"You're telling me Shinso already digested his potion?" Mr. Ryujin struggled to hold back his surprise as he walked, smiling down at Ayumi. A few days back, the duo had paid Catherine and Carter a visit, asking them for more volumes regarding Katshinease training methods. Catherine had said that the volumes wouldn't arrive for a few more days, considering rumored strikes among Katshinease sailors.
Ayumi nodded her head. "Yep, and we talked about having some sort of celebratory dinner because of this. He's the first one to actually digest their potion!"
Mr. Ryujin stuffed his hands into his pockets and kept walking down the sidewalk.
"I heard some talk about the carriages being shut down for a while or something." Mr. Ryujin wasn't attempting to change the subject, but he'd figured he'd bring this matter up, considering the distance to Catherine and Carter's place from the Parterre de Fleurs was quite considerable.
At this moment, they both jumped as a loud crash of thunder rang out through the sky, causing a raven, which was perched on a nearby street lamp, to rustle away, soaring into the black of night. Ayumi habitually tensed, her hands finding the hem of Mr. Ryujin's coat.
"Is someone scared?" Mr. Ryujin looked down at Ayumi, his lips curling into an almost serpentine smirk.
The girl's face ignited with red-hot blush, and her eyes darted to the snow-covered street below. "F-fine, I guess I am."
"It's strange though," Mr. Ryujin looked up at the clouds overhead, noticing their dark color and the way they obscured the stars, but not the crimson moon.
"I never thought a thunderstorm could happen in the winter."
Although Mr. Ryujin was no meteorologist, his dragon quirk enabled him to sense abrupt changes in the air temperature, wind speed, and humidity of the air around him. This led to him having an almost pin-sharp forecast for the day, meaning he'd never get caught off guard. But why didn't he sense this change or the fact that the storm clouds had begun to roll in?
"We should move, who knows what rain is like here; it could be acid or something," Mr. Ryujin didn't hesitate to walk a little faster, grabbing Ayumi's sleeve.
As they continued to walk down the snowy sidewalk, they noticed more and more changes regarding the environment. The snow, which had been falling steadily, abruptly ceased. On either end of the road, the pedestrians walking down the road froze in their spots, all turning in a single direction to face a nearby pub. Though the way they moved wasn't exactly inhuman, the suddenness of this action made Mr. Ryujin and Ayumi pause for a beat to observe this happening.
Men, women, even children slowly gathered in a line, pouring into the pub, which strangely didn't have any lights on. The duo watched, unwillingly enraptured as one of them found the lights, flickering on the kerosene-powered lamps and engulfing the building in warm, orange-yellow light. From within the building, the duo heard muffled cheers and bouts of laughter.
"What's their deal? They all just ran into that bar like they're handing out free money." Ayumi leaned in, whispering to Mr. Ryujin.
The dragon-like man didn't reply, remaining silent as he observed the patrons mingle within the pub. Another crash of thunder rang through the kingdom, causing them both to jump. Suddenly, a low moan emanated from behind them, causing them both to react and raise their guard. A figure emerged from the darkness, their movements erratic and languid.
The figure's mouth was slung open, their jaw having been completely dislocated. Their face was bony and shriveled inwards, exposing the macabre contours of their jawline and bones under their pale, wrinkle-ridden skin. Their eyes were hollow, nothing but empty, hollow dots peering back at them. They were clad in a hat meant to protect against the sun, and a long trench coat, alongside puffy, inflated pants.
"What is that?" Ayumi gasped, stepping back, almost falling into the road.
Mr. Ryujin remained in his spot, his gaze fixated on the slow moving, husk-like creature. In the dim lighting of the crimson moon, it seemed to resemble a zombie!
...
As I made my way back to my dimly lit room, I didn't cry or whimper, for almost all my tears had been washed away. Without saying anything else, my body plopped onto my stiff mattress and sank into the sheets, hoping to disappear. Why had I acted like such a dick back there? Why did my hand move to slap Damien instead of letting him help me?
The questions continued to bubble inside me, threatening to spill over in a torrent of unwanted vomit. My body had already felt feeble and cold from how many times I've puked, and I don't know if I could take much more without passing out and falling into the toilet. My body rolled over, pulling the ice-cold sheets up to my shoulders, and my head instantly drifted under.
Back there, it was like my hands had reacted on their own, moving as if my father had controlled them to plant that slap, and laugh wickedly as Damien's tears—and mine—began to pour down my face. I had felt the bastard's hands on my shoulder as I stood over Damien like a malevolent tyrant. Even if I couldn't hear his laughter, I knew from wherever he was, he was cackling like the demon he is, watching his "perfect creation" fall down and act so pathetic—getting on his knees to kiss and lick his dirty, prepotent soles.
Even if I knew that son-of-a-bitch was rotting behind bars for what he had done back in my reality, his presence, one that had lingered over me since I was found in that dumpster, always loomed over me like a phantom, threatening to engulf me and mold me into his perfect creation. Now that I think about it, I don't know why my mother decided to marry and love a sick man like him.
