Chapter 3
"Why not?"
The two simple words, spoken with a chilling, calculating calm, echoed from behind one of the attackers. The voice was devastatingly familiar—a sound that Damian had known since childhood.
Despite the overwhelming dizziness that made the world swim, Damian fought through the nausea, managing to force his head up and take a frantic glance at the figure stepping out from the shadows. The sight that met his eyes was a final, crushing blow. The realization took a brutal toll on his already failing heart.
"Scott?" Damian muttered, his voice barely a gasp of utter disbelief. "It can't be."
The name was his last conscious thought before his eyelids fluttered shut, and he finally lost the battle against the drugs, sinking into darkness.
⛓️ The Unmasking
A few agonizing minutes later, Damian's eyes cracked open slowly. His vision swam at first, then focused enough for him to register his terrifying situation. His hands and legs were tightly bound, restricting him completely. He felt a dull, widespread throbbing—he had sustained several injuries, likely from the beating he received while he was unconscious.
"Oh, you're awake," Scott said, his voice cutting through the silence. He was standing nearby, a cruel, mocking grin etched across his face. "You were out for almost thirty minutes." There wasn't a single sign of sympathy, regret, or friendship in his tone.
The betrayal was so profound it took a visible strain on Damian's face, his heart aching badly, the physical pain secondary to the emotional wound. He forced the words out in a low, strained tone. "Why? What did I do to you?"
Scott tilted his head, feigning thought. "Hmm... really, what did you do?" He pondered the question for a brief, theatrical moment, then his smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, violent rage.
"You kept taking everything from me!" Scott spat out. "Ever since we were kids, all those essays, the scholarships, the awards, and the attention—you kept it all! And you pretend like it was nothing, pretend like I ain't jealous. You smiled at everyone like you are better, like you're full of sunshine and rainbows, and you just kept ruining all my plans."
"I didn't know you wanted any of those," Damian choked out, the pain from his injuries flaring intensely with every word. He was genuinely confused by the sheer depth of Scott's hostility. "You always said you never liked the spotlight."
Scott paused, the shock of Damian's statement halting his momentum. "I didn't like the spotlight?" he asked, the question laced with incredulity, as if Damian had just spoken a terrible blasphemy.
Suddenly, Scott's expression twisted into pure, contemptuous fury.
"You, fool!" he snarled, and lashed out, kicking Damian hard in the stomach. The force of the blow sent a searing jolt of pain through Damian's already battered body.
"I hoped you'd see me, maybe just once, and let me have it!" Scott continued, his voice tight with years of resentment. "But you kept it all to yourself, every single time!" He continued kicking Damian, his suppressed jealousy now violently unleashed.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," Damian muttered through gritted teeth, the apology barely audible over his pain. He was truly regretful that his success had caused his friend such profound agony.
Scott's eyes blazed with uncontrolled anger. "Liar!" he roared. "You planned everything! The first attempt... failed! And then you proceeded to avoid me for two years. I thought maybe you had a clue or something, that's why you went for martial arts lessons. Then at the party, the plan failed again. I don't know how you do it, but I was going to supervise this one myself. It won't fail!"
Damian, his mind swimming in pain and confusion, could only stammer, "I don't understand..."
But as Scott's words echoed—the first attempt... failed... the plan failed again—a horrifying, crystal-clear realization slammed into Damian, cutting through the haze of the drug and the physical beating. The trauma two years ago, the nightmares, the reason he trained so relentlessly, and the violation at the party... they were all connected.
It was Scott all along.
"I arranged those men to take you out two years ago," Scott spat out, his voice a mixture of bitter resentment and avarice. "Imagine my shock when I found out you were still alive... my one-year allowance, gone! And the plan still failed."
He continued kicking Damian's torso and legs, venting his fury with every strike. "Then at the party, I carefully planned everything—the drugs, the ambush. And the cost? My one-year allowance again! All the things I could buy, kept on hold, because you won't just die! And again, you survived, my allowance gone again!"
