08 : 152 : 12 : 10 : 41
“Okay, hit me,” Lieselot commands and braces herself.
She stands in front of me on the country road, posing like Superman with hands on the hips.
It’s a bright, lovely spring day. Clear, cerulean sky above the mountains. Fresh grass sways in the cool breeze from the north, and Castle Menneroix’s stately silhouette is drawn in the distance behind our backs, like a watchful protector. Sparrows swoop up and down around us, snatching flies over the blooming mayflowers and I think to myself, what a perfect day this is to sock your friend—Wait, excuse me, what?
“You sure about that?” I ask, to check if she’s quite sane.
“Uh-huh,” the girl nods back energetically. “I wanna show you something.”
Lieselot’s younger than me, at least in terms of natural physical development. She’s also dumber than me. Uglier than me. I’m pretty sure it counts as honest-to-god bullying if I lay a finger on her now. Straight-up hazing. But she’s asking for it. She’s tensing her budding abs, waiting for my knuckles. Her dad’s a martial arts instructor, I guess she can take it. She should be able to. And looking at her annoying, smug mug, I kind of want to.
But I was literally born to kill and she's twelve. Is this really-really okay?
I decide to hold back just a little, clench my fist and hand out a straightforward punch.
“Ha!” Lieselot parries the half-assed attack with her elbow, and counters with a jab on the ribs under my outreached arm.
“Guhhh…!”
Wholly unprepared, I get the airs pressed out of my lungs and double over.
Damn this twelve-year-old packs a punch!
“See? Wasn’t that cool?” Lieselot proclaims with no remorse, pleased with her flawless success. “My dad taught me! Now hit me again!”
I’d like to point out I didn’t hit her even once, I got hit instead, but it takes a moment before I can make a sound.
Okay. You asked for it, you little shit. The kiddie gloves are off.
“Haa—!”
And so, in a show of record-breaking stupidity and stubbornness, I try to hit Lieselot again and again, and get countered again and again, and in the end, it’s just me getting pummeled all over. Who’s bullying who again?
Finally, tired, dizzy and hurting, I blow my cool and cast a Shockwave at her feet. Bang. The explosive lash of pressure throws the prepubescent girl’s lithe body high in the air along with big chunks of dirt and gravel. She flies a grand arc and drops in the meadow among the flowers a startling distance away, heavy as a sack of potatoes.
In hindsight, maybe I should’ve held back a little more?
The difference between what my physical body can dish out and the potency of my magic always throws me off.
Well, too late to worry about that.
There are no rewind buttons in reality.
“Aww fuck…” I squeeze and twist my cheeks as waves of horror and remorse wash over me.
What have I done? Again! Because of my stupid, stupid, impulsive character, I’ve ruined my peaceful, beautiful second chance at life—third chance! Again! Right when things were starting to look up too!
She has to have broken a bone or two. Or ten. That is, if her freaking neck didn’t snap!
Lieselot’s dad will beat me to a pulp, and then tell about it to granny, who will kick me out, or just turn me over to the authorities, and then I’ll be either a homeless cripple, or a convict waiting to get burned at the stake. That is, if granny herself won’t turn me into a toad and slice up my legs for breakfast. Only because I couldn’t stay out of trouble for a week…! Shit, shit, shit! What am I gonna do!?
They should’ve left me there, in that dungeon.
I’m a menace. A plague upon the living. A walking curse. A rank S-threat to civilization—
Then Lieselot’s dirtied face bobs up from the grass, a delighted, borderline ecstatic smile on her face.
“WOW THAT WAS AWESOME! Do it again!”
8 : 261 : 15 : 00 : 01
I walk into a tall hall full of people I don’t know, in the heart of a big castle I don’t know, dressed in clothes I don't own. This is where I was asked to come after waking up in a room with an unfamiliar ceiling, in a bed almost as big as our cabin in the woods.
I’m not a filthy prisoner or a beggar anymore. My body is washed clean and smells of roses like I've become a goddamn princess overnight. The dress they gave me is so beautiful and white it makes most brides look bad. Even the panties seem like you could eat them. I could barely recognize my own reflection. Is it weird to get turned on when you look in the mirror? Asking for a friend.
Busting me out of jail and transforming me into a presentable citizen was no effort worth mentioning for these people. And now I’m supposed to tell them they did the right thing and I deserve it? Anyone able to pull off a fraud like that would make Ponzi seem like a kid selling Counterstrike skins.
Oh lords, I’m so nervous.
I go stand in front of the half-circle of strangers while they stare at me under a solemn silence.
