CHAPTER 1
Journal Part 1
Dear journal, today I killed a man. It wasn't the first, and it won't be the last.
The clock in my car dashboard glowed 23:37 when I pulled the simple black Toyota into position at the near end of a long, dark alley behind the Disco Bar: Tsukimi on Rodescuss Street.
The alley was a forgotten scar in the city's underbelly, littered with overflowing dumpsters that reeked of rotting food and stale beer, shadows stretching like fingers from the flickering neon sign above the bar's back door.
I had scouted it days earlier, noting the lack of foot traffic after 23:00, the blind spots from the streetlights, and the predictable habits of my target.
At exactly 23:44, Nicolas Durandel emerged from the bar's rear exit, completely drunk as planned. I'd slipped a slow-acting sedative into his drink earlier that evening via a paid-off bartender, nothing traceable, just enough to amplify the alcohol's haze.
He was a mid-level accountant for a rival firm, skimming funds that threatened my uncle's operations at Atlas Enterprise. Not that I cared about the why; it was just another job, another equation to balance. Durandel stumbled into the alley toward his parked sedan, keys jingling clumsily in his hand, mumbling curses under his breath about "that bitch wife" and "another late night." He was planning to drive home sloshed again, endangering innocents on the road, but tonight, that wouldn't be his final mistake.
I stepped out of my car silently, the baseball bat, a worn aluminum model I'd picked up from a thrift store for anonymity, gripped loosely in my gloved hand. The gloves were black leather, thin enough for dexterity but thick enough to leave no prints. I followed him at a measured pace, my footsteps muffled by the soft soles of my boots, until we were at least halfway down that shadowed corridor, far from prying eyes or the bar's security cameras. The air was thick with the scent of urine and garbage, but it didn't faze me; sensory details were just data.
Then the moment hit, like a switch flipping in my mind, cold and mechanical. I swung hard at the back of his left kneecap, the bat connecting with a loud snap, like dry wood breaking under an ax. The sound echoed faintly off the brick walls, but no one would hear over the thumping bass from inside the bar. Durandel's leg buckled instantly, his body crumpling forward as he let out a guttural yelp, more surprise than pain at first. As he hit the ground face-first, I drove my knee into the back of his head with full force, the impact jarring through my leg.
He convulsed on the cold pavement, his limbs twitching erratically, foam bubbling from his mouth like soap from a faulty dispenser, seizure induced by the cranial trauma, as expected.
I knelt down efficiently, pinning one knee on each of his flailing arms to hold him still, my weight distributed to avoid unnecessary movement. His eyes bulged, wide with terror, but I felt nothing, no pity, no rush of power. Just the task. I wrapped my hands around his throat, thumbs pressing precisely on the carotid arteries, cutting off blood flow to the brain.
I counted in my head: one minute... two... three... four minutes and twenty-one seconds exactly, long enough to ensure complete brain death. His struggles weakened, then ceased, his body going limp like a discarded rag. Clean kill.
The next steps unfolded with practiced precision. I pulled a heavy-duty trash bag from my coat pocket folded compactly, odor-proof lining and stuffed Durandel inside, folding his limbs awkwardly to fit. The bag crinkled softly as I sealed it with zip ties. At 00:00 sharp, we departed, me and the body, for a road trip twenty miles outside the city, far from any life, into the dense forests that bordered the urban sprawl.
The drive was monotonous, highway lights blurring into streaks, but I stuck to back roads to avoid cameras.
In the forest, under a canopy of ancient pines that blocked the moon's gaze, I hauled him and a collapsible shovel on my back for five miles, my breath steady, no fatigue registering beyond a mild burn in my muscles. I hiked off-trail, navigating by a mental map from satellite images.
Eventually, I found a dead animal, a bloated deer carcass, likely a mating fight for a female… even animals fall to lust. Perfect spot: natural decomposition to blend scents. I dug a hole three meters deep, the soil soft from recent rain, spade biting in with rhythmic thuds. I dropped the late Nicolas in, then topped it with the carcass to mask the human decay if cadaver dogs ever came sniffing.Covered it over, tamped the earth flat, scattered leaves for camouflage. No trace left.
