November 20, 2037
Dear D̶i̶a̶r̶y̶Journal,
The last couple of days have been nothing but chaotic, and even that is an understatement.
I've been through demon invasions, reality-warping gods, and the complete restructuring of human civilization, and somehow today still managed to be stranger than all of that combined.
If that's even possible.
Let me start from the beginning, because this mess requires context.
First of all, my son—whom I was previously suspicious of being my blood, but seeing as Dr. G̶a̶y̶p̶e̶z̶ Lopez wasn't an Awakened, and my boy here is—there's no other truth. Yes, he is my blood. Has to be.
The truth is, we Blackcastle men are superior to all others in every conceivable way. That's for the ladies to know, of course. Though sometimes we're too great, if you can imagine such a thing. It's a burden, really. The weight of excellence.
Anyway, he showed up at my penthouse this morning.
I was still in bed—barely nine a.m., criminally early by my current standards—when I heard the knocking. Insistent. Aggressive. The kind of knock that says "I'm coming in whether you answer or not."
I stumbled to the door in my boxers, prepared to obliterate whoever thought interrupting my sleep was a good idea, and there he was.
Younger version of me. Same black hair, though he kept his short and styled. Same sharp features. His eyes were different—dark brown instead of my unique purple—but the resemblance was undeniable. He even had that Blackcastle jawline, the one that could cut glass.
"Father," he said, his voice flat. Not excited. Not warm. Just... acknowledging.
"Son," I replied, because what else do you say? "You're... alive. That's... good?"
Honestly, I'd been fifty-fifty on whether he'd survived the initial Ether wave. We weren't exactly close. I'd missed most of his life—or rather, elected not to attend it. Semantics.
The whole reason he came to visit was to invite me to a wedding.
His wedding.
He handed me an invitation—actual physical paper, surprisingly formal given the world had ended ten days ago—and stood there expectantly.
"You're getting married," I said, processing. "In the apocalypse."
"The world didn't end," he corrected, that same flat tone. "It changed. And yes. Tomorrow. The venue survived the initial chaos. We've been planning this for months, and we're not letting a little thing like dimensional rifts and superpowers stop us."
I stared at the invitation. Gold lettering. Embossed edges. His name—Marcus Blackcastle—and hers—Elena Rodriguez.
Wait.
My only son is getting married.
The realization hit with unexpected weight. He was twenty-three. When had that happened? Last I'd paid attention, he was what, fourteen? Fifteen? Time had done that thing where it passes whether you notice or not.
I hadn't even realized just how much of his life I had missed.
No.
No, that's not the right word.
It should be how much of his life I ignored.
Active choice. Not passive neglect. I'd been there—physically present in the same city, the same dimension—and had simply chosen not to participate. Too busy with my own problems. My wife's infidelity. My depression that wasn't really depression. My experiments with gravity and mortality.
The usual.
"So," Marcus said, breaking the silence. "Will you come?"
I looked at him. Really looked at him. He stood rigid, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Defensive posture. He expected rejection. Had probably steeled himself for it before coming here.
"Of course," I heard myself say. "Wouldn't miss it."
Something flickered in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or suspicion. Hard to tell.
"Tomorrow. Two p.m. Don't be late." He turned to leave, then paused. "And Father? Try not to make a scene."
He left before I could respond.
I stood there holding the invitation, wondering what the hell I'd just agreed to.
The next day came faster than I would've liked.
I actually made an effort with my appearance—borrowed a suit from the previous owner of the penthouse, found it fit reasonably well. Black on black, classic. Combed my hair. Even shaved, though I'd been growing fond of the stubble.
The venue was one of the few remaining hotels from yesterday's disasters. And by "yesterday's disasters," I mean the week-long string of catastrophes that had become routine. The Fallen had torn through this district pretty thoroughly, but this particular hotel had somehow survived intact.
Mostly intact.
There were scorch marks on the exterior walls and several windows had been replaced with plywood, but the interior was pristine. Someone had put real effort into preservation. Fresh flowers in vases, white cloth draped over chairs, string lights creating ambiance.
It was almost normal.
Disturbingly normal.
The ceremony itself was... fine. Standard vows. Lots of crying from relatives I didn't recognize. Marcus looked happy, which was weird to see. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him smile.
But it was during the reception that everything got interesting.
There I saw her from across the room.
