Infuriating. Everything drove him over the edge. He got everything but the answer.

“Goodness me, just answer my question, and I’ll boot scoot ‘n boogie outta here.”

The chubby man on his bare knees refused to quit. He didn’t bark back. Instead, he remained quiet. \

Infuriating.

Zen paced around the room, glancing back and forth at his men. He nibbled his thumb, not knowing what to do. He didn’t come out of hiding to be stopped by someone who couldn’t walk 50 meters without huffing for air.

“You’re people are dead. Slaughtered. You have no one to protect, yet you won’t tell me where it is. Infuriating!”

“It’s not only my people I care for. You will put the entire outside world in danger.”

The chubbester finally spoke. Zen slid towards the man. “Please! I need it! I beg you! I’ve been searching for years. Plotting, networking, eavesdropping on random conversations! I don’t even want to use it. It’ll be a waste of amazingness.”

“Never. Your obsession has driven you to madness. There’s no telling what you would do with it.”

“Well, bah humbug. I haven’t done anything in years, sitting on my ass like a basement dweller. I come out, and this is how I get treated.”

“You’re treated based on your past.”

Zen jumped onto his feet. “You have a point, but I don’t care enough to acknowledge it. Forget this chitty-chat-chat. Could you please tell me where it is?”

“Never.”

Zen scrunched up his hair, moving off to the side. “Well, well, my patience is dried up. Bring the kiddo.”

A guard dragged a young boy by his two arms. His mouth was concealed with duct tape—an Ionian item. Before he learned the actual name, Zen used to call it the ‘mouth-sealer-with-an-occasional-fix-up-on-broken weapons.’

The boy didn’t resist. He looked dead. He wasn’t physically dead, but somewhat mentally. Did he give up?

Chubbter’s eyes opened wide for an oldy. “Mason!”

“You guessed it. That’s your grandkid.”

He shot daggers at Zen. “You monster—he’s autistic.”

“Artistic? Perfect.” Zen raised his calves in glee. “His kind is certainly useful.”

“Autistic. Autistic. He has mental issues. Not artistic.”

“Is that supposed to stop me? A little kid that’s a bit dumb? Don’t be insane. If you believe I won’t harm him simply because of his condition, then may I remind you whom you’re speaking to? My name’s Zen, founder of the Three Heads of Despair. The one who impaled fear in towns and villages. The one who slaughtered for precious Ionian items. There’s no stopping me. Once my mind’s on something, it doesn’t let go until the job’s finished. You said your grandkid is autistic? Why should I care? It doesn’t make him any less human. Therefore, it doesn’t make him any less of a potential victim.” Zen’s spoke in a cold, tonless manner. No games. No jokes. Seriousness engulfed him. There was no stopping his mind. “Now, before you really piss me off, you can guide me to it, or I’ll chop off your grandkids finger every fifteen minutes.”

Chubbster gritted his teeth, looking back and forth between Zen and his grandkid. It looked like he was smiling angrily, which was quite amusing. His brows arched down, and stupid noises flew from his mouth.

He slammed his lap. “Please don’t harm my grandchild.”

“I’ll leave in peace once I get my hands on it.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Chubbster rose, telling Zen and his men to follow. They walked into a house that had obviously been raided. Chairs were flipped, food flooded the floor, and books and other possessions dispersed everywhere. They carefully threaded through broken glass and other objects until they reached a chest.

It wasn’t unique. Its color faded, and splinters stuck out like the end of a hornet. Chubbster claimed it was under the chest. Weird. Wouldn’t it be crushed? It was a pretty big box, and with all the metal outline, it weighed a ton.

Giving him a side eye, Zen instructed his men to move the chest. Underneath was a loose wooden plank. Chubbster ripped it off, revealing a hidden staircase.

“We must destroy the floor,” he said.

The planks were pretty loose, and despite a slight struggle, it wasn’t difficult. If the planks had been firmly built, there would’ve been an issue.