Back in the car, the plan was simple: drove home without passing a single camera. It meant a longer route through residential backstreets and unmonitored alleys, adding an hour, but worth it for invisibility. I arrived at my house by 02:30. Shower: hot water scalding away any microscopic evidence, soap lathering methodically. Eat: a cold protein shake from the fridge. Another night without a dream, sleep came like a blackout curtain, empty and absolute.
(End of Journal Part 1)
The alarm's piercing screech yanked me from the void at 06:00. My hand smashed the stop button on the clock, and it cracked under the force... again, the fourth this week. I'd need to order another batch. Last night's event left no trace in my mind, no lingering adrenaline or moral echo. It was irrelevant to the present.
The morning light entered from the windows, waking my eyes. I stood up pajamas pants on, feet on the cold floor, the wood creaked under my step… this place was old.
Making breakfast with some Jazz on, one of the only thing still sparking some feelings in me. Steak and fruits was a perfect combo for the body, I took the plates on my balcony eating in the sun
(Vitamine D oblige).
Then I did my daily workout, training and sculpting my physique. Followed cold shower with skincare and hair brushed in a middle part. The principle was simple: physiognomy, the brain more often than not created a personality for each person it met in function of their physique. A men with bad hairline, a fat belly, old, ugly and missing tooth would be considered an idiot or a pervert even though he could be a genius.
Humans prioritise the first impression they have on people, then the brain will , by ego, purposefully refuse every hint that guides it to another idea of the person hence why it is so important.
By staying clean, lean and pretty I took advantage from the poor grasp on reality of the majority. All they saw was a pretty man with a pretty smile, who they instantly considered good, intelligent and worthy of their confidence. The perfect deception is always made by your own-self.
Putting on a three piece black costume and fake emotions on my eyes I made my way to my job. Traffic of the day made the traject slower than it should, yet i was still on the clock. Parking my car in one of the multiple parking lots, I made calculated steps to the enterprise, a cover up job that consisted in planning people's lives.
I had control over their money, assets up to children éducations, people truly liked to have a written path they just had to follow, why? Because it felt reassuring, knowing the probable future and the actions to make feed in their mouth was enough for them to sell the only thing they had of real value.. liberty. A self-inflicted lie was often enough for them to feel awright about it, no one assumes it really.
The human mind was so simple….
I entered the towering glass building greeting everyone with a fake smile, as usual. The receptionist, a nervous man in his 40s, bowed slightly and let me pass.
"Mister Black, the CEO waits for you at his desk," he said, voice steady but eyes darting.
Black's the name my adopted uncle gave me when he found me at 10, a street rat covered in shit and grime, scavenging in alleys much like the one from last night. It's because of my hair and eyes both pitch black, absorbing light like black holes as he says. The man has zero imagination, but it stuck.
" Thank you Ralph "
I headed to the elevator, its doors sliding open with a soft ding. I pressed 156, the top floor. Mmmh, 1 minute 13 seconds ascent, late by seven seconds. They need to fix that thing; inefficiency grates.
Stepping out onto the executive level, polished floors, I walked to my uncle's office. He greeted me at the door like he's got nothing better to do, leaning against the frame with a grin.
"Good morning, Black. How was the mission yesterday?" he asks, voice gravelly from years of cigars.
"You already know how it went," I breathe out, toneless.
"Ah, come on, put some joy in your tone, you just did me and your wallet a solid," he exclaims with a smile, clapping my shoulder.
This old punk: small man, barely 5'6", with a gray beard trimmed unevenly, gray hair thinning at the temples, eyes bloodshot and watery, eyes that see tomorrow as another excuse to drink until death claims him. Matter of fact, I'm 89% sure he's already drunk.
"In your head again, I see. Well, today I have bad news for you: government says you're no exception. Pack your stuff and be ready in two days," he said, ushering me inside to his cluttered desk, papers strewn like battlefield debris.
"You really couldn't pull it off? The one thing I asked?" I retort, standing rigid.
"Young man, there's only so much power can do, and the government's stronger. Hence, you obey. I'm giving you no more jobs" he answers, sinking into his leather chair with a sigh.
