Chapter 5
After Jarren, there was supposed to be one more person to give him a present. All gazes turned to the figure leaning against the wooden pillar. He had white hair with patches of black, just like Gazel.
His face was just as striking as the others, sharp and commanding, and his muscular build radiated power and confidence. Yet right now, that aura seemed muted, subdued, as every eye in the room fixed on him.
The older man pretended to be staring at the sky, whistling a cool but erratic melody. Everyone's gaze dropped to him, unimpressed.
Finally, Gazel spoke, his tone guarded. "Hey, Dad, don't tell me you didn't really prepare anything for my birthday."
The older man froze, confusion flashing across his face. Then he shook his head. "How could you think that of me, son? You know I would never forget your birthday. When have I ever?"
Gazel glanced at the others. Their expressions were unanimous, unamused. They all seemed to say the same thing without words: You always forget.
His father sighed. "Fine. I'll bring my present. Give me a second." He disappeared into the building.
A few moments later, he returned, holding a carefully wrapped package. Gazel's eyes lit up. The wrapping was exquisite.
Don't tell me… could it be? He dared to hope it was the dagger he had dreamed about for years.
His father handed it to him with a warm smile. "This is for you."
Gazel accepted it reverently and began to unwrap it, expecting a sleek, deadly dagger.
When the material fell away, his face fell too.
It wasn't a dagger. Not even close. It was a kitchen knife.
"What… is this?" Gazel asked, disbelief clear in his voice.
His father chuckled and patted his head. "It may look like a kitchen knife, but I assure you, there's more to it than meets the eye."
Gazel stared at the knife, then back at his father. "More? This is a damn kitchen knife."
The others burst into laughter. His father smiled, then held the knife with purpose. With a sharp throw, the blade sank deep into a tree trunk. Gazel's eyes widened. Okay, that's actually pretty cool.
But his father wasn't done. He stretched out his palm, and the dark obsidian ring on his finger gleamed.
The knife lifted from the tree trunk, spinning through the air, and landed perfectly back in his grip.
Gazel's jaw dropped. "Super… cool," he blurted.
He turned to his father, awe written all over his face. "Dad… when did you become a magician?"
His father shook his head. "It's not magic."
"Then how…?" Gazel's curiosity burned in his eyes.
His father smiled, handed him the knife, and removed the obsidian ring from his middle finger, giving it to him.
"This is an artifact. Once activated, it will return your weapon to your grip. As long as the weapon is linked to the ring, it will come back to you."
Gazel accepted it, still staring in wonder.
What he had just received already exceeded every expectation he had ever dared to imagine.
But the father was not done.
He leaned closer and whispered something into his ear.
Gazel's face lit up instantly, the grin breaking free like it had been waiting.
"You're the best dad," he said.
And today had just turned into the best day of his life.
The day slowly rounded itself out. The smell of food filled the house as his mother prepared several dishes, a full feast.
Gazel was treated specially. It was his day, after all.
After eating far more than he should have, Gazel walked over to the little bed by the wall. Trent was still there, resting in the wooden crib.
Trent looked at him. Then smiled.
Gazel smiled back.
"Well?" Gazel said. "Shouldn't you wish me good luck? It is my birthday."
The little boy only kept smiling. Then he raised his hand toward Gazel.
Gazel responded, placing his own palm against Trent's.
Their hands met.
Trent brightened instantly and laughed.
Gazel laughed too.
"Your present is cheap," Gazel said, "but acceptable."
The rest of the evening spilled into jokes and laughter. Then came the usual tense hand wrestling matches. Their father won every single time. Always did.
Later, their mother brought out her beautiful blue guqin and began to play. The melody was cool, calm, and deep.
Karren moved first, stepping into the open space and dancing to the tune. Then Father Trystan joined her.
They danced together, warm and perfectly in sync.
The father might look rough, and his movements a little rigid, but he was a great dancer. An excellent one.
Gazel remembered the training sessions. Hellish. Brutal. Somehow elegant in hindsight.
He sat beside little Trent, watching everything, his chest filled with a deep warmth.
Then his mind drifted.
Death.
Death will consume all.
The dread clawed at him again, cold and familiar. Gazel clenched his fists and forced himself to focus. He would tell his parents after the feast. He had to.
The melody and dancing continued. Beautiful. Almost perfect.
Good things never last.
A figure suddenly jumped into the dance floor, twisting and turning erratically. The rhythm shattered instantly.
Gazel raised a hand. "What the hell is Jarren doing?"
The worst was yet to come.
Jarren, believing the moment needed to be more epic, opened his mouth and started to sing.
In his head, it was melodic. Powerful.
To everyone else, it was a nightmare. Like a comet cracking through the sky and crashing into snow.
It was unbearable.
Gazel cursed under his breath. "Fool."
Laughter eventually returned, somehow. The night rolled on.
Then something changed.
A strange sensation flashed through the air.
Father Trystan's face shifted slightly. His blue eyes dimmed for just a moment. Then he smiled and quietly walked out.
Gazel noticed.
He followed.
But when he stepped outside, his father was gone.
As if he had vanished.
The sun had already set. The moon was rising.
Unease settled deep in Gazel's chest.
"Dad?" he called out.
No answer.
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Meanwhile.
In the Forest, just a few meters from the Trystan manor, a figure crashed into a massive tree and collapsed.
Blood oozed from multiple wounds. His vision blurred.
Still, through agony, he forced himself up.
The pain overwhelmed him.
He dropped to one knee.
Two demonic figures stepped into the clearing.
One was massive, muscles bulging beneath dark brown skin. Two tusks jutted from his lower jaw.
The other was tall and light-skinned. Twin rapiers spun slowly in his hands. Purple thorn-like growths adorned his bald head, glowing faintly with malice.
"You really don't know when to give up, do you?" the bald one said.
The smaller demon grinned. "Does it matter? You have failed. We will use your blood and flesh to quench our thirst."
The injured man rose slowly.
At his side, his fingers moved.
Five.
Four.
Three.
"Still resisting?" the bald demon said, eyes dark.
Two.
The demon fired the purple thorns forward. They screamed through the air at insane speed.
One.
Zero.
Before the countdown finished, the thorns vanished.
Standing in front of the man was a tall figure dressed in a white kimono. His hair was white, streaked with patches of black.
The demons froze.
A crushing aura slammed down on them.
"Who are you?" the bald demon asked.
Father Trystan unclenched his fist.
Several purple thorns fell helplessly to the ground.
He lifted his head.
His blue eyes locked onto them.
His voice was cold. Sharp.
"You dared step into my boundary."
Such insolence.
Deserves death.
TO BE CONTINUED.....