Scott finally stopped, breathing heavily. He looked down at the battered, bound Damian, a terrible, final grin spreading across his face.
"But this time," he said, his voice dropping to a cold, menacing whisper, "I'd do it myself."gʻ
The sadness that washed over Damian was not just profound; it was inconceivable. Two years of nightmares, pain, and relentless training—all caused by the boy who had once shared his secrets, his toys, and his childhood. How could he have known? His best friend was, unequivocally, his worst enemy.
As this devastating thought ran cold through his mind, his eyes, scanning frantically, caught sight of something else nearby—something that stole the air from his lungs. Tucked against the wall, partially obscured, was a shape wrapped tightly in a thick, black bag, resembling a human body completely sealed inside.
The memory of the iron rod and the bloodied figure lying on the quiet road hit him like a physical wave.
"Matt!" Damian exclaimed, the name a raw cry of total disbelief and horror. "What... did you do to him? What did he do?" His voice shook, realizing that Scott wasn't just a resentful rival; his friend was a murderer.
"Oh, him..." Scott said dismissively, glancing at the black bag containing Matt. He turned back to Damian, his eyes shining with a chilling blend of desperation and ambition. "The Burnwood University scholarship exam is coming soon, and there's only one slot reserved for our school. Both of you—you and Matt—are my biggest rivals, and this time, I won't lose!" He finished with a short, cold chuckle.
From the group of five hired men who had carried out the ambush, one spoke up, his voice dripping with coarse mockery. "You killed your friends for an exam? That's petty."
The rest of the group burst into loud, mocking laughter, finding the rich boy's motives pathetically small for such a brutal crime.
"Hey, don't mock me! I'm the one paying you!" Scott yelled, his face flushing crimson with anger and embarrassment.
All this for an exam... The horrifying thought ran like ice water through Damian's mind. The realization that years of his life, his trauma, and now Matt's life, were all collateral damage in Scott's toxic academic rivalry was too much to comprehend. He tried desperately to say something—to scream, to question, to condemn—but the words caught and died, stuck fast in his throat.
"Anyways," Scott said, the triviality of the word chilling in the face of death. He reached into his cross bag—the one he'd called a supply bag—and pulled out a wicked-looking knife. "It's your turn."
Scott leaned down toward Damian, who was paralyzed by fear. Damian saw death face-to-face, and with every desperate instinct, he tried to plead for his life. His mouth opened, forming the shape of a desperate cry, but his voice failed him; nothing came out.
With a cold, deliberate motion, Scott drove the knife through Damian's chest. A rush of warm, coppery blood immediately began to flow out, staining his clothes and the dirt beneath him. Damian felt his life, his warmth, his strength, flowing out of him with the crimson tide.
Scott stood up, pulling the knife free. He turned to the group of hired thugs, instantly snapping into a different persona—the innocent, traumatized survivor.
"You all should leave," Scott commanded, his voice suddenly frantic and rehearsed. "I would go call for help. I already planned a cooked-up story about how we were attacked and I got away."
The leader of the group eyed Scott, a flicker of grudging admiration in his cold expression. "You're one devious kid, boy," he commented, before he and his men made their way to escape, leaving Scott alone with the two bodies.
Scott, the picture of calculated panic, quickly set about getting rid of the implicating evidence. He wiped the knife, tossed it into a nearby ditch, and moved the bodies slightly to make the scene fit his prepared story of an attack gone wrong. Once satisfied, he leaped away, rehearsing the movements of someone who had barely escaped a terrifying ambush.
As life drained inexorably out of him, Damian lay in a darkening haze of pain. In that final, desperate moment, his mind cleared with agonizing clarity. He remembered all the clues he had missed: Scott's strange enthusiasm for the altar, the forced energy drinks, and Scott's centrality to every traumatic event. And then, he suddenly remembered the spell—The Forbidden Summoning—the dark ritual he had found online.
