horror-flick entity did show up and accept my soul, who knows the level of hell I'd be signing up for? Would the splendors of an endless human lifespan be worth it?’
But then, Michael's ego, often inflated by comparisons to Anime, comic, and light novel badasses, had its say:
‘Sure, my body might be a bit limited right now, but if my soul's headed to hell, I'll put up a fight! I'll find a way to get strong, morph into a demon if I have to, and then... I'll obliterate all the other demons, even the devil himself, and ascend to godhood.’
At a certain point, the self-aggrandizing monologue bordered on embarrassing, though Michael found it strangely amusing.
‘I'll check out the other forums at work.’
His quest for something genuine amidst the fake hadn't dwindled. As a kid, superpowers were his ultimate wish; as a teen, he abandoned belief but reveled in the genre through various mediums. Now, as a passion-starved adult, those childhood aspirations colored his world.
In the past eighteen months, Michael dove deep into the realms of magical operations, meditation, Taoism, mythologies—anything that emitted a whiff of authenticity. He even tried a few, yearning for a tangible encounter. Yet, reality refused to play its part, prompting his inner skeptic to indict the whole discipline. Discouraged, he jettisoned the process, demanding concrete evidence that never arrived. The books, online videos, and forums—folks behind keyboards made audacious claims, but request proof, and you were branded "Unworthy."
“You skipping breakfast?” Peter quizzed.
“No time today.”
He had overslept by a solid thirty-five minutes, courtesy of the botched late-night ritual.
“Well, grab something on your way. If you return home hungry, the leftovers will have vanished. It’s DIY kitchen duty for you.”
“Then I’ll cook,” Michael shrugged, unfazed. With his backpack and Bluetooth headphones in place, he exited.
“Have a decent day.”
…
Marshel’s Warehouses sat just a twenty-minute cruise from Michael’s crib. Upon arrival, he slid into the typical shift change drill in the guards' booth. After announcing his presence, he swung open the safe, grabbing his taser and pepper spray. His shift buddy, an old dude in his fifties, snagged his own arsenal, and they both tuned in for the lowdown on the previous night, not banking on anything wild.
“Gonna grab a bite, Melik,” Michael informed the old-timer.
“Sure, but hustle to your spot.”
During the day grinds (08:00-16:00 and 16:00-00:00), there were two spots to man in the joint — the north and south gates. When the night shift (00:00-08:00) rolled in, only the north gate cracked open.
“I know,” Michael shot back, making a beeline for the deli across the street.
“Morning, Marisa, whip up three salami stacks, will ya?” Michael tossed a greeting at the forty-something lady boss, snagging a chilled coffee from the fridges.
“Here you go, sweetie.” Marisa handed over the goods. She was a friendly, slightly chunky lady. On days when Michael couldn't swing by, a phone call for delivery did the trick.
“Thanks. Charge me for the iced coffee?” Michael sucked down a third of the drink in the first gulp, making it seem like the bottle had been opened ages ago.
“Got it covered.”
“Might swing by tomorrow mornin’,” Michael waved and dashed to the booth at the south entrance.
Fingers dancing on the keypad, the door clicked open. Michael hustled inside and, priority ticked, cracked the electric gate for the south entrance. Only then did he feel comfy enough to plunk his sandwich stack on the table and kick back with his phone.
“Dao Tree Path.” He punched into the forum and scrolled to see how many of the 34,426 members were clocked in.
‘217…’ The number felt like a ghost town. The latest buzz across all the sub-forums on the occult (Taoism, Magic, Satanism, and Meditation) was from yesterday and this A.M.
Hitting the “Satanism” tab, Michael sifted through threads about summoning demons for deals, Real Magic turning out to be a bust.
‘Boring... Fake... Bogus... Liar... Yeah, right... Drop a pic then... Outdated… Not my vibe… Sounds too complex… Too easy… Maybe… Don’t need more stuff; the incense and candles already caught Mom’s snooping eye… TL;DR … Going against everything I’ve read already…’
Michael’s thumb ached from the endless swipe-fest, and he felt downright defeated. None of the threads screamed trustworthiness. Maybe his skepticism about the whole shebang had him blind to the “Hidden Truth,” and he genuinely mulled over it.