What am I supposed to do? There’s nothing about noble etiquette in my head! My only reference for how medieval ladies should behave is Cate Blanchett! The bar is far too high!
Thankfully, it’s not much of a crowd. There are seven of them. Four males, three females. A perfectly balanced party composition, gender quota well met, equality represented. Bet the dude in the leather coat turns out to be homosexual. Oh, that’s Sephram.
There’s a wide antique work desk in the back, in front of a tall window. On the edge of the desk is a slim glass vase in which a young lady fits a bundle of bright orange gerberas, quietly humming.
She acts like she owns the place, so I’m thinking she probably owns the place. There are vibes of that sort. Of course, the boss of the super secret organization is a young chick instead of an old dude. It’s such a progressive group.
The lady is dressed in a white blouse, mocha breeches, and light Roman-style sandals. There are little metal gadgets and random accessories hanging around her neck and the wide belt. I have no idea what they’re for.
Done making the flowers sit nicely, the lady turns around and faces me with a smile.
She’s pretty, all right. Pretty enough to make you admit she’s the boss. I’d sure let her whip me or step on me, anytime. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair is braided and tied behind the head, and her eyes are so vivid brown they look almost red. There’s a gentle but smart look in those eyes, which makes you believe she knows a thing or two about life, despite how young she seems. And all I can think about is how bad I want to stick my face between her plump ass cheeks.
—“Oh my god!” I cover my face with my hands. “I did NOT just say that aloud!”
That’s a problem with these first person narratives. It sometimes gets hard to tell what lines are spoken aloud and when I’m just subvocalizing. I often get paranoid about that.
I steal a cautious peek past my fingers.
The people in the room are making confused faces. Confused, not outright repulsed. Okay, good. Only the readers know my shame.
“Never mind,” I tell them and put my hands down. “Just making sure. Carry on.”
“I told you she’s off her rocker,” Sephram remarks with a shrug.
For a fleeting second, the boss’s smile turns a bit forced. But she masks it masterfully and then comes forward to meet me.
“Welcome to Castle Menneroix,” she says. “My name is Irifan Gisele Menneroix and I am the Duchess of Orethgon, as well as the acting Director and mission coordinator of the Order of the Covenant; the humble brotherhood in the headquarters of which you presently stand. Did I forget anything? It is a pleasure to meet you, young lady. The others you see here are all my dear friends and Masters of the Order. Allow me to introduce you.”
The woman gestures at the fellowship and starts the round from the far left.
“Over there is Master Vey-Hanh Gunlau, the current head and Grandmaster of the Geonsing School of Martial Arts. He's our chief military advisor and trains our operatives in the rowdy field of close combat. Civilians may join too, the school is open for all. They're very nice people and happy to share their clever skills.”
Master Gunlau is a tall, ripped guy in a crimson monk outfit of loose, sleeveless robes and pants that don’t hinder movement. His shoulders are broad, hands huge, and his head like a cannonball, round and clean-shaven. On his face is a wide, warm smile, which never falters for a moment, like it's perpetually frozen there. He looks like the kind of guy who could rip your head clean off the shoulders with his bare hands while talking about what kind of crepe to get after work. He’d go for strawberry.
“Hey there, little one,” Master Gunlau greets me by wriggling his thick fingers.
I judge it best to avoid eye contact, in case even girls past their first menstruation are in his strike zone.
The boss continues on.
“Next we have Master Sephram Dan Mansoix, whom you're already well-acquainted with. Sephram is a former knight officer of the Kingdom of Alberion, and our specialist in foreign intelligence and espionage. He’s also very gifted at fixing roofs, opening clogged sewers, and sculpting toys for children, among other things. There’s nothing he can’t do, really.”
The guy’s a legitimate knight and not a J-rock star? Who would’ve thought? But how’d he end up being a handyman? Is this “Order” quite alright?
“Even small good deeds are still good deeds,” Sephram tells me, noticing my look.
Didn’t ask.
Irifan carries on,
“And here next we have Master Endol Lanuhá O-Aederyn. A reverend emiri Sage, and an honored emissary from the great Dominion of Amarno overseas. He helps us in the role of a Lore Master, and knows pretty much everything there is to know about our world and life on it, above and under the surface. We are very, very privileged to have him with us.”
How long did you have to practice saying that name without getting tongue-tied?
Master Endol is even taller than Gunlau and, as said, not human. That unnaturally clean complexion, triangular ears, emotionless, ice blue eyes—he’s the same species as the brass knights I saw on that nightmare island—and that golden creep. The association makes me reflexively put up my mental guard.