He had nothing left to lose. Everything was gone: his safety, his best friend, his future. With the last dregs of strength he could muster, Damian forced himself up into a sitting position, blood pouring heavily from the wound in his chest. Using his crimson-stained finger, he desperately drew the required shapes—the pentagram and the surrounding circles—on the rough dirt around him.
He fell back at the center of the drawn figures, his blood pooling there. He used every remaining fiber of his being, the final, excruciating breath he had left. His mouth opened, and he forced the ancient words past his lips:
"Hear my call, my heart desire, I would take the fall, though it is dire, on my word, begin the trial."
He uttered the phrase only once. Instantly, the crude lines he had drawn on the ground began to glow with an intense, otherworldly luminescence. All of a sudden, the very reality around him fractured. The mundane setting of the quiet road shattered, and everywhere looked as though they were floating outside space, surrounded by an infinite void of stars and cosmic dust.
Out of nothing, from the depths of the fractured reality, a gigantic being sprang forth. Its form was not merely large, but vast, looking like an entire universe—galaxies swirling in its depth—yet it was simultaneously taking the delicate, overwhelming shape of a woman.
As the colossal, cosmic figure materialized, an impossible stillness settled over the scene. The wounds that had been agonizingly draining Damian's life instantly vanished. The bleeding stopped, and the searing pain disappeared. He found himself not only alive but perfectly whole, rising effortlessly to his feet. He stood, looking face to face with a primordial being, the backdrop of their encounter being the raw, fractured space of the cosmos.
With a cold, vast voice that seemed to echo not just in the void but within the very core of Damian's being, the entity spoke: "Young one, your young heart has grown cold. It is devoid of every emotion but rage."
She took a short pause, the infinite galaxies within her form shimmering.
"What might be the desire of a shattered heart? What does this empty soul seek?"
Damian, though initially overwhelmed and still utterly amused by the impossible reality of magic and this being, snapped back to the purpose of his desperate ritual. His voice, stripped bare of fear and trembling, emerged cold and steady.
"Before I proceed," he said, meeting her endless gaze directly, "what are the price to be paid?"
The gigantic, cosmic entity regarded Damian, her form a swirling nebula of power. Her voice remained calm, resonating with an impossible authority throughout the shattered reality.
"My dear child," she stated, "you must first come with a desire before the consequence can be given. So tell me, child, what is that which you desire?"
Damian hesitated, his mind racing, trying to grasp the boundaries of this transaction. "Is there a limit to what I can wish?" he asked, his voice now entirely steady, reflecting the cold resolve in his heart.
"There is no limit, as there is no limit to the price you'd pay," she replied. "Whatever you seek, no matter how difficult, can be granted. But the price to be paid would be equal to the wish."
After a long pause, during which Damian weighed the unbearable cost of his revenge against the boundless scope of the power offered, he finally spoke, his decision cemented.
"I have three desires," he stated.
* "Number one: an unimaginable increase in human physiology—increased speed, strength, stamina, durability, intelligence, immunity, and senses."
* "Number two: the ability to gain new skills that would help win a battle I can't win at that moment. The skill should be able to save me at that point."
* "And lastly: I should be able to share my ability with others, whenever and however I want, and also decide the potency or the particular ability I want to share. Now tell me, what are the price?"
"An intriguing desire," the cosmic being said, her voice echoing the depth of the void as she looked straight into Damian's eyes.
"Now, these are the prices for your desires," she declared with an unshakable, final tone.
The Consequence of Desire 1: Unimaginable Physiology
"For the first request," she began, "You shall be a Herald to a being I shall decide. Whenever I command, you must answer. Whosoever I choose, you must serve."
That's basically taking away my will whenever she wants, Damian thought, his mind racing. I might be selling myself to future slavery. He had wished for freedom through strength, only to be bound to a greater master.
The Consequence of Desire 2: Adaptive Skills
"And for the second request," she continued, her voice holding the cold finality of fate, "all those who have harmed or betrayed you since birth till this moment, you are not allowed to harm."
