An vere egredior?-LXXXV
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DATE:19th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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I woke suddenly, gasping for air, only to find none.
Something was strangling me. My body was raised from the bed and pinned to the wall, my legs kicking feebly against empty air.
I tried to open my eyes, but searing light blinded me. Every attempt to look burned like fire, the heat pressing against my skin like molten iron.
I cried out, desperate. "Emily!"
No response.
The blinding light felt alive, wrapping around my throat with a heat that pulsed, rubbery and slick. My lungs screamed for air as my fingers clawed at the invisible force holding me.
A voice—gargled, distorted, angelic—spoke somewhere within the light. The words were incomprehensible, alien syllables that made my ears ache. Was this a dream? Or reality? It felt too real, the pain too vivid.
The grip tightened, and I heard the crackling threat of a bone close to snapping. I knew that sensation. I'd been close before, but this was different. This was deliberate.
Then I heard her.
Emily's voice, distant but growing closer, rang out with a clarity that pierced through the oppressive heat. A war cry, filled with urgency.
A moment later, the force holding me loosened, and I was thrown backward through the wall. Or at least, I thought I was.
---
I fell.
The light above me erupted, bursting apart like a supernova, its intensity too painful to focus on. I blinked through tears, my vision clearing slightly as I realized I was falling through a boundless void of blue.
It wasn't the sky. There were no clouds, no horizon—just an endless expanse of pale blue nothingness.
The heat lingered. Glancing down at myself, I saw my skin charred with fresh burn marks, the pain radiating through me with every movement. Scar tissue stretched tight across my arms, my chest. Breathing hurt.
Far above, my room—if it was still my room—faded into the distance, light pouring from it in waves. As I tried to make sense of the void, I saw Emily plummet from the same source, falling faster than I was.
Her trajectory was precise, her arms outstretched as she raced toward me.
Even in this strange void, she seemed... different. She wore a cyan jumpsuit that clung to her frame—not her usual form, but something crafted for this moment. Functional, sleek. She reached me quickly, her small hands gripping my waist with surprising strength as the momentum of her fall steadied us both.
"You're burned," she muttered, a flicker of worry crossing her face as her eyes scanned my damaged body.
"I noticed," I managed to rasp, wincing at the strain in my throat.
She started to say something, but a low rumble echoed from above.
The blinding figure had followed us, its light spilling into the void like a flood. The heat intensified as its presence expanded, filling the empty expanse with suffocating radiance.
Emily shielded me instinctively, her body pressing against mine as she whispered urgently in my ear. "I found a way to wake you up. It's less... convoluted this time."
"What is it?" I asked hoarsely, every word a fresh jab of pain.
Her face flushed red, her hands trembling slightly as she covered her cheeks with one hand. "A kiss," she mumbled.
I stared at her, incredulous. "The power of love?" I wanted to roll my eyes, but I couldn't really do that.
"We don't have time for this!" she snapped, glaring at me even as her blush deepened. "Just—just let me do it. Please!"
The heat was unbearable now, the air shimmering as the light figure descended toward us.
"Fine, whatever," I muttered. "Just get it over with."
Her flustered expression softened slightly, though her cheeks remained red. "Okay," she whispered, tilting her face toward mine.
The first attempt was awkward. Her lips brushed mine hesitantly, her inexperience obvious.
I sighed, wincing as the heat licked at my back. "Focus."
She nodded, determined, and tried again. This time, the kiss was firmer, less hesitant.
For a moment, the heat seemed to dissipate. The void trembled, the figure's presence flickering like a dying ember.
And then, everything stopped.
---
I woke to the heat of sunlight streaming through the window, the sensation sharp against my irritated skin. My eyes burned as I opened them, the daylight searing and bright.
Groaning, I forced myself out of bed, pulling the blinds shut to plunge the room into blessed darkness.
How long had I slept?
Collapsing back onto the mattress, I stared at the ceiling, my body still aching from phantom burns.
"It was just a dream," I muttered, though the lingering pain told another story.
I was feeling uncomfortable.
