phoenixhyperion

**READ ME**

THIS BOOK WILL BE UNDER REVISION.

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My name? Lance Augustus
Age? 15
Nickname? Five. 
Why they call me that? Because the mark tells us so. 
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"Don't be stupid, steer out of trouble, and whatever happens, stay alive." 

I really don't know why Dad always repeat those words to me everyday. I take heed of his words. Play by his rules, never dared to go against him except if it's extremely necessary.

He's all that I need to get by. Our life was ordinary. Everything was perfectly fine, perfectly normal, just an everyday routine we get used to live. But then this guy calling himself 'The Seeker' came... And he start making a mess out of my life. 

He said I have powers. - Who believe that crap?
He said I have extraordinary abilities. - Cool! I want to be Superman.
He said I was chosen. - Who? The god of newbie bullies? 
The mark of five imprinted deep into my skin proves that I am one of the TWELVE. - You sure it's not a tattoo? I firmly believe it's a tattoo. 

I never believe him. I drove him out. I did not listen. I wish I did. Maybe he could have help me. Maybe he could have save me from the trouble of falling right into their trap. I know nothing. Because of my stubbornness I lost everything. So now I'm all alone. But she stretch her hand to me. She gave me hope. She invited me to come. And I did. 

So our search began. For the remaining TEN.
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They called me FIVE

Sam could not believe his eyes. His hand finally reached the last zombie's neck and gutted the flesh out of its body.

Its head tumbles down the floor. Blood sprayed out. Splashing his clothes. Splashing his cheek. Sam could not recognize the shirt and pants Magnus gave him yesterday.

His memory of them seems so far now. He had nothing in his hands, but a dagger. And a handful of keys. Fifty-one keys. The elevator, he just gets out to has its announcement projecting in its metal shells.

To go up the following requirement must be met:

His eyes slid to the side. Zombies insides everywhere. Limbs. Blood. Hands. Butchered face, gutted necks. His very own masterpiece.

Sam is aware his hands are full of blood. But he wipe his face with it anyway. He loses a part of himself again. He ought to feel sorry. But nothing comes in. Nothing kicks in.

Vol.2 Sam