But Endol’s already a man of age, not a soldier. He doesn't have a beard or a lot of wrinkles, but he's got that timeless old man dignity. Instead of murderous intent, his face shows nothing but pure indifference and detachment from the mundane. In his futuristic, blue-gray cassock, he’d be better fit for Star Trek than any tale of high fantasy. But there he is.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
A Sage, huh?
Master Endol gives me a brief glance. A glance that feels like needles. But he makes no comment and soon resumes staring off into nothingness, like he’s only attending out of obligation. Wonderful, no pointless chit-chat. I like him already.
The introductory round hops across the hall, to those right from the big table and Irifan.
“On this side we have Master Teresina, the Court Wizard of Orethgon, my dear mentor and counselor, and our expert on the more preternatural sides of reality. I’m personally not very knowledgeable when it comes to the arcane arts, so Master Teresina’s work is very mysterious to me.”
Master Teresina is an older human woman, and by older, I mean near retirement age. But she’s not a warm-hearted, chubby stump of a granny, but upright, thin, and sinewy. A prominent eagle nose and a hawkish gaze. She’s dressed in a deep purple robe, a shadowy wool shawl over the shoulders. It's pretty cold in the castle. Her silvery hair’s tied in a tight bun, probably in an effort to smooth out the creases splitting her forehead. But it’s not helping. Judging by those wrinkles, she’s got to be around ninety, at least.
“I’m not even seventy yet, you runt,” the old bag tells me with a snide smirk.
“What, I didn’t say anything!” I cover my mouth with my hands. This time, I’m sure I didn’t! Like, ninety-five percent sure.
“I'm a professional,” the granny informs me. “And telling what goes through your head is not what I'd call challenge. For your information, at least three people in this room can do it, so you might want to tidy up your mental act just a little.”
“You might want to not peep into people’s heads without permission!” I snap back, more than a little worried.
“I sure wouldn’t want to poke my nose into a junkyard like that if I had a choice,” she replies with a snort. “But I do have a good reason: it’s my job. I’m in charge of the safety of our sanctuary. Which means, I have the duty to know all that unfolds in and outside these walls, who goes in, and what comes out. Which means, I’m the one here who makes the rules, gives permissions, and decides what’s nice and appropriate. So don’t you get cute with me, pepper spray, or I can make your life here very, very difficult for you.”
I don’t smell that bad. Anymore.
“Um, Master Teresina...?” Irifan makes a pained smile at our thorny exchange. “Aren’t you being maybe a tad too harsh on our guest now…?”
The witch sighs. “Dear child. Wouldn’t waste my sympathies on this one, if I were you!”
Wow, spill all the beans, grandma!
I make an effort to change the topic. “Okay, so who’s next?”
“Ah, yes,” Irifan quickly picks up. “Next we have Master Teresina’s young apprentice, who only recently joined our order in formal capacity. Genius magician Vysania Lindofer from the famous Academy of Kaldession! We are very proud to have her with us!”
“Huh…?”
I turn to the chick standing next to the granny, the span of a few generous steps between.
And as I do, my vision goes wild.
It’s not because the girl in question has what unmistakably look like fluffy cat ears jutting out of her head, and that’s totally my thing. No. It’s not her jade-green eyes that have slim kittie pupils either. It’s not her dumb bob cut that went out of fashion since the 70s, or that cute face with real soft-looking, glossy lips that are practically begging to be frenched. I have no issue with her tomboyish choice of attire either. That white tailcoat looks devilishly good on her and the black riding pants are a downright compliment to her legs.
I barely register any of that.
This should be our first meeting, but my spider sense claims there’s something vaguely familiar about her.
The subconscious gears in my brain start spinning and soon dig up the reason for the déjà vu. It’s in her aura. The residual energy every magician emits simply by being alive, like a wizard BO, bears the same unique frequency pattern as all their spells. And the reading I’m picking up now comes up with a definite match in the experiences recorded in my corporeal body. Then fuses are fried.
“Hey, I know you.” I stride up to the girl until I'm almost close enough for our noses to touch. “You’re the cunt who shot a lightning bolt in my face!”
Yeah, that’s the thing.
Back in Buckinworth—she was there, with those soldiers, further back behind the line. I didn't look that closely then since she wasn't armed and stayed out of the fight, but that turned out to be a big mistake. It was this chick who took me down with that cheap shot in the very end. It could only have been her. In other words, it’s all thanks to this pussy cat that they caught me and I got thrown into dungeon to roll in my filth and eat shit for three weeks, just waiting for a painful death. Among other things.
The witch's apprentice makes no attempt to deny it. She only stares back at me with infuriating calmness, not batting an eye.
“I stopped you from killing a lot of people, yourself included,” she says.