"What!!!" Damian exclaimed, cutting her off, his shock and rising anger overwhelming his deference. "What is the purpose of the request if not revenge!" he demanded, sounding utterly pissed off. His entire motivation, the fuel for his transformation, was the desire to punish Scott.
The Consequence of Desire 3: Shareable Ability
Ignoring his outburst completely, she continued, her focus unyielding. "And lastly, your powers will inevitably lead you to the Void, and without absolute control, they will eventually consume you."
Realizing she had ignored his complaints and continued regardless, Damian finally understood the cruel irony of the bargain. He muttered the thought slowly, the words heavy with dark comprehension. "No wonder the price is dire. You give that which the heart desires, and take away the very catalyst for the desire. You are cruel."
"What did you expect?" the cosmic entity said, a profound, eerie giggle resonating through the void. "The price for great power would also be dire and besides I'm beyond duality, good and evil are beneath me.
Damian felt a flicker of desperation. He had walked into this bargain blindly, driven only by rage. Now, faced with eternal servitude and forced forgiveness, he needed a way out.
"I change the request," he said, his voice hesitant. "And if I do, would the price change too?"
The immense being moved herself closer, her form filling his vision. Galaxies swirled as she spoke, her voice leaving no room for negotiation.
"You cannot change your desires, as at this point, you either accept the terms or cancel everything," she stated. "And if you do cancel everything, you would instantly return to your former state."
The meaning was clear: the mortal wound would reopen, and he would die, having gained nothing.
After a short, tense pause, she offered a sliver of flexibility. "However, you can add to your desire, but there would also be a price to pay for it"
"Death is the only thing that awaits me," Damian thought to himself, watching the cosmic being. But then a fierce determination sparked in his mind. "But maybe there's a way through."
He spoke, his resolve hardening. "I would like to add three more requests."
"Well, go on," she said softly, an amusement in her infinite gaze.
"Before I make my request, I'd like to know: if I asked to resurrect a person, would the consequence result in you taking a life?" he asked, the image of Matt's body in the black bag flashing in his mind.
"Yes, of course," she confirmed with a chilling lack of remorse. "To save a life, a life must be given."
Damian took a deep breath, letting go of the idea of saving Matt without paying the terrible price. He then laid out his defensive plan.
"Then the requests are:
* I want to live for a thousand years.
* I want to be able to summon you for defense if need be.
* Create a dead body that looks exactly like me before the summoning—something real enough to look like I died."
"So tell me, what is the price?"
"You're thinking everything through, aren't you? Anyways, I'd play along," she said with a soft, calm tone, acknowledging his cunning.
After a short pause, her voice changed, becoming vast and unyielding, as it was when listing the earlier consequences.
"For your first request, you will lose the ability to fall in love. No matter how hard you try, your heart would always be empty of true affection."
"And for your second request, every time you summon me, ten years would be taken from your existence."
"And lastly, after your thousand years have been exhausted, you would fade out of existence. Not a fragment of your life shall remain"
"And if you want to cancel your current request," she added almost immediately, her voice echoing the immutable rules of the cosmos, "all six requests would be canceled, and you would return to your original state."
Well, there's no turning back now, Damian thought, the decision already made. The threat of instant death was a far less compelling reason than the chance for unimaginable power.
"I ACCEPT," Damian said, his voice ringing with a conviction that held no doubt, the words cementing his eternal bargain.
He had faced the cruel irony of the consequences and found a new purpose. If he was forbidden from taking direct revenge on Scott and the others who had hurt him, then he would turn his rage outward, swearing he wouldn't take his pain out on other innocent people. His resolve was final, twisted by pain but focused on a new path of self-preservation and preparation.
Now, he wouldn't have to fear running into Scott or facing the legal aftermath of the day's horror. The thought of seeing his former friend again made every fiber of his being boil. He had no choice but to fake his death and vanish into the thousand years ahead of him.
"Oh, and you should know, the summoning wish you would use to call me would be different from the ritual," she said, her voice interrupting Damian's final thoughts on the painful bargain.