The burning sensation lingered, my skin prickling as though the flames were still there. I staggered to the bathroom, fumbling with the sink. Cold water splashed over my face, but no matter how icy it ran, it couldn't wash away the feeling of being burned alive.
Staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror, I turned on my earbuds, slipping one into place.
"Emily," I said, my voice hoarse. "What the hell happened?"
There was a pause, then her voice came through, hesitant but steady. "I think you met a fragment of Mithras."
My jaw tightened as I reached for a towel. "You must be joking."
"I'm not," she replied quickly. "Even if it wasn't physically part of a god, and we go by your theory that everything you see in dreams is tied to memories, then it makes sense. You must have visualized Mithras deeply."
I dried my face with rough, mechanical movements. "Why would I visualize a deity? Or give it that kind of power?"
"By your own theory," she continued, unfazed, "their strength would correlate with how important you've made them in your mind. That's why you've never been able to defeat your father in your dreams, despite managing it in reality."
As I brushed my teeth, I spit into the sink. "So, what—are you saying Mithras is some ghost of my subconscious?"
"No," she said after a brief pause. "I don't believe what you saw was a memory."
Her words hung in the air, making the bathroom feel smaller, more claustrophobic.
I straightened, staring at the mirror again. My reflection stared back, burned and scarred in places where my skin felt fine. "Then what was it?"
She hesitated again. "If it's not a memory, then it's something else. Something... external."
Her theory gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside, focusing on my morning routine instead.
---
"Why weren't you burned?" I asked as I rinsed my mouth, the cold water soothing my throat.
"Because I didn't look at it," she explained simply. "I removed the internal parts of my eyes in the dream, so I didn't see its full form. That's why I wasn't affected." So the light wasn't real?
I set the toothbrush down, glancing at the mirror. "So you don't even know what it looked like?"
"No," she admitted. "It could have been similar to the Mithras portraits I've seen, but I can't say for sure."
I ran my hands through my hair, sighing. "You're really suggesting I faced a god?"
"It's possible," she replied softly. "Mithras was a minor deity. Minor gods can be defeated."
That made me laugh—a hollow, tired sound.
"What's so funny?" she asked, her tone tinged with annoyance.
Pulling on a shirt, I shook my head. "You've got it wrong. With the Syndicate alone, Mithras has ten million followers. That's twice the population of ancient Ventia. You think he's minor?"
Emily's tone shifted, thoughtful. "How are you so spiritually connected?"
I paused, fastening my belt, before replying coldly. "It doesn't matter."
Slipping the SmartGun into my pocket, I locked the door behind me and started down the stairs.
None of it mattered—not the dream, not Mithras, not Emily's theories.
If I wanted to go home in peace, I had to finish my "retirement" properly. The priest's groveling wasn't going to be enough to satisfy the Syndicate.
He was right when he said men like me don't retire.
But that didn't mean I'd accept it.
The morning sun was weak in reality, despite my nightmare, casting pale light over the crooked streets of Genova as I made my way toward the airport.
I wasn't looking for anything flashy—just a way to blend in. Renting a car in Ventia was a fool's errand, and buying one wasn't much better. But for a single trip, it would do.
At the nearest car market, I found what I needed: a battered old sedan that had clearly changed hands too many times. The seller didn't care to ask for papers, and I didn't care to offer them. Cash did the talking.
After picking up a shovel and a cheap lunch, I set out.
---
The drive wasn't long, but the roads reminded me just how little had changed. The asphalt quickly gave way to gravel, then dirt, each bump and jolt a reminder of the corruption that had left Ventia's infrastructure to rot.
Eventually, I reached my destination: a quiet hill, marked only by a single, ancient oak tree.
It was unassuming, almost serene, but for me, it was a place of memory. Something was buried here, something I had left behind when I walked away from the Syndicate.
I stepped out of the car, the midday sun casting long shadows over the uneven ground. The air was still, heavy with the scent of earth and dry grass.
Shovel in hand, I started digging. The soil was loose but stubborn, each deliberate motion driving me deeper into the hill. After the first few attempts yielded nothing, I moved to a new spot, the process slow and methodical.