There’s not even anger or contempt in her look. It’s like she sees only a dumb kid. Somebody way beneath her and not worth the time of day.
“Aw, what a saint you are, kittie,” I tell her. “Don’t want to rain on your parade, but somebody kind of dear to me fucking died that day. How do you feel about that?”
“Unfortunate. But I would say that person’s blood is in your own hands. You made the first move, against better judgment. Keeping the soldiers you maimed alive took all my attention. Some of them will never walk again on their own feet, or hold their children in their hands. How do you feel about that?”
“You almost killed me!”
“Had I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing there now.”
“Oh, is that right? Then why don’t we have a rematch to test the theory? Like, right now? See who’d be left standing with no holds barred? No sniping from a blind spot, no family for hostage, no cannon fodder for distraction—just you and me, catnip, fair and square—”
—“And that’s about far enough, little one.”
A monstrous creature steps up from the sidelines and catches my shoulder in its huge hand. And my fighting spirit flushes itself down the toilet.
Forced to face that thing, which I’ve been actively trying to ignore until now, I’m reminded of another scene from my awful past. The first face I saw since coming to life on that beach, that horrifying, horned giant, that still haunts my dreams. Now, a similar abomination occupies my field of view with its rocky body and bull eyes. I should be terrified. But, instead of fluted armor, this beastman is dressed in what looks like a terrycloth bathrobe, XXXX-Extra Large, pastel pink, and it sort of takes from the intimidation factor.
“By making an enemy of one of us, you make enemies of us all,” the monster man tells me. “And if you wish to lay a hand on Vysania, you must first go through me, Khram of Ysrod!”
Great. It’s just one weird thing after another.
“Yet, before you do anything you might later come to regret,” Master Khram continues, “you should know that it was by Vysania’s initiative that we sought to free you from the fort of Pelgen, risking the Kingdom’s ire in the effort. Because she was firmly of the opinion that you have something unusual about you, that could be of use to us.”
“What…?” I frown hard at his words. Is he pulling my leg?
I glance back at the cat girl, who doesn't confirm or deny the story, and only looks away.
Slightly remorseful, I retreat a step and put the rematch plans on hold, for now.
Master Khram lets go of me and turns his huge head towards Irifan.
“I suppose you agreed to take this one in with the hopes that she might become a new ally to our cause? But now that I see her with my own eyes, I must share Master Endol’s concerns on the matter. This one is hardly human at all! What she is, exactly, I cannot say, but I fear it would be a mistake to treat her the same as any ordinary human child, and thus innocent by nature. Whatever talent may lurk in her could be better called a curse! And before any help, she is sooner to become a liability to us, weakened as we stand.”
Irifan looks around the room with a stern face. “Is that how all of you feel?”
For a moment, nobody answers.
Master Gunlau then asks his colleagues,
“Aren’t we to be in favor of life, in all situations? Don’t we all deserve a chance, regardless of our nature? Whether this child is what she seems, or something different entirely, an unlikely ally, or perhaps a potential foe, I believe we may agree that death by burning was not the right end for her. Then is it not well that we interfered when we did? Does not our creed demand it? So let us be glad for a job well done. As far as I am concerned, the girl may stay here, if she so chooses. She is welcome in my house, if nowhere else.”
Could it be, that guy’s actually really nice?
Though he still looks like a psycho.
“Was the verdict truly unjust—that would be my point of inquiry,” Master Endol interjects. “You let your heart make your choices, Master Gunlau, which undoubtedly does honor to you and your kind. But I am bound by my calling to always look past the surface of things, wherein another view shows itself. Where you see a mere child, I behold a configuration of a most unusual technique and origin. As Master Khram has pointed out, it is not an ordinary human we have brought here. An aberration such as this can only result from forsaken arts that none alive ought to practice. Can a being born of such relentless abuse of nature amount to anything noble in life? Or will her distorted essence poison even the most virtuous of endeavors? Who can say? I may tell only this much with some semblance of certainty: a change comes to us with this child’s arrival. I would entreat you all to ask yourselves, are we ready for this change, in whatever shape it chooses to befall our company?”
Damn. I thought he was the cool, stoic type, but I guess he was just saving the shots.
“Bah!” Master Teresina grunts. “And what would you have us do? Put the girl in a box and ship her back to where we got her? A little too late for that. What’s done is done.”
“I understand it rings of heartlessness to you,” Master Endol replies, “but my kind is taught to set the good of the many above the good of the individual in all matters. Sometimes, it is necessary to let divergent elements go. For the community's sake, as well as their own. The time and effort already invested in this case should not cloud our judgment in deciding the most appropriate measures to follow.”