The bride, I'd learn later. She was standing near the refreshment table, laughing at something one of the bride's maid said. Average height, maybe five-foot-five. Long black hair that fell past her shoulders in loose waves. Dark brown eyes that caught the light when she turned her head.
And that body.
A perfect combination of curves and petite proportions. The brides dress—snow white, form-fitting—showed off every line. She moved with unconscious grace, comfortable in her own skin in a way that was immediately captivating.
I could tell she wasn't wearing any makeup, or if she was, it was so subtle as to be invisible. Despite that—or perhaps because of it—she had a stunningly beautiful face. Natural. Real.
I've seen a lot of beautiful women. Yesterday's demon general, for instance, my ex wife despite her sluttiness, and various others throughout my life.
But this woman was different.
More... accessible. Human. Not some untouchable supernatural entity. Just a genuinely gorgeous woman at a wedding, drinking champagne and smiling.
I myself wasn't that bad off despite being in my fifties.
Fifty-three, to be precise, though I could pass for late thirties on a good day. I've retained the lean, muscular build of my youth—combination of good genetics and active lifestyle. All that suicide-attempt-parkour kept me in shape. My skin lacked any showings of aging like wrinkles or sun damage. Benefits of staying indoors avoiding people.
I have a full head of long black hair, no receding hairline or gray. And my eyes are uniquely purple—genuine violet, not some trick of the light. Genetic mutation, probably. Makes me distinctive.
Some might even say that I'm a s̶u̶p̶e̶r̶m̶a̶n̶ superior superman.
I'm absolutely saying that.
I made my approach.
From there it happened so fast.
"Enjoying the reception?" I asked, materializing beside her at the refreshment table.
She startled slightly, then smiled. "It's lovely."
"They do," I agreed, pouring myself champagne. "Though I have to say, the maid of honor is stealing the show."
She laughed—genuine, unguarded. "Huh?"
"I'm Claymore," I said, offering my hand. "Father of the groom."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh! Marcus's father. He mentioned you might come." She shook my hand. Warm, firm grip. "I'm Elena Marcus's—."
"Elena," I repeated, letting the name roll off my tongue. "Beautiful name. Suits you."
Another laugh. She was easy to make laugh, I discovered. My natural charm—Blackcastle charisma—was working overtime.
We talked. Casual conversation about the wedding, the apocalypse, how weird it was that people were still getting married despite the world ending. She had a quick wit, kept pace with my banter, gave as good as she got.
Multiple times I caused her to laugh and giggle off my flirtation alone.
She touched my arm when she laughed. Good sign.
Leaned in when I spoke. Better sign.
Maintained eye contact just a bit too long. Excellent sign.
Though she kept mentioning something about tomorrow. Getting married tomorrow. Some appointment. I wasn't entirely clear on the details.
I didn't pay it much mind.
The reception wound down. People started leaving. Elena and I had migrated to a corner table, deep in conversation about nothing important. The way she looked at me—interested, engaged, slightly flushed from champagne—made my intentions crystal clear.
"My room's upstairs," I mentioned casually. "Much quieter. Better drinks."
She hesitated. Just for a moment.
"I really should get back," she said, but her tone said the opposite.
"Should," I agreed. "But will you?"
That smile again. Dangerous smile. Decision made.
"Lead the way."
I managed to talk her back to my room and from there I managed to talk her out of her clothes.
She was stunning. Even better than I'd imagined, and I have an excellent imagination. Smooth skin, perfect proportions, responsive to every touch.
We fell into bed in a tangle of limbs and shed clothing.
Some hours passed.
Best hours of the week, honestly. Maybe the month. The apocalypse had been stressful, and this was exactly the kind of stress relief I needed.
Elena was asleep on top of me, her naked body pressed against mine underneath the covers, her head on my chest. I was drifting into post-coital satisfaction, considering round two, when I heard the door open.
Loud. Aggressive.
"Elena?! ELENA!"
Marcus's voice.
Oh.
Oh.
I looked at the woman sleeping on me. Really looked at her. The pieces assembled themselves with horrible clarity.
Elena... oh that Elena. Who'd just gotten married...
To my son.
I guess I should've paid more attention when she was talking about being married.
The bedroom door burst open. Marcus stood there, still in his wedding suit, face cycling through shock, confusion, and rage in rapid succession. His eyes locked onto the scene: his father in bed, his fiancée naked on top of me.