"Huh, so what would I say? What spell would I use?" he asked curiously, quickly trying to memorize the new terms of his servitude.
Her colossal form shimmered with starlight. "Give praise to me, glorify my presence, and worship on my name, DESIRE " she commanded in a voice rich with glorious power. "Only then would I descend and yield to your call."
"Oh, I see," Damian muttered to himself, filing the new requirement away. It was a high price in humility and worship for a moment of defense, but necessary.
"Would that be all?" she asked softly, the edges of her cosmic form starting to waver.
"Yes... that's all," Damian replied instinctively, finalizing the deal. But his true thoughts were reserved for himself: "Bargaining with gods comes with a high price. The power of a god is terrifying."
The fractured, cosmic realm began to break off gradually, revealing the true reality of the quiet, bloody road once more. As the infinite being faded, she left him with a final, chilling whisper:
"I am not a god." She giggled, and then the voice faded entirely.
The final bargain struck, the cosmic realm vanished, and Damian stood alone amidst the grim reality of the quiet road. But he was no longer the frail victim. He could feel the power surging within him; his senses had increased exponentially. He could hear footsteps from miles away, and more incredibly, he could hear the tensed heartbeats of people approaching from a distance.
"They are coming," he said to himself. It was Scott and his pre-arranged rescue scenario beginning.
He took one last, lingering look at the fake body of himself—the inert corpse the primordial being had created to complete his ruse. He then looked at Matt, still wrapped tragically in the black bag. He desperately searched for sadness or grief toward Matt's death, but his heart, cold and bound by the terms of the bargain, was empty.
"I'm sorry, Matt," he muttered to himself, the words hollow of feeling but firm in commitment. "I couldn't save you, but I promise, I won't let it happen to another innocent kid ever again." With that vow—the only emotion the Herald was permitted—he turned and ran.
He covered an incredible mile in mere minutes, and he hadn't even pushed his speed to its maximum. His escape was abruptly cut short by an intense, agonizing scream echoing from the distance—a sound that shattered his concentration.
"Mum?" he gasped suddenly, recognizing the sound despite the immense distance. "How can I hear her from this distance?" Then he suddenly remembered the first of his gifts: "My senses are sharpened... it's hard to control."
His thoughts were interrupted by another, even more piercing scream.
She screamed again, the sound tearing through the evening air, a raw testament to utter devastation. People hurried to console her, their words lost in the wake of her anguish. "Please, my baby, don't leave me, please! I can't bear this pain, I need you, please!" she cried, her voice completely clouded with tears and sorrow as she desperately held the lifeless body of her dead son.
The heart-wrenching words, full of pure maternal grief, managed to touch the edges of Damian's newly empty soul. He felt the recognition of the love in her sorrow, yet no tears would fall from his eyes. He muttered gently to himself, "I'm sorry, Mum," and picked up his pace, pushing past the pain of his heightened senses to flee the scene.
Meanwhile, at the exact location of the ambush, Matt's mother arrived, drawn by the commotion. Her eyes fell instantly upon her dead child, his fractured skull a horrific detail in the growing pool of blood. On seeing the devastating sight, she collapsed immediately, her own world having just shattered.
Scott stood there, watching the scene unfold—witnessing the profound sorrow and misery he had meticulously caused. He looked from Damian's weeping mother to Matt's collapsed mother, yet his heart remained unshaken by the display of dismay.
He ran until the screams of agony and the sounds of approaching cars were distant whispers—until civilization was a memory. His destination was the deep woods, a sanctuary where his existence could be reset. He needed absolute solitude to sharpen his newly found skills and, critically, to learn how to use and control his overwhelming senses. The forest floor was a chaotic symphony of sound; every rustle of a leaf, every crawl of an insect, was amplified into a deafening roar.
For an entire month, the dense wilderness served as his brutal training ground. He pushed his hyper-developed body, testing his speed and strength against the raw landscape. He learned to filter the sensory deluge, transforming the chaos into manageable information. He survived entirely on wild foods, his increased immunity ensuring he avoided sickness, and his sharp mind rapidly adapting to primitive survival.