I take it he liked the box plan.
At Endol’s words, a heavy silence returns to the room.
They really didn’t think this through beforehand, did they?
“Well, I’ve done my own part,” Sephram interrupts everyone’s meditation and takes a step to go. “I was never much of a judge of character, let alone a wizard, or even a fortune-teller. Thus, I shall leave these lofty concerns to my betters, and return to minding the more earthly affairs I've put on hold for too long. If you’re going to have a vote and I end up being the tie-breaker, then flip a coin on my behalf. Fare well.”
He winks at me as he passes and then he's out.
Really? After going out of your way to rescue me, it’s all the same to you now if I live or die? Dang, I knew he was a dick.
After Sephram’s gone, it’s unexpectedly Vysania who speaks up.
“At that village, I saw something,” she recounts, not looking at anybody, like merely thinking aloud. “A glimpse of an enormity of potential, unlike anything I've ever known. I agree with Master Endol that this power brings unavoidable change with it. But I also believe there’s no running or hiding from it. It cannot be put into a bottle and forgotten. If allowed to run unchecked, or made to serve evil, that power is certain to bring about only chaos and destruction. Yet, I also feel that having it vanish from the world would be a waste we cannot afford. This person is a living being with a mind of her own and free will. If properly guided and trained, she could become the very thing our Order has been searching all these years. Our trump card, a blade against the dark. Change, for the better. Our…hope.”
Everyone stands staring at the cat girl long after she’s finished. Myself included.
Damn, that was kind of touching. Might’ve shed a tear, if not for the robotic delivery. Were those uplifting words really about me? I almost regret calling her a cunt now.
“Tch. There you go, playing the prophet again!” old Teresina exclaims with a dramatized sigh. “Real life has this fun tendency that the more you pile up expectations for it, the more likely it is to disappoint you. You should know that better than anyone. And don't forget this, my pupil: you're not a master just yet.”
“As you say, my Master,” Vysania answers and closes her eyes.
After those brave words, you just let your teacher walk over you?
So almost two in favor, and everybody else against? That doesn’t bode well for me.
“For better or worse, we’ve gone and dragged the kid all the way here,” the old witch resumes and turns to the boss. “At the end of the day, you are our leader, Irifan, and so must the final decision be yours. We've given you our opinions as the masters of the Order, so choose as you see fit. I leave the twerp’s fate in your hands.”
What a hot potato I’ve become.
“That is such a cold way to put it,” Irifan remarks with a bit of a sad look. “I may hold the seat of leader, but only as the owner of our home, and not because I am any wiser or better than the rest of you. Nonetheless, if I must be the one to decide—then I decide not to. Because I feel this choice belongs not to myself, but to you, young lady.”
Irifan turns her gentle eyes my way.
Me? I look left and right. What’s my line?
“Tell me, what is your name?” she asks.
“…”
Sometimes, the simplest questions can also be the hardest to answer.
Who am I? I’m still not one step closer to knowing the truth.
I don’t waste too much time thinking it over, though. There can only be one answer.
“My name is——I’m Zero.”
I’m nothing. Empty. That’s what I thought. I came from nowhere and I don’t know where I’m going. These few weeks and months I’ve been alive haven’t changed that. But something else is different now, I can tell.
Looking at Irifan, looking at the way she looks at me, I get this real funny feeling inside. A feeling oh so complicated, which I’ve never experienced before. A feeling like maybe—just maybe—if I stick around here with these people, I could one day become something. Something more.
I know I can’t do it alone. I need these people more than they need me. I wouldn’t survive a day out there on my own, as little as I know about this world and its ways. I need someone to show me my place in all this—someone who’s not Adam Driver. I need answers written by people who plan trilogies ahead before they start shooting them and don’t switch the director thrice a month.
I don’t know about the peanut gallery, but if only I follow Irifan, I might be able to understand why I got this life. That’s how I feel. Which is why, I’m not zero now because I’m nothing. Let that word mean a fresh start instead. A clean slate. Zero is the number that can become anything you add to it. And I’ll become whatever these people need me to be, to pay them back for saving my ass.
“Then, Zero,” Irifan says to me, “what do you want to do?”
My mind made up, I look back at her, and state my request with rare sincerity.
“Will you please let me stay?”
There’s no trace of doubt, ridicule, or arrogance in Irifan's eyes as she answers me.
Only a warm, soft smile on her lips, she holds out her soft hand to me.
“Of course. From today on, our home is your home. In exchange, will you help us make the world a better place?”
I try an expression I haven't tried before. I try a non-wicked, honest smile.
I take Irifan's hand. And the rest is history.