Elena woke with a start, gasping, clutching the covers.
"Marcus!" Her voice cracked. "This isn't—I can explain—"
My son instantly got enraged.
The air around him shimmered with heat. Aether gathered in his palm in the shape of fire—bright orange flames that cast dancing shadows across the walls. Despite only having a couple days to experiment with the energy, he seemed to have a natural talent for manipulating it.
Blackcastle genetics. We're built for this.
But technically so did I. Being a Blackcastle and all, I'm practically superior to all.
Fuck you, Alejandro!!
That thought came from nowhere. Pure, irrational satisfaction. Somewhere, in some metaphysical way, I was getting revenge on my wife's lover by sleeping with my son's fiancée. The symmetry was beautiful.
Also, I was probably about to die.
Marcus pulled his arm back, the fire growing larger, more intense. His face was a mask of fury and betrayal.
"You BASTARD!" he roared. "After everything—after ALL of it—"
I prepared to counter his attack, gathering Aether and shaping it into a barrier around myself.
The shield manifested as a translucent purple dome, crackling with defensive energy. Elena scrambled away, pressing herself against the headboard, eyes wide with terror.
My son fired his attack.
A concentrated beam of flame, white-hot at the core, roaring through the air with enough force to incinerate steel.
The attack never reached me.
It clashed with my barrier, flame meeting shield in an explosion of light and heat. The force pushed me back slightly, but the barrier held. The fire dispersed, scattering into harmless embers that faded before hitting the ground.
Marcus's eyes widened. He hadn't expected that level of control from me.
"My turn," I said calmly.
I gathered Aether of my own, pulling it from the air, from the ground, from my own body's reserves. I shaped it carefully, precisely, into electricity. Blue-white lightning crackled between my fingers, growing, forming, taking solid shape.
The electricity took form as a spear.
Six feet long, humming with lethal current, beautiful in its terrible simplicity. Pure destructive potential given physical form.
I threw the spear with power.
My son's eyes went wide. He tried to prepare a barrier—brought his hands up, attempted to manifest the same kind of shield I'd used.
But it wasn't able to hold up.
His barrier flickered into existence, pale and incomplete. He'd had what, a week and a half of practice? And most of that spent planning a wedding instead of training.
Unlike him, who was busy preparing for marriage in all of this chaos (weirdo), I had time to get used to these powers due to my previous endeavors.
The bridge jumps. The building free-falls. All that time spent courting death had given me intimate familiarity with Aether manipulation. I'd been training without knowing it.
My spear easily pierced through his barrier like tissue paper and ran straight through his chest.
The impact drove him backward. He hit the wall, pinned there by the electrical spear, lightning dancing across his body. His mouth opened in a silent gasp. Blood spread across his white wedding shirt, dark and wet.
The electricity dissipated. He slumped forward, kept upright only by the spear.
Elena screamed.
I stood there, still naked, staring at what I'd done.
It wasn't my intention to kill him.
Wait.
That's not true either.
Ahh, who am I kidding? This dumbass isn't even my son now that I'm thinking about it.
The memories clicked into place. Suddenly clear. How had I forgotten?
Marcus wasn't my son. He was Dr. Lopez's son. From the affair. The whole reason I'd killed them both—Lopez and my wife. I'd been so focused on the doctor that I hadn't considered the kid might hold a grudge.
In fact, he was trying to kill me that whole time.
The wedding invitation. The emotional appeal. The emphasis on family. It was all bait. He'd been planning revenge. Probably had poison ready, or was going to stage an accident. Something poetic. Kill me at his wedding, blame the chaos of the new world.
Turns out I also fucked his wife—or fiancée, technically.
I guess you can say it was payback later on down the line.
Bastard Alejandro.
Even dead, that asshole was causing problems.
Marcus slid down the wall, leaving a red smear. The spear dissipated completely. He collapsed on the floor, gasping wetly, blood pooling beneath him.
From our little clash, Elena finally stopped screaming.
She looked at Marcus's body—still technically alive but fading fast—in shock. Her hands covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
I guess whatever love she had for him was acting up.
She jumped out of bed, still completely naked, rushing toward him. "Marcus! Oh god, Marcus, stay with me—"
I tried calming her down, following her out of bed myself.
