We are children of the dark. We honour the call of our master whenever, wherever.
The events that unfolded after Simon left the village would come to define much of his future: the loosening of Mike's grace seal, the weakening of Gabriel's mental seal, and Luca's deteriorating mental state that seemed poised to drive him into depravity. These events would form the foundation that, for a time at least, kept him safe.
The day Luca returned from the stables, he shut himself off from the public, closing the temple and embracing grief in its full form. He cried. He cursed the heavens—and then cursed some more. Yet, strangely, no punishment befell him. When it seemed his tears had dried, one eye began to drip a black substance, while the other leaked a deep crimson so vivid you'd swear it was liquid rust.
If Gabriel had been there, he would have said Luca's grace reeked of depravity, death, and blood. This did not mean Luca was being cursed now, nor that his grace was being corrupted. No, his grace had long been in that state, even before the seals were placed on him. Like the others, a seal on his grace had begun to loosen.
In a temple of light, once so bright it chased away even the faintest shadows, the black grace stood out like a sore thumb. For the first time in living memory, a shadow was cast inside a temple of light. What this meant, only time would tell. But Luca instinctively knew: for his transgression against the heavens, this little village would be wiped from existence.
Still, he thought, if someone with grace even greater than Mike at his peak were to intervene, perhaps not all would be lost.
From his shadow, grace as dark as a starless, moonless night surged forth, enveloping him. It was not just dark, it felt as though it sought to devour all light in its surroundings. Red tendrils rose from the darkness, mixing into the black grace. Though they were fewer in number, they were no less present. The stench of blood filled the temple, mingling with the odor of death and the chill of depravity. The atmosphere grew grim. This was not the power of a mortal, nor should any mortal possess such power.
After a few minutes, the grace receded like a tide into Luca's shadow. Soon even the shadow disappeared. If not for the change in his robes, from pristine white with golden linings to a black so deep it pulled the eye in, accented with blood-red trim, you might think it had never happened. His silver-blonde hair had turned as dark as night. His once sky-blue eyes, laced with silver and filled with mysteries, now looked like black holes yearning to consume worlds.
Suddenly, from his all-fours position, Luca rose to his feet. Confusion flickered across his face for a heartbeat, then bliss, then rage, then understanding. A moment later, a black, metal-like pole the size of a broom handle formed in his hand. It was as dark as his clothes, etched with glowing blue script in an unknown language. The symbols pulsed, the light trying to escape, only to be suffocated by the black again, and again, the cycle repeated.
The pole grew to match his height, then curved into a scythe-like blade of deep crimson, bordering on maroon or rust. A single letter, "L", was engraved upon it, glowing with alternating pulses of red and blue. It looked like a weapon fit for a reaper of souls.
As the weapon completed its form, the darkness in his robes drained into it. His clothes reverted to pristine white and gold, and the weapon trembled, destabilizing. Without the sustaining energy, it began to dissolve. At that moment, the inside of the temple pulsed with golden light, agitated by something unseen. It targeted the unstable weapon, burning it away until no trace remained.
The golden light rushed toward Luca, searching for the source of its nemesis, but found nothing. Clearly, whoever had placed the seals on Luca was exceptionally skilled. Though one seal had loosened, it remained hidden from the prying eyes of the heavens.
The golden light faded back into the temple walls.
Luca remained standing, not in grief anymore. In fact, if one looked closely into his bright blue eyes, they'd see anticipation and longing, as if he were waiting for something... or someone. At the retreating light, he snorted.
"Coward," he muttered.
Clearly, the light had only dared to strike while his grace was unstable. What was that, if not cowardice? It hadn't dared act while he still had access to only a small fragment of his power.
Without another word, Luca turned and walked away, his destination unknown.
By the time Mike returned home, night had already fallen. Upon entering his shack, he sat cross-legged in meditation, something he hadn't done in as long as he could remember. But this felt right, like something he had once done too often.
He focused on the pulsing blue energy in his chest, as if it were trying to escape his heart or lungs but being blocked by some mysterious force, an energy that wasn't quite energy. Gabriel's earlier words sat in the back of his mind, ignored for now.
As his eyes closed, the temperature across the entire village dropped. For the first time in memory, it was cold, truly cold. The kind of cold that seeps into flesh and gnaws at bone. Even the harshest winters had never brought such chill. Rich and poor alike curled into fetal positions under thick blankets, trying to preserve warmth. The air itself seemed to freeze. Trees iced over.
In a distant part of the village, Gabriel, sitting cross-legged beside a small, eternal flame of orange and bluish hues, opened his eyes.
"Is this madman trying to destroy this place before everything is settled? The souls here cannot be sacrificed just to unlock your grace..."
The orange bluish flame rose into the sky, its color condensing into a single point. Beads of sweat formed on Gabriel's forehead as he struggled to maintain his focus. The blue separated from the orange and formed a bead, a glass-like orb with a soft blue flame inside.
It shot through the air and hovered over Mike's shack, then split into four sparks that embedded into the structure's four pillars. Immediately, the cold stopped escaping out as if a barrier had formed around the shack, the cold within began to concentrate. Everything inside started to freeze. Some objects shattered on contact.
Yet Mike smiled, visibly comforted. He relaxed further as the temperature dropped. His dark complexion lightened to a warm caramel, his graying hair turned youthful black, thick and rich. Wrinkles faded. Within minutes, he looked like a man in his late twenties.
Beneath his robes was a body carved like stone, stronger and perfectly sculpted than any bodybuilder's. Two machetes started forming from the biting cold, absorbing some of the blue sparks. They were Pangas: forged from a colorless metal that looked like it had swirling blue energy that bordered on liquid inside it. The edges radiated such intense heat they could burn through anything, while the rest of the blade gave off a chilling cold that could freeze even the fires of hell into stillness.
Whoever had granted such weapons their opposing forces and personalities was arrogant indeed.
Mike opened his eyes, smiling faintly. Gripping the hilts, his robes disintegrated into nothing. The cold and heat stopped as though their source had been cut off. On cue, blue pants formed on his lower body, loose and built for movement. Then a robe, equally blue, appeared with white stripes running from under the arms to the ankles. It tightened at the waist before flowing freely.
He was the very image of elegance. His eyes blazed with a blue so bright, it looked as though light itself fought to escape.
He studied himself in half-satisfaction and nodded.
Just as he was about to step outside, he stopped. Shaking his head and sighing, the Pangas vanished into a ball of energy, followed by the clothes, which reformed into his old attire. His youthful form faded into that of a middle-aged man once more.
He left in long strides, destination unknown, but maybe, just maybe, the next time he appeared, he wouldn't radiate such indifference.