To Fling a Light
Aster Annals Book One
Wong Yoong Le
MoonQuill
Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Afterword
Chapter 1
“Do it properly—the Skytree burned for you!” an old man shouted from his perch.
Today was to be my last practice under Igor’s tutelage, and no errors would be tolerated under his watchful gaze. He was an abrasive person by nature, but he seemed to have it out for me in particular. The reason for his wrath, no doubt, stemmed from my colossal screw up a few months prior—an event he’d evidently never gotten over.
I set my jaw and concentrated, drowning out everything but the metre-tall tower of little stones in front of me. The structure wobbled precariously for a time, but soon stabilized under the influence of my abilities. Increasing the friction coefficient between each and every stone took its toll, and after giving the tower an appraising glance, I gave into the pounding headache.
Exhaling loudly and massaging my temples, I slumped onto the hard concrete ground and retrieved the handkerchief I had hastily stuffed in my front pocket. There was a little clatter as my identity card fell out of my pocket for the world to see.
“That negligence of yours will cost you dearly,” Igor said with a snort, as I reached for the card and held it high.
A picture of a pale-faced youth with painfully average features, interrupted here and there by the telltale signs of his years, stared back at me. The lightning in the booth was piss-poor at best, and my eyes were left half-squinting from the searingly-bright flash—resulting in a less than flattering expression. I always hated this photo, but taking the time and money to have a new identification card issued was hardly worth the hassle.
Aster Newton.
These two words were solidly engraved on the card. My name was well known in a select few circles, and for anyone desperate enough to enlist the services of a supernatural freelancer. Unfortunately for my money-making exploits, I was currently in the middle of nowhere, undergoing training with an exceedingly grumpy mentor.
Igor got up and walked over to me, grumbling to himself the entire way. He had introduced himself by name when a certain task of mine had gone awry some years ago, and he had decided to intervene on a whim. Proclaiming me as an individual with ‘potential’, he’d initiated me into the ways of a Practitioner and took me under his wing.
A Practitioner was someone who manipulated the laws of the world; using their own bodies as a conduit to accomplish these seemingly impossible feats. At the time, he didn’t expect much from me, as average initiates usually needed a decade of dedicated training to see any results. Countless before me had dropped out before reaching the end goal, due to the hellish process.
Of course, there were always exceptions to the norm. Like me, for instance. My unique talents meant that I didn’t need the rigorous training that others went through to obtain mastery over their powers. I simply needed to speak a command with conviction, and the laws of the world would conform to my will. It didn’t take long for me to officially become a practitioner, and even less time before I entered the somewhat lucrative business of being a freelance agent in the supernatural world.
A few months back, I decided that I wanted to move up the ranks of my parent organisation, the Practitioner Circle, and went for a qualification exam. I aced it, but good things often come in hand with the bad. I accidentally demolished an inconsequential building during the test, and unfortunately, news of said accident inevitably reached the wizened ears of my mentor.
After that… it didn’t take long for Igor to zip over and haul me off for some one-on-one guidance. I knew precious little about him, but the fact that he was a training maniac who cared for little else was blatantly obvious. When it came to training, the old man was a fanatic through and through—but this meant that he was sorely lacking in just about everything else… like paperwork.
He especially hated paperwork. He once blasted a hole into a poor clerk’s desk for losing one of his documents. The poor sod even had to ask him to bring a second copy a day later, which Igor did — after flooding some rooms with condensed water vapour.
At any rate, he was an excellent teacher. In the past three months, he’d somehow managed to bring to light some of the less savory bits of my personality, and aspects of my combat potential that were lacking. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that he’d known me from a previous life, or spied on me for the past few years before taking me in.
“I’ve checked the Circle doctrines,” Igor tossed a slip of paper to me. “Although your means were unorthodox, the fact remains that you are able to manipulate laws pertaining to spiritual energy. As such, you’ve been promoted.”
He sent a lazy glance my way, as if daring me to celebrate, whoop or show any break in demeanor. I kept my face deadpan, trying not to let the excitement show through. A promotion meant a sizable pay raise, and money was always more than welcome.
He nodded in satisfaction and returned to his seat. As he passed, I stuck my tongue at his retreating back and decided to focus on the paper slip. At a glance, the contents looked complex and migraine-inducing, so I settled by appreciating my surroundings instead.
Igor’s abode was a small yet comfortable white house that wouldn’t look out of place in a forest from fairy tales of old. In actuality, the house was actually a small world that Igor created and furnished according to his tastes; or so he claimed during one of our Spatial Law lessons. I wasn’t sure if he’d indeed created the space himself, but one couldn’t deny his exceptional interior decorating skills. There was a small sea, clear and cool, bordered by an equally pristine beach a few stone throws away from the house.