Hours passed. The sun crawled across the sky, its heat pressing down on me like a weight. My muscles ached, my breaths came in sharp bursts, but I kept going.
Finally, the shovel struck something solid.
---
Brushing away the dirt, I uncovered the briefcase. Its surface was scuffed and worn, but it held.
I opened it carefully, my movements almost reverent.
Inside was a revolver, its intricate metal frame adorned with delicate flowers, the barrel glowing faintly with Ventium even in the harsh daylight. Next to it lay several cartridges of ammo and a handful of old photographs. I didn't bother to look at them.
It was the weapon I'd buried years ago, the one my captain had given me back in the dunes.
The sight of it was almost... nostalgic. I'd buried it here out of respect for him, and out of caution. Weapons like this were more than expensive—they were dangerous. Ventium wasn't standard issue. It was a rarity, a luxury of destruction.
Holding it, I felt its weight, its power. The flowers carved into the metal seemed at odds with its purpose, and yet, they belonged.
---
Ventium.
A material from meteorites, infused with both beauty and death. The revolver wasn't just a weapon; it was a miniature railgun, its magnetic properties propelling bullets with impossible force. A single shot left wounds the size of golf balls.
I remembered the whispers about Ventium's dangers—how its radiation could poison those who handled it too long. Normandian special ops limited its use to five years per person.
And yet.
The Royal Investigators, chosen for life, used Ventium weaponry without issue. None had been reported sick, let alone dead.
Even here, in Ventia, where the material was first discovered, we seemed immune. Was it genetic? Some unknown adaptation?
I raised the revolver, letting the sunlight glint off its barrel.
If Ventians had evolved resistance to Ventium, was that the reason there were no Ventian heroes?
Superhumans existed mostly in Concord. That time when I was kidnapped, Dumas hadn't explained why, but it couldn't be coincidence. Could the radiation that caused mutations be tied to the same substance we had learned to endure?
Or was there something else?
The mercenaries employed by the Donn weren't Ventian. They were international, their abilities different, some enhanced by machines. And necromancy—that wasn't mutation, was it? That was something else entirely.
Technology and magic. Gods and spells.
Where did one end and the other begin?
I sighed, lowering the revolver.
Everything felt more complicated the longer I thought about it.
I returned to the hotel, leaving the car somewhere inside the city. Taking dinner here was safer than outside. Later I found that I acted correctly. It would speed up my retirement.
A man with a big hat took the seat across from me just as I finished my Ravioli.
His presence wasn't surprising. The Syndicate had been predictable in its persistence, and his calm yet unsettling demeanor only confirmed what I already suspected.
His face was lean, his skin weathered like leather, and his expression was a strange mix of apathy and delight, as though he found some quiet amusement in being here.
"You're making this difficult for us," he said, his voice raspy from years of smoking.
I leaned back in my chair, meeting his gaze. "I'm not open to continued service."
He chuckled softly, the sound hollow and dry. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a stack of papers and slid them across the table.
"Check these," he said, his words clipped. "If you really want out."
Without giving me a chance to respond, he stood, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat before walking away.
I glanced at the papers. On top was a set of coordinates, scrawled in hurried, bad handwriting.
There was no mistaking what this was.
Ritual combat.
The Brotherhood's way of testing worthiness to retire. Something no doubt made up on the spot to put me back in my place. A barbaric tradition meant to display superiority while undermining their own supposed cohesion. The whole thing was moronic—if I succeeded, it would only prove symbolically I as an individual was stronger than the Syndicate's so-called brotherhood. It was an obvious trap. But that didn't matter.
It was time to get out.
---
After paying for another two weeks at the reception desk and leaving my belongings in the room, I stepped outside.
The street was dimly lit, the faint glow of streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. Opposite the road, the man with the big hat stood waiting, flanked by five other gangsters, all impeccably dressed in dark suits.
They didn't speak, but their presence was enough.
I crossed the road, my hands in my pockets, as calm as I could manage.
