Chapter 26: The Past Dairies (1)
Back in Earth
In the dazzling glow of city lights, the starry night sky was swallowed by heavy, bruised clouds. Rain poured down steadily, a relentless curtain drenching roads, buildings, and every corner of the sprawling city.
The streets bustled with people—most in a frantic hurry to escape the workday, their umbrellas barely holding up against the downpour. Some took shortcuts down side streets. Others sought temporary shelter under the scant protection of awnings and bus stops.
But there was one place everyone instinctively avoided: The Back alley.
The alley was narrow—a suffocating, ink-black slit between concrete and shadow, hidden deep in the city's veins like a festering wound. It was a place that only brought bad news, a breeding ground for nameless crimes, a graveyard for buried secrets. Ugly things were born there—and they died there just the same. What happened in the Back Alley stayed buried beneath the filth and the silence.
The authorities didn't interfere. They didn't want to. Not the police chief. Not the government. All they ever did was clean up the inevitable mess—and only when it started to spill, like an overflowing sewer, into the rest of the city.
Bam.
Bam—
In one of the darker stretches of the alley, the steady rhythm of the rain was violently broken by something heavier, something sickeningly wet.
A rhythmic, sickening thud. Over and over.
Like a hammer striking raw flesh.
Brutal. Deliberate. Unrelenting.
As we draw closer, the noise sharpens—not just the dull impacts, but a voice.
Low. Ragged. Repeating.
"Die."
"Die. Die."
"You piece of shit."
"Just die and disappear."
A boy—barely seventeen, his frame trembling with an unnatural strength—sat atop another figure, his fists soaked crimson and shaking. The one beneath him was barely conscious, face a pulped ruin, breath rattling shallowly in his throat.
And still, the blows kept coming, each strike landing like a curse, like he was trying to erase the very existence of the broken body beneath him. The torrential rain didn't wash away the blood; it only smeared it into dark, grotesque patterns.
The boy was crying.
Tears streamed down his face, mixing freely with the rain as if the very sky wept for him. His eyes were bloodshot, wild—holding a fury too long caged, like a dam finally cracking after years of silent, agonizing pressure. And now that it had burst, nothing, absolutely nothing, could hold it back.
"My life's already hell…" he choked out, his voice a raw, desperate rasp, fists trembling mid-swing.
"So why—why the hell do people like you make it worse?!"
"What did I ever do to you?!"
"I stayed quiet. I lived with my damn misery!"
"Then why?! Why the fuck did it have to be like this?!"
He screamed the last words, voice hoarse, broken, a sound that tore through the rain-slicked air.
"Do you enjoy it?! Watching someone fall apart?! Watching someone rot while they're still breathing?! Does that make you feel alive?!"
His voice cracked into a guttural sob, but his fists didn't stop. They rose and fell in a steady, horrifying rhythm, soaked in blood and rain, methodically smashing what was left of the face beneath him.
The body didn't move.
Not because it didn't want to.
Because it couldn't.
The boy was long dead—his face unrecognizable, his breath long gone. The only thing keeping the corpse shifting was the one still beating it, blinded by a rage so absolute, so consuming, that he was unaware there was nothing left to destroy.
Amidst the ceaseless downpour, the rain swallowed most sounds—the endless patter against metal roofs, broken gutters, and cracked pavement muffling even the chaos of violence.
But the footsteps still came.
Steady. Measured.
A quiet rhythm that didn't belong to this place.
At the mouth of the alley, cloaked in shadow and mist, stood a man.
He looked out of place here—absurdly so.
A long, dark coat draped over his tall frame, thick leather boots splashing softly in puddles. A simple umbrella hovered above his head, shielding him from the rain. His glasses had thick black frames, the kind worn by tired academics or aging detectives, and a delicate round hat rested neatly on his silver-streaked hair.
He looked… gentle.
Like someone who might apologize if he bumped into you on the street.
Not someone who belonged in a place like this.
And yet, he watched—calm, silent—as the boy's bloodied fists continued their grim work.
His expression didn't shift. Not in horror. Not in pity.
Just… interest.
As if this moment, this madness, was something he'd expected all along.
"He's already dead."
The voice cut through the curtain of rain—calm, clear, and composed.
Gentle, even.
"You're just punching a corpse now, boy."
The boy froze.
His bloodied fist hovered in mid-air, breath ragged, eyes wide and unfocused.
The rage still burned inside him, wild and unrelenting. But the words… they slid into his mind like a key turning in a rusted lock, chilling him to the bone.
Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned his head.
Through the blur of rain and fury, he saw the man.
And then—
Recognition struck like lightning.
"Y-You…"
His voice cracked, a desperate gasp. Panic surged up like bile, burning his throat.
He looked down at the body beneath him—broken, unrecognizable.
Unmoving.
A choked breath escaped him as he frantically searched for signs of life. He pressed trembling fingers to what might have once been a throat, but there was nothing. No pulse. No warmth. He couldn't even tell where the nose was supposed to be anymore.
Nothing.
A warm hand touched his shoulder.
It made him jolt, a violent shudder running through him.
"There's no denying it," the man said softly, his voice impossibly kind. "Accept it. You've killed this young man."
Fear, cold and absolute, overtook panic.
The boy stumbled back, shaking off the hand as if it burned him. He rose to his feet and ran—
Only to slip in the blood-slick rain and crash to the ground again, a choked cry escaping him.
"Oh? So you're running now?"
The man's voice followed, calm and steady, devoid of judgment. "But the question is—for how long?"
His steps echoed as he approached, a measured rhythm against the frantic patter of the rain.
"Think. Use your head. How far do you think you can run? How long before someone finds the body? The cops will come. And then what? What will you do?"