After hashing out the details for an hour straight, discussing the mandatory enrollment, the packing list (essentials only, no weapons), and the transport arrangements,I agreed. Didn't really have a choice; resistance would mean disappearance, and even I know when to fold.
Since the boss had just given me days off, I stepped outside the building into the bustling street to change my mind. The cold, fresh air of the city hit me like a wall, carrying scents of exhaust, street food vendors hawking greasy fries, and the distant tang of rain on pavement.
Walking aimlessly for some hours through the crowded sidewalks, dodging office workers on lunch breaks and tourists snapping photos, I stopped at a fancy club whose name I wouldn't even bother to retain.
It was a hideous place, at least to me: full of snobby, bragging types in designer suits, laughing too loud about stock portfolios they didn't really understand and weekends on yachts. A richly decorated tower formed the entrance, ornate stonework climbing like a pretentious monument, with two golden doors in the middle that gleamed under spotlights. When I pushed them open, a delicate woman, hostess, mid-30s, flawless makeup hiding her fatigue introduced me to the establishment.
Inside, expensive paintings lined the walls, abstract splashes of color worth more than most people's homes, and intricate golden carvings twisted around pillars and bars. Who needs such luxury? It screamed excess, a mask for insecurity.
"Nice to meet you, Mister?" she asked, her voice polished but insincere.
"Black," I answered, with the same smile.
"Hooo, such a mysterious name for a pretty young man. What age does that make you?" she winked, leaning in seductively.
"Nineteen today" I responded, mimicking her manner of joy.
"Ho so a new soldier soon, you must be so happy, I'll take your card please" she said with a real smile this time, hand extended.
I gave her my card, a shiny black piece with a silver carving depicting my name, Black Atlas, and my age: 19. Since these cards magically update names, ages, jobs, and phone numbers, they cannot lie. Government-issued enchantments ensure truth, a subtle magic woven into everyday life that I've never questioned.
"I see, Atlas, I let you on your way then have a great night at Biriachi Club " she said while bowing her head.
I took my card back, slipped it into my pocket with a thanks, and went inside to sit on one of the many leather benches, sinking slightly into the cushion. The ambiance was like any other suburban club: dim lighting pulsing with colored strobes, full of rich kids eager to spend daddy's money on bitches and coke, falling into lust as easily as they shit.
I counted them methodically: twenty-three strippers dancing on poles and stages, bodies twisting in rhythmic displays; seven barmen mixing drinks with flair, bottles flipping; fifty-seven cameras covering most angles and probably around thirty bouncers for security. This place smelled of sweat and bad cologne coming from men with no seduction skills but fortunes to compensate, pathetic displays of wealth masking inadequacy. Ahhh…..this is pathetic. Why am I even here? Distraction…perhaps for the worst 3 years to follow.
"What can I serve you tonight?" the barman screamed for me to hear over the excessively loud music, bass thumping like a heartbeat.
"Your best rum, the full bottle" I told him with a note on paper so I wouldn't have to scream, sliding it across the polished bar.
"Ruff day huh got it" he answered, nodding before turning away.
I put my head in my arms on the bar to seal my ears from the horrible sound that could hardly be considered music, electronic garbage, repetitive and grating, while waiting for the holy liquid that would shut my thoughts for at least an hour if I drank enough of it. The bar's surface was sticky under my sleeves, residue from spilled drinks
"Hey Sarah, you know you shouldn't dance with him... you have a husband now" I heard the voice of a girl, my brain taking it in as if there were no other noise in the place. It cut through the din like a blade, clear and melodic, oddly distinct, like a minor angel in the audio chaos.
My head slowly turned back toward the voice, eyes scanning the crowd methodically, cataloging faces like targets.
"Haa, shut it, Mia. It's just a dance, harmless fun." she said while literally twerking on the guy
What a shame of a woman, my eyes locked on the first speaker, Mia, presumably. Gray eyes with a touch of black, like faint voids drawing in stray thoughts; a pretty small nose above red lips, the red subtly marred by a drop of pure negative black. Her lashes were dark, framing a face like a fatal doll, delicate, almost engineered for deception. She wore raven-black hair that seemed woven from shadows themselves, long strands with front bangs and two deliberate meshes framing the sides of her slim eyes.