By the end of the month, he had effectively mastered all of his initial gifts and transformed from a beaten victim into a honed, formidable being.
It was time to leave the woods and begin his life in the new reality. Since returning to his hometown was impossible—his fake death had been meticulously planned—he had to move to another city, a place where the Herald's existence could begin in anonymity.
As the sun began its descent, casting long, eerie shadows, Damian walked through the woods in the direction of the distant city. He moved with a new, effortless grace, his physiological gifts already turning the hike into a swift journey.
Suddenly, his heightened senses alerted him to an incident nearby. It was a kidnapping: five menacing figures, all hoodlums, each one clearly holding a gun. They had abducted two girls and one guy.
He crouched low, his mind instantly assessing the threat, and decided to take a closer look. He moved with practiced quietness, but in his intense focus, he accidentally stepped on a dry tree branch. The sharp CRACK echoed loudly in the stillness.
"Who's there?" one of the hoodlums demanded, instantly alert, as he got up to inspect the source of the noise.
Damian pressed himself flat against the back of a large tree, restricting his movements to an absolute minimum, his heart beating a frantic, yet calm rhythm. I don't know if I'm faster than a bullet, and if I'm not, am I durable enough to survive it? he thought, calculating the risks of his first confrontation. If only there was a way I could sneak up on them.
[NEW SKILL ACQUIRED : stealth]
a clear, mechanical voice echoed directly in his mind.
"Who's there?" Damian responded aloud instinctively, closing his mouth almost immediately with his hand, cursing his habit of answering his own inner voice.
The air grew thick with tension as the hoodlum began to move. His heavy, deliberate steps brought him closer to where Damian stood, frozen but calculating. With a sharp, metallic sound that echoed unnervingly, the hoodlum cocked his gun, making it ready to fire.
Damian's mind raced, adrenaline spiking. There was no time to run, only to fight. "If I can swiftly take his gun from him the moment he gets close, maybe I can win," he thought, the high-stakes gamble forming instantly in his head. He took a deep, steadying breath, his body tightening like a coiled spring. He whispered the challenge to himself, a mantra of desperation: "Let's test my speed."
The distance closed in seconds. The instant the hoodlum was within striking range, Damian acted, his move a blur of instinctual desperation. He grabbed for the firearm—but his timing was microseconds too late, or his opponent's finger was too quick. The gun fired immediately, the deafening report shattering the silence as the bullet found its mark on Damian.
The metallic tang of gunpowder filled the air. Damian stood perfectly still, the sound of the gunshots still echoing faintly. He looked down at his shirt. Several small, smoking holes riddled the fabric, stark reminders of the immediate danger.
But beneath the ruined cloth, his skin remained utterly pristine. Not a single scratch.
A slow, devious smile stretched across his face as he locked eyes with the terrified hoodlum still gripping the smoking gun. "Guess I'm bulletproof," Damian drawled, his voice a low, chilling purr.
Before the hoodlum could process the impossible statement, Damian moved. It was a blur of motion—a coiled spring suddenly released. His fist slammed into the man's face with a sickening crunch. The hoodlum dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the ground, a chipped tooth and a visibly broken jaw the immediate evidence of the impact.
Damian stared at the prone body, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his features. "Oh my goodness, how strong am I?" he muttered, his voice laced with sudden awe. All his previous training, the slow, methodical testing of his newfound abilities, had been confined to inanimate objects, animals, and plants. He had never once unleashed his skill on a human being.
A moment later, the shock gave way to grim satisfaction. He instantly re-arranged his composure, his smile returning, colder this time. "Hmm," he murmured to himself. "Guess I can go all out."
With a silent, practiced breath, Damian activated his stealth skill. His form seemed to melt into the shadows, his presence becoming a ghost. He moved with unnatural quiet towards the direction of the remaining four figures. The game was over. It was time to punish these guys.