Chubbster led the way down. It felt like the stairs led to hell—total darkness. Zen commanded his soldiers to shine a light. A white ray beamed down the narrow stone stairs—a flashlight; what a fantastic Ionian item.

Chubbster turned around as soon as they released the light. His mortified expression smacked a smile on Zen’s face.

“What’s wrong, chubby? Have you never seen god-like technology?”

He gulped, ignoring Zen’s words, and continued moving forward.

They reached the lower level and continued walking. They could not walk side-by-side unless they desired their shoulders to be scraped by the rigid walls.

“Hey, chubby, how much more walking?”

“We’re nearly there.”

“This better be no trap.”

“Believe me, I wish it is.”

They continued until reaching a giant, open room. Pillars ran down, supporting the openness. In the middle was a lever. It felt suspicious. Zen anxiously looked around. He wasn’t his usual self. Something was off.

Was it a trap? Extremely possibly. There was no way to learn but the hard way. Everything was infuriating. He may not walk out with it—the one thing he wanted more than anything, the one thing that could make him so powerful that no one would dare to contest.

“Once the lever is pulled, the weapon you seek shall rise from beneath.”

“Lies,” Zen claimed. “I’m not falling for a cliché.”

“Cliché? You’re mistaken. I assure you nothing will happen.”

“The floor gonna collapse, and we all die—that shitty cliché. If you’re so confident, though, pull it. Prove nothing will happen and pull it.”

Chubbster agreed without hesitation. “Very well. I figured you would like to do it yourself. You’ve traveled all this way, after all.”

Chubbster’s sweet talk wouldn’t affect Zen. Chubbster went to the lever, glancing back at Zen, who had his arm crossed while leaning by the exit.

“Zen, no one in the outside world knows this, but allow me to shed the truth of this weapon. It doesn’t exist—no—rather, it no longer exists. Its power is unlike anything else. Frightening in all aspects. One hit, and you’ll be at death’s door. There’s no escaping it. We have held the weapon for decades, and it is unreachable to anyone who tries to obtain it. One day, a man dressed in black arrived. He was paper-thin and could easily slip through compact caves. Regarding this man, he claimed to collect his belongings. I didn’t understand what he meant until he told me the weapon’s exact name: handgun. Long story short, this man was like no other. He wasn’t an average worker. No. He’s something far more important—the man who veiled his skin head-to-toe—the leader of the City of Ionia. Rightfully so, I returned the weapon. In compensation, his men built this room with a lever. He told me when someone with ‘dangerous ambitions arrives, take everything with you.’ I was ignorant at the time. But now, I realize what he meant. My town, people, animals, houses, roads, all of it you destroyed.” He choked with anguish. “My grandchild cannot live a fulfilling life due to his condition. As for me, there’s nothing left to protect. You stole my home. Now, I shall steal your life.”

He pulled the lever. The ground crumbled. Zen’s men panicked, racing to the exit. Zen threw a small, rectangular box that shot up a metal barrier. His men banged on the metal, crying, begging to be saved.

No weapon. It was gone, stolen. After years of tracing and searching, it was gone. Everything he worked for was thrown away in the water.

The place was collapsing. Zen scrambled to the staircase, leaving his men and Chubbster to die. The roof cracked, and rocks fell from above. Adrenaline kicked in, and he sprinted faster than he ever had. He made it to the stairs, skipping three steps at a time. He reached the normal floor of the house and flung himself out the window. The ground continued to collapse.

It wasn’t just the ground. The entire city sunk into the mountains. Zen raced to his horse by the entrance. His heart pounded like a caged animal begging to be released. His horse paced around, neighing in distress. Zen hopped onto the panicking horse and glided down the mountain.

Ten years. Ten years.

He had his mind glued to the weapon. His thoughts consisted of only the weapon. He’s been anxiously waiting to hold it in his hands. He didn’t want to use it, claiming it would taint its beauty. It would just sit on a shelf as a prize.

The beauty he chased.

The beauty he desperately desired was out of reach in another world.

A world he couldn’t reach.