It strides through the far-from-quaint avenues of Manhattan well into the throes of another cleansing hunt, having already dispatched two of its enemies back in the brief seclusion of a maintenance stair well of the subway.

Its polished horn gleams in the moon light, hidden from the view of the oblivious men and women it passes, the veil covering its countenance. Its veil would be but a simple piece of sheer blue cloth in the hands of the mundane. With its own enchanting power, in hand, the veil became something much more like a shimmering illusion. In its majesty and glory, these people would feel faltering knees quaking and wet cheeks streaked with tears upon regarding its visage.

Though it is beautiful, and though it does good work, it still must keep its true identity concealed from all those men and women. The only ones it ever has to worry about are the children. They can see right through its veil. This is why it does most of its work at night, when the good children are asleep in their beds or up late playing with the latest lead paint wearing cartoon character simulacrum.

It needs to regain its focus. It often loses itself in the moment. Without the mentor that it so desperately needed for so many years, it has found its own way. It could be all for the better. The philosophies of its kind were so extreme; it could not tell just quite where it would have fit.

It hops over a narrow wrought iron fence, blocking the alleyway and the path for it to travel between two musky brick apartment buildings. Its left leg splashes in a puddle of piss combined with still water, but it bounds forward and pays the wet boot and pant leg no mind. It stares ahead, so straight and true as to be taken for a man walking to his late night bar job in the busy city.

It wishes it could give more care and attention to the meth addicted alcoholic hobo that it glides past, but its quarry could then get away. It arrives on the small side street, devoid of vehicular traffic with just a few late night bikers peddling their way home or to the bars.

Mic Hildon is making his way into the apartment building on the end of the cul-de-sac. He glances nervously out towards the distant waterline of the East River and then back down the street toward the center of the city and slams the door clumsily behind him. As he careens down the hallway towards his apartment, his breath heaves through his chest as his heart pounds his ears like a late night tequila shot with a hardcore techno gabber song pumping through it, the kind with a bass beat that drives away all but the youthful.

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It swings the door open and uses the leverage of the swinging door motion to carry it swiftly forward in the direction of Mic, keeping him just barely in sight at the end of the hallway.

Just as Mic starts to breathe a deep sigh of relief upon shutting the apartment door, his heart leaps. A solid foot from the hall slams between the door and door jamb and prevents the door from closing. Mic lets out a screech of panic and the door smacks him as the door swings back.

It glides into the room. Mic is on the floor, scurrying backwards. He stares up at his pursuer and mumbles and stutters question after question. None of them are complete in nature. Mic isn’t even sure if it would answer him anyway.

It says nothing, taking step after billowing step toward the pathetic, cowering man. It puts its two fists together, directly in front of its chest and pulls the fists apart. One fist, covered in the lightest white hair, moves toward the ground while the other goes towards the sky. In the space where the two fists part, a glimmering blade appears in the dim light from the hallway. Finally, the fist moving towards the ceiling drops down and grasps on to the hilt that the other hand holds.

It stands in an en garde position over Mic and lifts the sword in the air.

“Puh puh please. No. God, I’ll do anything.”

It swings the sword down and with what should be impossible ability to stop momentum, the blade halts just to the point where it draws blood from Mic’s cheek. Its eyes are no longer peering at the target. Now the globes, hidden under the veil, peer into the kitchen.

A young woman leans helplessly against the counter, as if her legs have failed her. She stares at the mysterious being standing over Mic and begins to shake. Her short, dirty blonde hair shocks out instead of standing stylized as it probably had a moment before. Her cheeks go from rosy to pale, matching the rest of her thin complexion.

Mysticalis stands there, holding the blade steady, so close to Mic that his skin splits just enough to let a single trail of blood streak down his grimy cheek.

The woman’s green eyes stare into the face of Mysticalis and it stares back at her. Mic’s fate is left up to the dictates of the heavy-looking, curved blade. Mic has fallen limp in surrender.

Mysticalis knows that its purpose in the world grovels at its feet. To fulfill that purpose, Myst simply needs to carry the stroke of the runic sword to that sword’s assigned arc.

Moments of inaction pass between the reflex motions of Mysticalis and its sword wielding arm. It goes against all its training.

Staring into the deep green eyes of the woman somehow overrides all its beliefs. Suddenly it starts to question. Is this right?

With that question, a new purpose is born. Mysticalis pulls back its arm and, moving to sheath the sword at its side, the runes glow as the instrument of death shimmers out of existence.

It fades from the presence of Mic and the anxiety ridden young woman.