My massive cock hung before her tear-filled eyes as I approached.
She froze mid-sob, her gaze dropping involuntarily. Stared. For several long seconds, she just... stared.
Then her tears vanished.
Not gradually. Instantly. Like turning off a faucet.
Her eyes refocused on me, no longer seeing a murderer. Seeing... something else.
"He was using you," I said quietly. "The wedding was fake. He wanted to kill me."
"I..." She blinked. Looked at Marcus's body. Looked back at me. At my dick. "I believe you."
Well, I guess I don't need to go into details about what happened next.
Let's just say grief is complicated, and people process trauma in strange ways, and Elena decided that the best way to deal with her fiancé's death was enthusiastic distraction.
Multiple times.
Very enthusiastic.
The Blackcastle charm is undefeated.
Sometime later—hours later, the room dark, Elena asleep again—I stood by the window.
The day was reaching its end. The sun setting over the broken city, casting long shadows across the ruins. Beautiful in a melancholy way.
That's when it happened.
The true chaos.
The temperature dropped. Not gradually—instantly. My breath fogged. Frost formed on the windows. The very air seemed to crystallize, reality itself freezing in place.
Then he appeared.
A being constructed of, well, nothing.
His form was a black abyss, completely empty and featureless. Not shadow—absence. A hole in reality shaped like a man. Where he stood, there was simply nothing. Void given form.
Looking at him hurt. Made my eyes water, my brain ache trying to process something that shouldn't exist.
His aura was even worse.
A combination of hopelessness and insanity that pressed down like physical weight. Standing in his presence felt like drowning in the space between stars, suffocating in the absence of everything.
This was the void.
The Divinity of nothingness.
I knew it instantly, with the same certainty you know when you're about to die.
I didn't even try to fight back.
What would be the point? This was a god. Not some teenage Awakened with fire powers. Not even the Time Divinity who'd threatened me before. This was something fundamental, something absolute.
I could only resist what was to come as he approached.
He moved without walking, simply existing closer with each moment. His hand—if you could call it that—raised. From his palm, a weapon materialized.
A black javelin, darker than his already-dark form. Anti-light given solid shape.
He thrust it forward with casual, inexorable force.
The javelin pierced my guts, sliding through flesh and organs like they were mist. There was no pain. Just cold. Spreading cold that radiated from the wound, freezing everything it touched.
Then he vanished.
Simply ceased to be there, taking the javelin with him.
I collapsed, clutching my stomach. The wound didn't bleed—it erased. Reality dissolving around the injury, spreading outward in waves.
In my final moments, it felt as if the world around me was going dull.
Colors faded to gray. Sounds became distant and muffled. The temperature equalized to nothing—not cold, not warm, just absent.
And it looked as if my body was vanishing.
Starting from the wound, spreading outward. My skin became translucent, then transparent, then simply not there. I could see through my own torso, watch the process of un-becoming in real-time.
Erasure. Not death. Complete removal from existence.
Elena was still asleep on the bed, somehow untouched by all of this. Maybe the Void Divinity only had eyes for me. Maybe she didn't matter in whatever cosmic equation he was balancing.
I was on my knees now, barely holding form. My hands were gone—just empty space where flesh should be. The dissolution crept up my arms, across my chest.
This was it.
The end of Claymore Blackcastle.
Erased by a god for reasons I'd probably never understand.
At least I went out having sex with two beautiful women in one day. That's something.
But before I could fully fade away, she appeared.
The same mysterious young girl from days ago.
She materialized between me and the empty space where Death had stood, her abyss-black hair falling around her snow-white face, those completely dark eyes staring at something I couldn't see.
She reached out, her small hand touching the air where my wound was.
The dissolution stopped.
Just... halted. The spreading erasure froze mid-advance, held at bay by her presence.
She spoke, her voice small and clear and terrible in its certainty:
"I will save you, Father."
Father.
She'd called me father.
Not directed at me, exactly. She was looking past me, through me, at something beyond. But the word hung in the air with weight.
My vision was fading. The world going dark. But I heard her voice one more time:
"Not yet. He isn't ready yet. The timeline must progress."
Then everything went black.
Goodbye, Journal.
If anyone finds this, know that Claymore Blackcastle died as he lived: confused, slightly aroused, and with absolutely no idea what the hell was happening.
Tell my story.
Make me sound cooler.
—C.B.