A beauty of a kind…. there were cute girls everywhere in a rich city but that type of appearance was the reason Troy felt at war with Agamemnon. Like a small error in my mind, a candle's flicker in endless dark, Irrelevant, yet filed for review.
"No Sarah, you have to stop. This is not right, and you know it," she declared to her friend, voice firm but laced with concern, another clear note piercing the murk.
"Here is your drink, mate," the barman told me while sliding the bottle in my hand. Alcohol wavering inside.
A whole bottle isn't fancy but my body has strangely high tolerance to alcohol, at least 5.4 times the normal one. I drank in as much as I could in an hour, until I started to feel the effect. My head started to spin and my mind emptied. Then I paid the man, 337.89$ out of my pocket felt like losing a dime. I stood up, an internal prompt,curious to observe more of that woman I saw..
My eyes found her, as if a subtle filter highlighted her amid the crowd. After a minute, she felt my gaze and looked back, I didn't stop, maybe I should have. Her eyes bored onto mine analysing me like i did her, she never looked away, what a strange woman. I walked toward this minor anomaly with uncalculated steps ,a first in 5 years.
As my body advanced through the mass without full command, a slight lapse in will like a puppet with a loose string, I made my way.... (Bump)
"Hey dumbass, look where you're going!" The man dancing with Sarah told me, his breath reeking of alcohol and entitlement.
Like my body recalibrating, I looked at him straight in the eyes, devoid of emotions. I didn't say a word, but the man put his hand on my shoulder and a burning sensation erupted at the point of contact... a mage. Heat seared through the fabric, skin blistering faintly.
"You're gonna prese.."
I turned my hips force coming from the right ankle, my open palm striking the underside of the arm he used to hold me.
"AARRGH FUCK MAN YOU BROKE MY ARM!!!" he screamed, doubling over in agony.
The mass of people turned to us, looking at the scene: his arm broken at the elbow, dangling unnaturally, and my shoulder clothing completely burned, acrid smoke rising with the scent of charred cotton.
Sarah came in a hurry, pushing through the gawkers with wide eyes.
"What have you done to him!" Sarah screamed at me, her face flushed with rage.
"I defended myself " I said simply, voice leveled
"This is not self-defense, you broke HIS FUCKING ARM!" She accused, pointing at me with her wedding ring glinting.
This is bad with so much alcohol in my body my mind doesn't want to make a plan.
I started to walk away from the situation,
the bouncers were closing in now, their bulky forms cutting through the crowd like sharks in shallow water, faces set in professional scowls. The guy clutched his broken arm, whimpering, his mage aura flickering weakly, probably some low-level fire charm he thought made him tough, a parlor trick from unregulated magic users common in these dens. Sarah hovered over him, her face twisted in a mix of anger and concern, dabbing at his forehead with a napkin from her purse, muttering reassurances.
"You... you're insane," Sarah spat, helping Emmerick to his feet while glaring at me, her free hand gesturing wildly. "Security! Get this psycho out!"
But Mia stepped forward, her thin lashes framing those slim eyes as she placed a hand on Sarah's arm, steadying her. "Wait, Sarah. He said Emmerick burned him, look at his shoulder. That's no normal mark."
Her voice again. Calm, reasoned, cutting through the chaos like a spell, another small glitch, registering clearer than it should. My body froze momentarily, the minor pull from before twitching again. The burning on my shoulder fading to a dull throb.
Emmerick groaned, sweat beading on his brow. "I barely touched him! Just a spark to get his attention….ow, fuck!"
One bouncer grabbed my arm roughly, fingers digging in, but I didn't resist. My gaze stayed on Mia, who met it without flinching, her expression shifting from concern to something else.
She hesitated, her dark-red lips parting slightly, that black drop on them catching the light like an imperfection worth noting. The crowd murmured around us, phones out recording the drama, flashes popping. I ignored them, her gray-black eyes searching mine through the guards. A small crack registered internally, a distant glow.
The bouncers tightened their grip, dragging me toward the golden doors with grunts of effort. Pain shot through my arm, but it was distant, background noise. As they shoved me out into the cold, the city's lights blurring in the mist now present.
