A few blocks from the hospital, a young man emerged from the crowd, his expression as cadaverous as a zombie's, standing firmly in the middle of the sidewalk. He walked with all eyes on him, lost in thought, and the deep dark circles under his eyes gave away his lack of sleep.
His dry lips seemed to whisper murmurs, and his appearance interrupted the frenzy of people darting back and forth—still haunted by recent events. They rushed toward an uncertain future, unaware of how another day in their lives would end.
Living under the fragility of normality is exactly like that.
Salvation… Does every soul stirred by the thought of its life's end believe in it? he wondered, as more curious stares fell on the tattoo on his neck—a star of tomorrow surrounded by flames.
It symbolized the promised day, etched into his skin: the day Elum will punish the wicked and crown the righteous, in accordance with Elumism's tenets.
Wearing a dark suit, he stopped in front of the building to his right, its facade covered in mold and yellowed windows, many shattered.
With calm that contrasted the chaos around him, he pulled out his smartphone. The screen lit up, displaying his own image. He had finally reached his destination.
"Alright…"
For a moment he stared at it, then his gaze drifted to the horizon. The building blurred out of focus, and the din around him seemed to fade away. Only the landscape filled his senses: the skies of Aija were beautiful, even with malice lingering in the air.
It made his morning coffee taste bitter…
He remained that way until the silence was broken by the creak of a door opening. The old wood groaned as it swung, and his eyes shifted to the young woman who stepped out.
"At last!" she said sharply. She wore a knee-length black skirt and a striped blouse—clearly feminine—and gave him a peculiar look. "He's been waiting for you for ages, Rasen… Don't you know what 'punctual' means?" she added, wearing a mocking smile full of disdain.
She despised him—perhaps because he was their lord's favorite, or perhaps because he was an idiot, and on top of that, her platonic crush.
"What the fuck are you wearing, Milk? Preparing for liftoff?" she sneered, her face radiating cynicism and contempt.
"Liftoff?" His hand moved from his chest to his lap, and he scowled. "Idiot! You're so annoying!" he snapped.
"Already annoyed, little girl?"
"Fuck you!"
"Oh la la… PMS, is it?"
Her remark made him even angrier.
"Maybe, clown."
In an impulse, she stopped teasing and shoved him hard, then withdrew inside in a hurry.
"Clown? I'm not the one with makeup all over my face!"
"Oh, I forgot—your voice is irritating as hell too…"
"Mine? Look at yours, you crow!" he shot back before disappearing inside.
He continued on, his firm steps echoing on the worn floor. The building's interior was foul—there was a bitter smell of rat urine in the air, and the wallpaper that once covered the stairs had worn away almost completely.
What a horrible place…
Lucidity! he thought—his only inner comment.
"Hey!?" he grumbled, half-annoyed by the insults. As he turned his back on the worm, he noticed curious stares from passersby. "What, idiots!" he snapped, slamming the door shut.
He turned back, staring at her before climbing the stairs.
This so-called Messiah is an idiot!
As his outcast blazed through the snake's den, nothing was hidden, no instructions given. The building, though immense, was brutally utilitarian.
He climbed to the second floor and found two doors: one open on the right and one locked on the left. That's when he spotted a burly man landing precise punches on a heavy bag. His feet moved with the skill of a professional fighter.
Shamarian? he deduced, déjà vu washing over him as he noticed the man's dark skin glowing with an almost mythical sheen. His dark brown eyes glinted like living embers with each strike. Every punch shook the room—raw power that felt like it could tear the air itself.
Punches like Mike Tyson's, but with tons of force—capable of pulverizing matter with a single blow.
The titan, deep in training, was shirtless, his physique extraordinary—like a sculpted bodybuilder.
The sound of his feet, relentless and grating, echoed as if he was dancing on freshly waxed wood. He prowled like a panther on the hunt, extracting every ounce of power.
It was a stark contrast to the surroundings: a battered mattress on the floor, a shaky TV perched precariously on a stool, wobbling with each impact.
He used spiritual energy—but didn't channel it into his strikes. Maybe he was strengthening his body internally. Fascinating!
To the eyes of an occultist— a lover of mystical arts—this was more than mere spectacle.
"Who is it?" he asked, glancing at the young man.
With contempt, the man pulled a mauve lipstick from his pocket and applied it to his lips. A sigh escaped him—exhaustion evident, like this supposed Messiah was already a burden, even though he'd just arrived.
Without looking at him directly, he returned his gaze to the trainee, carefully placing the lipstick on a bench beside the door.
"He didn't tell you, did he?" Breaking the silence, she approached the fighter decisively, snapping her fingers. "Mr. Kwawe!? Could you pay attention, please?" she called sharply.
Kwawe immediately paused in mid-swing, turning his head to glance at them.
"What is it? You bring my Wald Bräu?" he asked nonchalantly, grabbing a towel hanging on the chair behind him. He wiped sweat from his glistening muscles under the light.
His breathing was heavy—a testament to hours of training.