It didn’t take long for him to relapse into the warm embrace of light novel sites and YouTube.
In the final hour of the shift, Michael dug into the PDF he snagged, a book named “Yogi’s Breathing.” He was twenty pages from the wrap, and the exercises, despite being dished out by a Western scribe, made sense and were a breeze to follow. As a series of meditations, he felt stoked that he could pull it off without breaking a sweat and daydreamed about tweaking Prana.
“What’s crackin’?” A younger dude sidled up to take over at 16:00.
“Hey, Alex. All good. Had a tiff with a renter who blanked on her unit number and went bonkers, but I sorted it. Rest of the gig was smooth,” Michael briefed. If protocol wasn’t in the picture, he wouldn’t have bothered beyond the “Hey.” “There’s a coke in the mini fridge.”
“Cheers.”
…
18:43, home.
“I need your shaver, Mike,” Dan burst into the room, brushing off the glare from his older brother.
“Clean it afterward!” Michael yelled. His parents had a rule against headphones and locked doors when he watched movies.
Five minutes later…
“Did you clean it?”
“I barely used it,” Dan dashed out.
“Asshole!” Michael grumbled, not bothering to chase. It was a hassle to get up from his reclined position in the gaming chair while clutching a bowl of chips.
22:12
After half an hour without a summons from either parent, Michael figured they believed he was asleep.
‘I believe! I believe! I believe! I believe…’ He chanted to solidify his sincerity as he set up the makeshift shrine.
While engrossed in the movie, he reconsidered the risk factor and concluded it would be a waste not to use the incense and candles, so he decided to give the ritual a second shot.
Grabbing a sewing needle (stored in the cabinet’s drawers next to the computer desk), he pricked his finger. Lacking a spare cork, he smeared the blood on a tissue paper. Neither a requirement nor any specific container, just something he happened to have after finishing a bottle of orange juice last night.
Once everything was ready, he knelt down, attempting to further consolidate his genuine belief in the ritual by practicing the basic breathing technique he learned from “Yogi’s Breathing.”
22:30
With the lights off, the ritual commenced.
“My name is Michael Mir, born on January 2nd, 2000, twenty-three years old, virgin. I renounce my faith in God, I renounce religion. I beseech whoever listens, with my word as the contract and my pure blood as the ink, to sign a deal with me. I put up my most precious possession, my soul, in exchange for power – the ability to manifest the supernatural and nurture it, to be liberated from this mortal shell. I’m ready and swear so wholeheartedly. I beseech He, She, and It who listen, please grant me this!”
Tears trickled down Michael’s cheeks. His face, red and contorted, hands clasped together, nails digging into the skin. He poured everything into it, akin to a seasoned actor losing himself in a role. In his heart, he always felt that even if his conviction were a golden desert of fine sand, he could instantly detect the pebble of skepticism that would undermine the ritual.
And, after giving it his all… Nothing.
‘As expected…’
Michael rose and tidied his room. The harsh dose of reality was disheartening, but such was life.
At 23:00, Michael drifted to sleep, his mind buzzing with ideas on how to make money. If there were no magic, no realms of unique creatures, legends, and gateways to other worlds, and no higher powers, a person was stuck in the mundane and the passionless. With enough money, at least, one could drown in materialism until death, venturing into the singular mystery no one returned to talk about. To Michael, it was a silver lining.
03:00
PUK!
Michael rolled in his bed.
PUK!
He yanked the blanket back in his sleep.
PUK!
His eyes blinked open slowly.
PUK!
‘Mm? A drip… is it raining?’ He groggily got up to lower the shutters.
THUMP!
His heart pounded as his gaze shifted to something in the opposite corner of the room, beside the window.
THUMP!
His heart raced. It wasn’t a dream, and in the dark night, the dim glow from the streetlights and the pale moon outlined a slowly swaying, eerie figure... someone!
“E, E, E, E…”