(Bam) My shoulder touched the asphalt outside, the impact jarring but absorbed, rough pavement scraping my jacket, the sun still present in the late afternoon sky but the air cold enough to raise faint goosebumps on exposed skin. I stood up mechanically, brushing off gravel with a swipe, the alcohol in my body metabolizing, leaving slowly place to clarity.
"Do not stir trouble here again, fucker," said one of the bouncers, slamming the door behind him.
That was an error he would probably lose his job in the hour if words got around that he threw an Atlas out on the ground. But I didn't care enough.
I walked away from the club, the pulsing bass fading into a distant hum as the city's evening cacophony took over, horns blaring from traffic, distant sirens wailing, and the shuffle of pedestrians hurrying home under the gathering rain. Mist rolling in from the nearby river to blur the neon signs into hazy glows.
I pulled out my phone, a simple Nokia model, easy to use and hard to break. No apps, no tracking bloat, just calls and texts. Claire was the first number on it, I speed-dialed with a single press; the line connected after two rings, her voice clipped and wordless on the other end.
Twenty minutes later, the car loomed close on the curb, its black silhouette emerging from the fog like a shadow detaching from the night,headlights cutting through the mist, engine purring softly. It finally stopped with a gentle brake squeak, and I hopped in the back seat, the door clicking shut behind me. Leather creaked under my weight, cool and smooth, carrying the faint scent of Claire's vanilla air freshener.
She drove me back home, her eyes fixed on the road through the rearview mirror, hands steady on the wheel. The ride was silent, save for the rhythmic thump of tires over potholes and the occasional click of the turn signal; no radio, no conversation.
As the city lights streaked by in blurred lines, the thought of my discussion with my uncle resurfaced. I didn't know which military school this would send me to, probably a good one, elite by default, since this prideful uncle wouldn't let an Atlas rot in a low-level one. "A man of my blood shall not be under the tutoring of the beneath," he had once said, his voice thick with that false grandeur. Frankly, this was bullshit, pedigree obsession masking his own insecurities.
I would need to go to school with some high-grade snobs for three years of suffering, rubbing shoulders with entitled heirs and government-favored prodigies, all under the guise of "serving the country. It wasn't just military; they forged mages there, as it's imaginable a young brainwashed mage in debt is one of the greatest weapon they could possess.
"Scholarship" meant awakening latent powers in controlled environments. Irrelevant for now; adaptation was key.
Arriving home, the old house was waiting for me in all its creaking love. Claire pulled up to the private entrance without a glance back, engine idling as I exited, no farewell, just the door shutting and her taillights vanishing into the fog.
The lobby was empty, as always, security cams whirring softly overhead. A letter waited for me on my door, propped against the matte black handle, envelope pristine white with a government seal embossed in gold foil. I took it inside, the door locking behind me. I sat on the couch with my knife, tucked in the belt, it sliced through the seal with a clean rip, paper parting like flesh under pressure. It was governmental, as expected:
(Dear Mr. Black Atlas,
Pursuant to Section 437.2 of the National Mandatory Service Act, all citizens reaching the age of 19 are required to enroll in the designated military education program and complete the full term of service as stipulated therein. Failure to comply may result in penalties as outlined in Sections 437.3 through 437.5, including but not limited to fines, compulsory reassignment, or revocation of civic privileges.
This mandatory enrollment represents a profound honor and civic duty to safeguard and advance the sovereignty of our nation. As a young soldier-in-training, take pride in your role; the time has arrived for you to contribute to the collective future of our society.Cordially,
Director, Center Dominion
Department of National Service and Magical Development)
[Official Seal of the Government]
Of course it was all political, like most things, propaganda dressed as patriotism, every person is part of the future; they just want the population to feel in debt to them, for leverage later on, strings to pull when compliance wavers. Since I turned 19 this year, they had to start me on the next semester, basically a new one every year kicking off on the first day of the New Year so that every student is exactly 19 for each batch, synchronized like clockwork.
It had its importance since people who are magic-blooded can normally only receive their magic at this age via highly concentrated mana situations, rituals or chambers designed to force awakenings, or so the classified briefs implied.
Slowly my eyes, shutted themselves.
I had forgotten how alcohol made my body sleep….
Thanks for giving it a try, i hope you enjoyed it so far(;