Rebellion Against Heaven - Part 11

Chapter 11: Arkady Rubaskoj: The Arcanum

In the frozen lands of Ireland, where the winds howl like banshees and the snow hides ancestral secrets, Arkady Rubaskoj was born, the result of the union between an exiled monk and a healer of ancient lineage. From his childhood, Arkady was different. While other children laughed and played in the snow, he lost himself in the shadowy forests, listening to whispers in dead tongues that whispered his name. His mother taught him about herbs and rituals, about the shadows that dwell in the forgotten corners of the world, while his father told him about forbidden books, sealed with blood and guarded by vanished orders. But neither of them really understood what was growing inside him.

At the age of seven, Arkady had his first vision. In his dreams, he saw a crumbling city, its streets covered in ashes and wandering shadows that murmured his name in pitiful voices. When he awoke, the cabin where he slept was engulfed in blue flames, a spectral fire that devoured wood without consuming it. His parents, terrified, understood that their son was not just a child... He was a herald of something that should not exist.

The village elders wanted to get rid of him, fearful of his power, believing it to be a bad omen. But before they could act, one moonless night, hooded figures appeared in the village. His black robes seemed to absorb the light and his footsteps left no footprints in the snow. Arkady was snatched from his home without a cry, without a farewell, taken far beyond the world he knew, to a hidden monastery in the Ural Mountains.

There, Arkady learned the truth: he was not a mere child, but the descendant of a lineage of magicians whose existence had been erased from history. In that place where light barely entered, he was molded like a weapon, a guardian of arcane knowledge. He learned to read forgotten languages, to invoke shadows, to channel forces that defied reason. He learned to kill without touching, to bleed the will of men with just a glance. His mind expanded, and with it, his hunger for knowledge. But the monastery had rules, and one of them was clear: there were doors that were never to be opened.

Arkady never believed in limits.

At seventeen, he found a sealed book in an underground chamber, hidden behind rusty chains and warning runes. The cover was made of human skin, and the pages seemed to throb with an unhealthy rhythm. He opened it without hesitation, and the instant his eyes swept over the symbols etched in blood, something inside him fractured. He heard voices, saw worlds superimposed on his own, felt his body being pierced by a power that did not belong to the living. When he looked up, the monastery was in chaos. Their masters and brothers lay on the ground, their bodies twisted at impossible angles, their faces frozen in expressions of eternal agony.

The book had marked him.

He fled through the mountains, forbidden knowledge burning in his mind. He traveled through Europe, slipping through the shadows, devouring secrets. He discovered the true power of magic: he could bend reality to his will, corrupt minds with a whisper, manipulate time in imperceptible fractions, open doors to dimensions where human sanity was extinguished like a candle in the storm. Their enemies died without knowing they were enemies. His allies turned to ashes when they were no longer useful.

He returned to Ireland, to the ruins of a Celtic castle where the Druids had sealed ancient creatures in forgotten times. There, surrounded by cursed stones and winds that moaned with voices from another world, he perfected his art. It became a myth, a nightmare, a shadow in the mist. Some sought him out of wisdom. None survived the teaching.

One day, a man came to him with a different offer. He was neither an apprentice nor an enemy. He was a warrior, a strategist, someone who understood that power was not limited to magic. He offered him something Arkady hadn't considered in a long time: a purpose.

Now, Arkady Rubaskoj, "The Arcane," walks among the living and the dead, weaving threads of destiny with invisible hands. He is not a man. He is not a god. He is the bridge between what was and what will be, the keeper of secrets that would set the minds of mortals on fire. The story isn't over yet... and he will make sure to write the next chapter with blood and fire.

— Wow... I didn't know that magic still existed," said Ryuusei, his eyes wide, watching the glow of the floating scroll.

Death let out a dry laugh before replying disdainfully:

— Naïve.

Ryuusei frowned and looked away at the horizon. The air was dense, charged with a strange power. He sighed before asking in a firm voice:

— How many are we missing?

Death held out his hand and the scroll floated to rest in front of him. His empty eyes swept across the list before answering with relentless calm:

— Just five more... Those who are still alive and have not been captured.

Silence extended between the two. Ryuusei clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the mission on his shoulders. The wind howled around them, as if the night itself were whispering warnings to them.

The hunt was not over yet.