Without a word, they gestured to a black van parked nearby.
I followed their direction, stepping inside as one of them opened the door. The interior was dim, the air heavy with the smell of leather and faint traces of cigar smoke.
The man with the hat entered last, closing the door behind him. The van started moving, the hum of the engine filling the silence as we pulled away from the hotel.
None of them spoke.
Their silence was unnerving, but I wasn't in the mood for conversation. Leaning back against the seat, I let my mind wander to the coordinates, to the absurdity of the ritual combat.
The Syndicate didn't want to accept my retirement, but I wasn't about to let their traditions keep me bound.
Their rules didn't matter.
Nothing did.
Originally, these fights were held between "brothers," a way to resolve disputes and determine who was right in an argument. A brutal but simple tradition.
So why drag one up for my retirement?
And, of course, they'd phased out the original form long ago. Traditionally, combatants fought naked to "show their true selves" or whatever ritualistic nonsense they believed. Thankfully, that had been replaced by wrestling suits. Some dignity, I suppose.
Still, none of it made sense. Men like me had no place in rituals like this. But then again, the Syndicate had never been logical.
---
The stone building we entered was ancient, its walls damp from decades of neglect. I was directed to a small room to change—a cold, stark space with a bench and some folded cloth on the table.
I slipped on the simple toga, wrapping bandages around my knuckles. The fabric was coarse, chafing against my skin.
The hallway leading to the arena was dimly lit, shadows flickering across the walls from distant torches. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and damp stone, and as I approached the arena, the sound of chants and deep, tribal singing echoed through the space.
Were these also part of the Cult of Mithras? Their rhythms and intonations felt pagan, primal, as though they belonged to a ceremony older than the stone itself.
Pushing through a cloth curtain, I stepped into the arena.
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The floor was stone, rough and uneven, worn down by years of fights like this. The circular stone walls towered around me, with narrow gaps high above where figures peered down. The elites, no doubt, eager to watch my humiliation—or perhaps my demise.
My opponent was already there, his body taut, his movements jittery. Foam clung to the corners of his mouth, his eyes wild and unfocused. He was in a frenzy, like some rabid dog barely held together by human skin.
Scars crisscrossed his arms and legs, marking him as someone with experience—someone who'd fought and bled for the Syndicate.
A 60-second countdown began, marked by the rhythmic chanting of those hidden above. I stretched my muscles, rolling my shoulders as I kept my eyes on him.
The moment the countdown ended, he pounced.
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He lunged at me, his hands reaching for a grapple. His speed and ferocity would have been impressive—if he hadn't underestimated me.
I caught his trachea in my fingers, clamping down with practiced precision.
There was a sickening crack as the cartilage gave way.
His body buckled, collapsing onto me as he struggled for air. His hands clawed weakly at my arms, his movements frantic but futile.
I pushed him aside, standing as I cast a glance toward the stone windows above. The figures watching remained silent, their expressions hidden in the shadows.
In the background, my opponent choked and writhed before finally falling still.
Technically, I was done.
But I knew better. The Syndicate was never fair.
---
A new figure entered the arena, stepping through the same tunnel I'd come from.
He looked about thirty-five, his hair bleached white and slicked back. He carried a small wooden mace casually in his hand, its surface worn smooth from use.
A weapon. So much for tradition.
He moved differently than the first man—calm, deliberate. There was no frenzy in his eyes, only focus.
What had they promised him to throw his life away?
He twirled the mace once before advancing toward me. The chants overhead resumed, their tone shifting into something darker.
I dodged his first swing, the mace slicing through the air with a dull whistle. Closing the distance, I slammed a hard slug into his jaw, the force of the punch making him stumble back.
He blinked, shaking his head before meeting my gaze.
Serious. Focused.
This wasn't going to be as quick.
The mace hummed through the air, its wooden surface inches from my head as I closed the distance between us.
It was a feint.
His left hand followed swiftly with a punch, one I caught mid-swing. Twisting his wrist, I countered with an elbow to his jaw. The impact made him stumble, and I released him, stepping back as he prepared to strike again.