He'd been training since dawn. Dedication and focus sculpted both body and resolve. He was a human pillar of power, yet something more lingered beneath. Rasen noticed runes etched into his skin—marks of a dormant power close to awakening.
He intimidated the young man.
What a man!
Rasen pressed his lips, exhaling sharply.
"I forgot, sorry?" he muttered, almost dismissively.
Kwawe tilted his neck to the side, making a dry click.
"Ta!"
Curt—perhaps too curt. Still, he wasn't the point...
"Well… this is our Messiah, the one Mr. Romero talked about..." she said, stepping aside. The newcomer strode forward, narrowing his eyes at the giant—an unspoken rivalry.
"Oh, so you're the guy…" Kwawe said provocatively, stepping toward him.
Even tall, Rasen had to tip his head back to see the fighter's imposing height. Kwawe was two steps above him, amplifying his presence.
He must be nearly three meters tall...
That thought hit Rasen as he slowly realized he faced the Messiah himself.
"I am. Why? Were you curious?" he replied firmly, not backing down.
The giant's fists clenched and his chest puffed up like a gamecock. The tension was unbearable—two predators moments from a fight.
"I was!"
"Why?"
The atmosphere was intense… Is this normal? Milk wondered. He thought it was male rivalry but… it felt more like a performance.
"How was visiting my lands?" the giant asked, his tone easy, almost mocking.
What!? The question reverberated in his mind. Shocked, he slapped his own cheek, half-believing he was dreaming.
"Shamo? Ah, it was… hot… The people there are... different..."
"There, the Aurora punishes for the entire 270 days of the cycle!"
"Yeah..." he replied indifferently, then stepped back toward the door, turning away mid-conversation.
"Hey, leaving already?" Kwawe paused him by the shoulder. "Meaning… what about the women?" he asked, placing his other hand on his hip, waiting.
This was going downhill fast...
"Women? Well… pretty..." he said, coldly. But that calm turned to annoyance as he shrugged off Kwawe's grasp.
Nothing offended him more than that. Pretty? Just pretty? That stung—a born patriot insulted like that.
But fortunately, reason lay just beyond his expectations.
"Oh, fine, we'll talk later…"
"Alright." Kwawe watched him momentarily before turning his back.
The young man looked awkward, but his wide smile showed how at ease he felt—almost as though this place had become home in the absence of his pariah.
Kwawe, meanwhile, looked toward the top two floors, lost in his own thoughts. His ADHD was his worst enemy—keeping a conversation only possible at the peak of interest.
"Yeah… we'll talk more later," he muttered as he returned to his spot, ready for the next question.
It was like putting on a show for an uninvited guest.
Climbing step by step, eager to find the one who would lead him to triumph—the only one who believed in him—he pondered what it really meant to be called Messiah.
I won't say it now...
Be satisfied with this scene shift…
Someone hurried down the grand staircase leading to Shirasaki clan's temple. It was the red-haired girl—the same one who'd spoken to the impure man at the smartphone shop. She had descended five hundred steps, like a car roaring down a road, her serious expression reflecting the urgency of the moment.
The scene stretched out like a dream steeped in serenity, time slowed by each sakura petal drifting softly to the ground. The delicate colors of spring intertwined with the wind whispering through trees.
Yet despite the calm beauty, urgency pushed her forward. Her gaze fixed on the horizon at the staircase's end—where her inevitable yet dreaded destiny awaited. The blade at her waist felt cold, contrasting with the anxiety inside her. Every buzz from her pocket made her pulse jump.
There was no escape! She leapt the final ten steps.
Steady… steady! At her feet, she saw broken heels and debris kicked up by her hurried pace. Dust rolled across the floor, but she ignored it—eyes locked on the phone.
"Hello? Amai Shirasaki on the line!" she said, voice shaking with excited energy despite the chaos. Nothing could break her focus now.
On the other end, a tired male voice replied, low and full of weariness.
Her heart recognized it—rough, masculine, passive but somehow soothing...
"Yami Yamasaki speaking. So, we're a duo now?" he said with a sigh, his tone low and predictably gruff, filling the empty hospital room.
Our protagonist lay in his hospital bed, irritated as ever with the unexpected "partnership" life—or rather, Kyotaka—had imposed on him.
But he didn't mind. He knew this new match wouldn't be easy, but the unpredictability made him more curious.
A short, free laugh escaped her as she settled on the step, brimming with anticipation—nothing could ruin this moment.
It was him—yes, him!
Not surprising really—she already knew who he was before he did; she'd had a hand in that anonymous appointment. But that's a story for another chapter...
"Damn or not, doesn't matter. Let's make it happen!" She crossed her legs, feeling more comfortable and ready than ever for what came next. Hiding her surprise—what a manipulator! Suddenly, the heart monitor beeped faster as boredom stripped away her fatigue.
"Yami? You there?" she asked sharply.
"You died? Hello?"
"Yeah..." came his reply, with a sleepy yawn. His poor old heart had run dry halfway through the ride.
"Tired, huh? Mad?"
At that moment, the monitor registered 143 BPM.
Maybe he died in that instant… again.