I watched with my own two paralyzed eyes as he slapped her, sending her back into the kitchen cabinet that night, the same night I had tried to murder him on my own, with my own two hands carrying the butcher knife. My mother had told me to go to my room to avoid this course of action, but everything he had done up until this point sent me into overdrive.
This bastard made fun of my flaws, how I would pass out from seeing blood, how I had been getting stable grades, but not high enough ones in his eyes. He called me names; it was like he was a bully rather than my father. I watched helplessly from my room as he came home, stumbling onto the carpet, and then finding a nap on the couch. I watched as he'd drink his life away, vomiting violently in the bathroom and waking me up late at night.
He had also wanted me to take everything out in violence. He had barked at me to go out and find Garry—someone I'd consider one of my closest friends—and beat him up for his own sick, dominant whims. The moment he asked that of me, I wanted to dig that damn knife so deep into his gut he'd cough up blood and fall to the floor, begging at my feet for mercy.
My food wasn't my own around him. That night I passed with high marks, the way my father had eaten my food because I came home a little later, was the most selfish thing I've ever seen a human do. My mother could have intervened, but she most likely sat on the sidelines, watching the entire thing transpire, afraid that if she stepped up for me, she'd face severe consequences. My only other friends I had were on the other side of the kingdom, probably fearing for my life since I had a disease they knew very little about.
My reflection looked like a zombie—contorted and shriveled. The bandages around my head had been wetted from the snow, threatening to spill from my head and onto the floor. The circles around my eyes made me look like a human-raccoon hybrid—not that I didn't look like that back home, well, except the actual friends and lots of people who cared about me.
"I have to admit, you looking so pathetic is surely a sight to see—not that it's anything special to be honest." My father's voice called from behind the sheets.
The edges of my blanket got torn away, revealing my form on the bed. The ghastly, ashen-gray form of my father, the hulking, demonic tyrant looming over me, came into view. His mouth twitched into a teeth-bearing grin, much like that of a monster or some kind of demon. My father's bulky arm extended, grabbing a hold of mine.
"You're crying again? Didn't you just stop after all of that?" The demon barked, his mouth a macabre sprinkler of spit that coated my face, causing me to silently wretch.
His grip around my arm tightened, almost to the extent of drawing blood. Up until now, I had never questioned how this imaginary phantom was able to take hold of me in the real world and cause me to draw real blood. My father unfurled his left hand, and an illusory black mist emanated from his palm, taking the form of a small dagger with an illusory, crimson blade.
The crimson wasn't due to blood, but due to the fact that this dagger was made of some crimson metal, decked with intricate, ink-black patterns and engravings in its handle.
"When Ruth talked about you, didn't you want to stab her in the gut?" My father leaned in closer, whispering in my ear. At this moment, the environment around me strangely changed.
Ink-black pillars extruded from the ground, and the rest of my mindscape quickly took shape. My eyes widened, my heart freezing in my chest.
"H-how can you..."
The ashen-gray demon smirked, his hand now finding my back. "I am you, you are me."
In the throne room, an illusory scene flashed in front of my eyes. The somewhat blurry figure with crimson eyes, perched horns, and large wings on its back stood in the middle of the throne room, glancing directly at me without saying a word. Its face lacked features; its expression nigh-unreadable.
"T-that's my spirit body," I froze, unable to move as I watched the illusory figure slowly approach me.
Another figure emerged, composed of radiant white light. It stood shorter than my spirit body. When it fully came into view, the white figure looked extremely similar to Damien! Suddenly, my spirit body snatched the dagger from my father's hand, sinking it deep into "Damien's" neck, twisting the blade, and severing numerous tendons.
At this moment, I began to feel extremely lightheaded, the edges of my vision turning blurry. My stomach began to flip and bubble like an overdone pot of soup on the brink of explosion.
"Don't pass out on me," My father barked, abruptly taking hold of my chin and grabbing it. He leaned in even closer, saying with a deep voice that bordered on a rumble.
"I do have a quirk, Isaac. This is my real form ...how do you think I can be with you forever now?"
"I can imprint a special mental connection with you, meaning even after you'd vanish from my sights, I'd always know where you are."
His grip on my back tightened, his razor-sharp nails digging into my pale flesh. "Now that I think about it, I'm somewhat glad you're not my actual son—you would have murdered me by now if you inherited my quirk."
I watched as a door manifested out of thin air, its contours and appearance about a century out of date. Behind the door, I could hear laughter, cheering, and applause. It swiftly opened, revealing the movie theatre beyond it—the theatre I'd always mentally flee to.
"Go on, I feel like we have a very special presentation to watch."
"What the hell are you doing?!" An illusory voice suddenly called from behind me. I swiftly turned my head, gazing at my spirit body.
Did it ...just speak to me?