"Truth"
"Christopher POV: "
Christopher lay there, bleeding out, slumped against a jagged piece of wall in a field of destruction. His breath grew shallow, and he could feel his final moments drawing near.
Before him stood Vecta, basking in the glory of his victory. Vecta's physique was well-toned, something akin to a Greek God, his jawline sharp, and his jet-black hair swayed ever so slightly in the cold wind that swept through the desolate landscape.
A black, shadow-like mark snaked from his abdomen up to his face, amplifying his menacing aura—an aura so potent even the wind seemed to hesitate. Christopher thought it absurd, almost embarrassing, that Vecta wore an unzipped jacket with nothing beneath. No armor was visible, not that he needed it, given his already impenetrable defenses.
For a brief moment, Christopher's gaze swept over the battleground: shattered buildings, oil tanks ripped to pieces by explosions, even a section of the dock obliterated.
He felt a wave of pathetic despair. What a miserable way to die: having landed no fatal blow, drawing only a few drops of blood from his opponent… and even that was out of consolation.
It had been obvious from the start that he was hopelessly outmatched. He, a mere man, fighting what amounted to a god, or more accurately, a devil.
The laws of nature seemed to bend to Vecta's will, and Christopher was so profoundly weaker. So why had he kept fighting? Even after Vecta had torn a hole straight through his abdomen, why did he still want to rise, to keep trying?
As he lay bleeding on the ravaged ground, slumped against the wall, a strained, awkward silence hung heavy in the air.
Then, Vecta spoke, his deep, strong voice carrying an undercurrent of profound sadness.
"You know... only the strong survive in this messed-up world. The weak are left defenseless. And die."
Vecta's words cut deep.
Christopher, despite his fierce resistance to empathizing with a villain responsible for countless civilian deaths, found himself agreeing with the sentiment. It was the unspoken, brutal law of their world. Vecta embodied the strong, and Christopher, perhaps the weakest vigilante there was, represented the weak.
"So then why am I not dead yet?" Christopher managed to rasp, barely able to draw breath.
Vecta offered no reply, only a solemn stare. Then, a loud, deafening ringing filled Christopher's ears, drowning out all sound. The world spun, and he slowly lost consciousness.
Christopher awoke in his bed, a dull ache in his bones and a lingering sense of fear from the nightmare. It was morning.
Just then, his butler, Reid, opened the door, a familiar look of mild exasperation on his face.
"Christopher, you'll be late for school if you don't get moving in the next twenty minutes," Reid announced, his tone firm but with a hint of a long-suffering sigh. "Another half-baked excuse for your tardiness won't cut it today, young master."
To Reid's probable surprise, Christopher actually made it to school on time. He'd already devoured the syllabus for the entire term and, finding the curriculum unchallenging, had asked teachers to let him take his tests early.
He passed them all with a perfect score. Truth be told, he only came to school for the experience, a desperate attempt at a normal teenage life.
His school day dragged on, uneventful and boring, until his friend Akira called him to the roof after classes, claiming he had something important to discuss.
Knowing Akira, Christopher figured he was either about to be hit up for snack money or subjected to another one of Akira's elaborate pranks.
"Vecta POV: "
"Are you finished?" Vecta questioned his subordinates, his voice sharp with expectation. "I expect results!"
Asher, the pale, almost ghostly figure of a human, stepped forward and bowed before Vecta, his men following suit.
Asher's unassuming appearance often fooled people, but Vecta knew better; he was a high-ranking superhuman and was formerly a formidable force within the mafia.
"Yes, sir," Asher mumbled softly, "all preparations are complete."
"Good," Vecta replied, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "Now we wait."
"Christopher POV:"
After school, Christopher headed to the rooftop to meet Akira.
"Yo, Akira, where are you? " Christopher called out as he pushed open the heavy door to the roof.
A brief pause, then Akira's voice drifted from the left. Christopher turned to see him by the fence, peering intently into the distance.
This wasn't typical Akira behavior; he was usually far more boisterous. Christopher asked him what was wrong, but Akira remained silent, his gaze fixed on something beyond the school grounds.
Then, Christopher watched in growing alarm as Akira began to climb the fence. His heart plummeted when Akira reached the very top.
Christopher's mind reeled, a hyper-speed torrent of analysis clashing with crashing terror. What was Akira doing?
This wasn't a prank; Akira wouldn't risk something so reckless for a joke. But if not a prank... what then?
Was this some desperate cry for help? A sudden, inexplicable breakdown? His thoughts spun, trying to piece together the anomaly of Akira's behavior.
His body, though physically subpar, moved on its own accord, his scrawny frame scrambling forward. Time seemed to stretch, agonizingly slow, as he watched his best friend plummet, disappearing over the edge. Akira's blonde hair flailed wildly against the harsh sky.
Christopher's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, visceral drumbeat. A surge of raw, primal anxiety consumed him, yet even amidst the fear, his mind desperately sought a logical explanation, a pattern, anything.
He scrambled towards the fence, his unathletic body feeling sluggish, heavy, as if resisting his will. Tears stung his eyes, not yet for a loss, but for the horrifying unknown, as he tried to grasp Akira's baffling reasoning.
Akira was always so outwardly happy, so cheerful, and he had never seemed to hide anything from Christopher. So why!? Why this horrifying, inexplicable act?
'He's never shown any signs of depression… none at all. So why choose to end his own life? And why choose to show me?'
As Christopher finally reached the fence, his eyes caught a blur of light, orange in colour, like that of an open flame. He looked up, straight ahead, high into the sky, meters above him. There he was.
Floating effortlessly on graceful flames, completely unharmed. Alive and well.
A wave of relief washed over him.. the breath caught in his throat finally being completed. His pupils still dilated.
Even though he'd seen his best friend attempt to end his own life and then flying into the air after free falling off the roof, he couldn't believe what he'd just witnessed. His logical thinking refused to accept it.
The gears in his brain spun violently trying to make sense of the situation, all forms of common sense failing him.
He could deny it as much as he wanted, but the truth was simple. Akira was alive.... and he was an Astra.
Christopher had always looked up to Astras, ever since he was a child. They were the champions, the unsung heroes who delved into dangerous dungeons to fight horrid mana beasts, protecting humanity from unseen threats.
Their profession was secretive, their identities hidden by the government, but they were well-known as powerful, military-standard superhumans, exceptionally well-paid for their dangerous work. And now, one stood before him, in person.
Christopher was speechless, his jaw still dropped. This was peculiar, even shocking, as the government officially stated that any Astra under not an adult would die, their young bodies unable to handle the immense, stored power.
Akira floated down to him on his fire, his eyes solemn, and an awkward silence lingered between them.
Suddenly breaking the stillness, Akira spoke, his tone serious and low, his voice full of firm resolve.
"I'm going to reveal to you, my friend... the truth about the Astras..."
..