He crouched down beside the boy, his umbrella still a perfect canopy against the storm.
"So, listen carefully, boy."
The man's voice was calm—too calm.
"I have a suggestion. Something that can clean up all this… mess. I'll deal with the body. I'll make sure no one hears a word about it. You'll walk away like none of this ever happened."
The boy didn't speak. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. Rainwater slid down his face, mixing with blood and tears. His knuckles still twitched.
"Wh… why would you do that for me?"
His voice came out hoarse. Broken. Suspicious.
The man chuckled—low and composed.
"Let's just say… I have a deal with someone. And it just so happens you can help me with it."
"…And if I refuse?"
The man's expression didn't shift, but something in his voice sharpened.
"Hah. Still pretending you have a choice? Look at you."
He took a step closer.
"What can you even do, huh? Your parents are gone. You're living off your aunt's pity—sweet woman, by the way. You going to drag her through this too? Courtrooms, cops, public shame… You really going to make her pay for your mess?"
The boy winced. He took a step back, slipping slightly in the muddy water.
The man pressed on, voice softening into a mockery of concern.
"She took you in after your mother hanged herself. You want to do that to her too? You want her to die carrying your weight, just like your mother did?"
"I… I don't…"
The boy's voice cracked.
He was trembling now, lips quivering, eyes wide with dread. New tears broke loose—hotter, heavier.
The man's smile deepened, a picture of quiet satisfaction.
"Then take the hand of this old man."
He held it out. Open. Waiting.
"No questions, boy. No more words needed. Just take my hand… and let this night vanish as if it never was."
The boy stared.
Tears blurred his vision. His limbs trembled, every nerve screaming. But he had no choice. The world had just offered him the only path out of this suffocating terror.
Slowly, hesitantly…
He raised his bloodied hand and placed it in the man's.
The grip was warm. Firm. Final.
"Pleasure doing business with you, young man" the stranger said kindly, his voice a soft benediction in the brutal alley.
His words echoed through the narrow space, carried by the ceaseless rain.
The scene etched itself into the shadows, unseen by the rest of the world.
And so, the boy accepted the deal.
Unknowing.
Naive.
He had just grasped the hand of a smiling devil—
And unknowingly walked into his own personal hell.
---
I woke with heavy eyelids, blinking slowly as my blurred vision struggled to grasp the sterile white ceiling above. The sharp, undeniable scent of antiseptic, clean and clinical, was enough to tell me where I was. A hospital. Or something close to it.
It was still early. Soft, hesitant sunlight crept through the narrow gap in the curtains, painting a faint, ethereal glow across the otherwise stark room.
I pushed myself up from the bed, the crisp sheets rustling.
"Haah…"
A low groan, involuntary and rough, slipped out as my back protested. That annoying, familiar ache you get from oversleeping on a mattress as stiff as a board.
Yawn.
I stretched, twisting just enough to loosen the stubborn knots in my spine, a small ritual of defiance against the lingering stiffness.
"Huu… What a fucked-up morning, ain't it?"
The words tasted like habit, a cynical reflex more than a genuine complaint. Nothing was actually "fucked up," not in the way yesterday had been, not in the grand scheme of my life. It was just a phrase, a low hum of resignation I carried.
I glanced around the quiet space.
An empty ward. No visitors. No staff hovering.
Not surprising, really.
It was still early, too early for most. And let's be real—there weren't many people who'd visit me anyway. The only faces I could realistically hope to see were a doctor, a nurse, maybe some perpetually half-asleep intern doing their morning rounds.
Kind of sad, if you stopped to think about it.
But I rarely did. Or rather, I'd thought about it so much that the ache had dulled. It stopped feeling wrong. It just became normal. A quiet, unremarkable fact of existence.
I sighed, turning my head from one end of the sterile room to the other—
And then something flickered in front of me. A subtle, almost imperceptible shimmer.
"Huh?"
Right there in the air—hovering like a glitchy hologram—
A faint, ethereal screen. The kind you'd expect in some cheap sci-fi flick, all low-res pixels and distorted edges. The surface was cracked, spiderweb fractures distorting the luminous text like a broken signal trying to piece itself together.
But then, slowly… agonizingly…
The words began to take shape,
solidifying out of the static.
---
⨳ STATUS SCREEN ⨳
Name: Edward Brightwill
Race: Human
Title: —
Mana Core Grade: F+
Profession: Swordsman | Bladesman
ATTRIBUTES
Strength: F+
Agility: F+
Stamina: F
Endurance: E
Dexterity: F−
Luck: G
TRAITS
Innate Traits:
• Adaption
• Quick Recovery
Outlet Trait:
• Pain Resistance
SKILLS
Observation Eye
> [ View Detailed Breakdown ]<
---
"Interesting…" I murmured under my breath, my voice rough with disuse. I raised a hand, drawn by an invisible pull, toward the glowing [ View Detailed Breakdown ] option.
But just as my finger hovered near the shimmering prompt—
Shhhk.
The door to my room slid open with a soft, mechanical sigh.
I turned my head, blinking against the sudden intrusion of brighter light spilling into the subdued room. My eyes, still adjusting, squinted automatically.
"Edward…"
A soft, familiar voice reached my ears—gentle, but laced with an undeniable current of worry.
When my vision finally focused, piercing through the lingering haze, I saw her.
Long, cascading coffee-brown hair, the exact shade as mine. A beautiful, composed face framed by stray strands that had clearly been hastily tucked behind her ears. And those caramel-colored eyes…
Welling slightly. A fragile mix of concern and something deeper—grief, perhaps. Or, more likely, guilt.
Emilia Brightwill.
My half-sister.
Someone both painstakingly, painfully close… and yet, quietly, irrevocably distant.