The desperation in his movements was beginning to show.
He charged forward, swinging wildly. This time, I didn't dodge. I let the mace collide with my left arm, the dull pain grounding me as I stepped into his defense.
Anticipating my next move, he raised his arm to protect his face—but I wasn't aiming for his cheek. Wrapping my right arm around his guard, I struck hard, forcing his head to snap to the side.
The knee to his liver followed instinctively. He crumpled to the ground, gasping, and I moved over him without hesitation.
His arms came up in a feeble attempt to guard his face, but it didn't matter. I hammered him with a series of punches to his face and neck, each strike breaking through his defense.
"Stop!" he choked out, his voice cracked and desperate.
I kept going.
With a sudden burst of energy, he dropped the mace and lunged at me, trying to reverse the grapple. But I twisted with him, catching him in a stranglehold.
Begging wasn't going to save him. Not here.
I locked my grip and twisted sharply. His neck cracked with a satisfying finality.
I waited 10 seconds to make sure he was dead before rising to my feet.
Two bodies lay in the arena now, their blood seeping into the ancient stone.
But the Syndicate wasn't done with me yet.
---
A third man emerged from the tunnel, his steps hesitant, his knife trembling in his hand. He couldn't have been older than 20, his face pale with terror.
Was I supposed to pity him? What a joke.
Every man in this arena was a murderer.
As he approached, I stooped to pick up the mallet from the previous fight.
He tried for a feint, tossing the knife from one hand to the other before darting forward. I swung the mallet, intercepting the blade mid-trajectory. The knife clattered to the ground, and I grabbed him by the neck with my free hand.
He fought back, throwing desperate punches at my face, the knuckles glancing off my jaw.
It wasn't enough.
I tightened my grip on his throat, strangling him as he clawed at my arm. His guard dropped, and I swung the mallet across his temple with all the force I could muster.
The blow sent him sprawling, blood pouring from the side of his head. He wasn't done yet—his chest still heaved, faint and labored.
I released him and brought my heel down hard on his neck, the motion swift and decisive.
The chanting above had stopped.
---
There was silence for a moment, then the voice came from above.
"You are free." I could tell the announcer was confused. I was supposed to give up and beg them for forgiveness. No doubt some higher up made a fool out of themselves. I'd love to see their reactions from above.
Sadly I can't. I turned without a word, walking back through the tunnel.
---
The man with the big hat was waiting by the van, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He raised an eyebrow as he saw me, momentarily surprised, but quickly composed himself.
"Well," he said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "You did the impossible."
I didn't respond.
With an exaggerated flourish, he opened the van door, as though presenting me to an unseen crowd.
Still silent, I stepped inside.
The ride back was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the gentle hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of fabric as the man adjusted his hat. Something felt wrong.
Emily's voice buzzed faintly in my ear. "Stay alert."
I exhaled slowly, feeling the drug course through my system. The van veered off the main road, the smooth asphalt replaced by the crunch of gravel.
Through the darkened windows, I caught glimpses of trees under the faint moonlight. We were on a mountain.
The van rolled to a stop, the silence deafening.
The man with the hat pulled a revolver from his coat, gesturing for me to get out.
I stepped out into the clearing, greeted by the sight of 13 men standing in a loose circle, their silhouettes armed with assault rifles. The driver exited as well, brandishing a pistol.
The man with the hat grinned, his voice calm and cold. "If you want out of the Syndicate, we'll let you out—permanently."
Before he could finish, I breathed in deeply, the drug amplifying my perception as time slowed.
I lunged for the closest thug, wrenching the rifle from his hands. Pivoting smoothly, I fired point-blank at the others, each shot finding its mark.
Fifteen bodies fell in synchronized defeat, their weapons clattering to the ground.
I exhaled, letting the world resume its normal speed.
---
The hotel wasn't far. I made the walk back on foot, the cool night air brushing against my skin.
Freedom, it seemed, had a price. Not that I had to pay it.
I didn't feel the burns anymore. Is this the extent of that pathetic god's domain?-*-*-*-*-*