A Battle With Death
A dark figure sat on the rooftop of a tall building, about 14 storeys high. Down below, the streets were filled with life and lights—tens of cars and pedestrians passing through—but the building itself was completely void. At the top, a faint starlight reflected, making the dark figure slightly visible.
It was a boy, about 17, sitting on the rooftop. His eyes were filled with tears and regret, and his clothes were covered in blood.
He stood up slowly and walked to the edge of the building, wiping his tears. Zac glared at the road as if he was expecting something, waiting impatiently for it to come. When the road became a bit free, he turned around and spread his arms wide.
At that moment, he recalled himself standing in a puddle of blood, with dead bodies staring back at him.
Slowly, he let himself fall.
As he got too close to the ground, he blacked out.
He slowly regained consciousness. His sight was blurry, but he noticed a male figure sitting on the bare floor, aggressively tapping on the screen of his phone. Zac realized it was an elderly man.
As Zac slowly lifted his upper body to sit up, he asked, "Is this hell?"
The old man smiled and answered, "No."
"Good, because I don't think I can spend eternity with that smell," Zac said, standing up.
As soon as he stood, he felt a sudden push and fell back down.
"I'd advise you to stay down."
"Why?" Zac asked.
"Because…" Zac waited in anticipation.
"We're in the back of a garbage truck," the old man sighed.
"That's why it stinks," he added, pointing upward.
"Right… I fell into a garbage truck and survived my own suicide," Zac said sarcastically. "That makes sense. I really do have the worst luck."
The vehicle suddenly stopped.
The old man stared directly into Zac's eyes. "You are not dead, but you did die."
Zac stammered, trying to find his words. "What… what are you talking about?"
The old man stood up and continued in a more serious tone.
"Zac, do you believe demons exist? Do you think ghosts are real? Or do you believe in resurrection, reincarnation, magical realms, and the numerous myths and legends humans tell?"
Confused, Zac quietly answered, "No."
The old man suddenly burst into laughter. "Good. Otherwise, it would mean you are crazy."
He abruptly stopped and stared at Zac again. "Are you crazy?"
Zac, startled and confused, finally composed himself and took a deep breath.
"I wonder. I've heard people say that about me so many times, I started to believe it myself."
The old man stepped closer. "Why? Was it because of what you saw that night… seven years ago?"
"You know about the incident? I guess everyone does," Zac said, hugging his legs.
"But it wasn't a man you saw that night, was it? It was a demon."
"No. You're wrong. There's no such thing as demons. I was scared because of what I saw. My mind created the best explanation it could for such a gruesome sight. That's why I saw the man as a demon—because I believed no human was capable of doing that. I was too young to understand our true nature."
The old man shook his head. "Zac… is that what you believe, or is that what you were told?"
Zac hesitated. "No… that's what the doctor told me. And people… people said I was a freak for being the only survivor out of the five families he killed."
The old man sat down. "It must have been difficult. More difficult than I can imagine. But the one responsible wasn't a man… it was a demon we call Thanatos—a demon accidentally let loose by the Legion."
"There was no demon!" Zac snapped, standing up. "Everyone died because of some psycho killer. Now let me out."
"If I were you, I wouldn't leave just yet," the old man replied calmly.
Zac paused, took a breath, and said, "You're not the first mysterious person trying to dig up my past. Just because you read my files doesn't mean you know anything about me."
He walked toward the exit.
"Don't you want to know why?" the old man called out. "What happened? Why you alone survived that night? I don't need your files to know your entire life revolves around that question—the one you've thought about countless times."
He pointed at a chair. "Sit down, and I'll tell you. What you choose to believe afterward is up to you."
Zac hesitated. "…Fine. I'll play along."
"A day before that night, your parents found an artifact."
Zac froze. "We never told anyone about that. My father made me promise to keep it secret—even as his dying wish."
The old man continued, "I know what you're thinking. I was there when your parents found the Knowleslore… or rather, I let them find it."
Zac stared in disbelief.
"I thought it would be safe with humans. But when Thanatos discovered it, it killed everyone who came into contact with it… except you."
"Me!" Zac interrupted.
"Exactly. It couldn't detect its scent on you, meaning you never touched it."
Zac suddenly recalled—six years ago—himself holding the Knowleslore.
"That's why you survived," the old man continued. "If you had touched it like the others, you would have died. So you see… it was never your fault."
"No. It was yours," Zac replied coldly. "If you hadn't sent that thing to us, they'd still be alive."
"…Yes," the old man said quietly. "And I regret it every moment."
"Is that why you saved me? Guilt?"
"No. I swore not to interfere in your life again. But this time… fate brought us together."
"What do you mean?"
The old man sighed. "There's too much to explain. But for now… let me tell you a story."
Zac stepped out of the truck and stared at his house across the street.
Looking closely, memories flooded back—six years ago, after the incident. The house had been crowded with police, reporters, and neighbors… yet not a single person came to comfort him.
He had felt invisible.
Then came another feeling—the way people looked at him. Fear.
In their eyes, he saw judgment.
He snapped back to reality. 'Is that old man really…? No. Never mind.'
The garbage truck finally drove off, the old man still staring at him through the window.
Zac shoved his hands into his pockets and walked home.
As he opened the door, a voice called out, "Where were you? I was worried."
It was his aunt Lucy—the only family he had left.
"Sorry I'm late," he muttered, walking straight to his room.
He collapsed onto his bed and quickly fell asleep.
'Another morning in this hell.'
Zac stared at his reflection in his locker mirror, then slammed it shut. Pulling up his hood, he lowered his head and started walking.
Voices surrounded him—criticizing, mocking, and calling him a freak. They grew louder as more people joined in.
But then he noticed…
No one's lips were moving.
They were just staring.
'Normally, they just stare and whisper to themselves…'
He kept walking as everyone watched him.
He remembered the old man's words: "I understand what you went through."
Zac scoffed internally. 'No… you have no idea.'
'Hatred burns in their eyes. I can see their thoughts—judgment, anger. But why? I thought I was the victim. Would my death satisfy them?'
Suddenly, he noticed something rushing toward him—a small object aimed at his head.
He didn't move.
'But for some reason…'
'I don't die.'