I leaned against a wall, feeling the cool surface upon my back as I admired the esoteric carvings that dotted them. The complex designs were specifically carved to induce a state of calm within any onlookers. I never felt this supposed calming effect. Instead an irresistible urge to take a nap assaulted my senses instead, so take their effectiveness with a pinch of salt.
“Although you’ve passed, you don’t have the talent to become a full-fledged practitioner; barring that strange invocation thing you possess. As it is, practice is crucial for you at this time. You can’t afford to slack off when you return,” Igor said suddenly, his voice unbelievably clear despite being a long distance off. “Of course, there are ways for you to rapidly improve. You can try putting yourself in life-threatening situations, though… I wouldn't recommend that method in this era.”
He took out a piece of paper and glanced at it. “Also, upon your return, you’ll be responsible for safeguarding your host nation. The local authorities should have updated your status, so you’ll be called upon at times to assist during emergencies and the like. Keep in mind that members of the Practitioner Circle are incredibly rare, so you’ll be on your own for the most part.”
I nodded in acknowledgement.
Back in Singapore, I often accepted unofficial missions to exterminate supernatural pests. Most of these excursions fell in the category of hauntings, or in more recent times, stalkers. The two weren’t really all that different, except that the latter was easily done away with through a court issued restraining order.
After two years in the trade, I had garnered a reputation for handling stalkers, causing my customer base to slowly shift toward those who were relatively famous. I didn’t mind that much, as a job was a job, and the famous typically had more to pay. And of course, mundane stalking cases were far easier to resolve and safer than tangling with supernatural beings.
But it didn’t change the fact that I was part of the supernatural world.
Granted, I didn’t know much about the Practitioner Circle itself. There was something odd about their history, in that the Circle rapidly gained prominence in the last decade or so. Only after meeting my mentor and other practitioners during a function did I dispel my doubts about the Circle being a legitimate organization. I was aware of the supernatural for a long time, but an organisation like the Practitioner Circle had triggered some red flags in my mind initially.
I heard a light cough and immediately returned my attention to Igor.
He arched an eyebrow and said, “Finally, missions may be offered by various powers—be it local or international. They’ll be helpful in increasing your standing and the funds at your disposal. But what’s most important here is that your actions would be taken to represent the Circle, so be a bit more diplomatic when you return.”
“Fine, I get it.” I said, a scowl finding its way to my face.
Igor eyed me suspiciously for a good while before turning away.
His fingers fluttered, and the space shuddered in response. A glowing spacial tear appeared before me, connected to a pitch-black veil. I looked at my mentor again. He had been something of a parent figure to me, but my hesitation was definitely not because I would miss him.
This wasn’t the first time that I’d gone off on my own, but I had the nagging feeling that I wouldn’t be seeing him again for a good few years after this. I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know exactly how to bring it up.
“Stay safe out there Aster, got it?” Igor looked at me, a touch of sorrow on his face.
I’d seen that expression many times since that windy night all those years ago. He shook his head, his sadness this time more evident as he studied me.
“I’ve lost more students than I could bring myself to remember. Don’t get killed out there, I don’t want to forget you as well,” Igor said as he walked away—never once looking back. “The hour has struck, and destiny calls. I won’t be contactable for the foreseeable future so take care of yourself.”
Basic courtesy took over as my mind blanked out, stumbling to find the right words to say.
“I will, Sir. And… thank you for everything,” I said, and with a bow which weighed heavy with all my unspoken feelings, I walked into the swirling rift of darkness.
Chapter 2
An uncomfortable compression-like sensation encompassed my body for a fleeting moment as I passed through the rift before I felt solid ground beneath my feet. The bright afternoon sun on the other side illuminated the front gate of a nearby bungalow and its lush garden in full bloom. Home.
I pulled out a key and unlocked the front gate, while taking a pause to enjoy the aromatic August breeze. Although I liked to pretend the cozy structure was my home, it was actually loaned to me by the Practitioner Circle a few years back during my official initiation into the organization. Before that, I had lived with an aunt for as long as I could remember—which wasn’t all that much.
I stepped over the elevated doorsill—a staple of Chinese architecture, which was said to be effective in keeping out unwanted spirits—and headed upstairs into my bedroom, which had been abandoned for months. The familiar blue and white light lit up the dark room as I pulled out and powered on my smartphone. I looked through the plethora of unread messages, skipping past the mountain of junk mail which dominated my inbox and zeroing in on a couple personal messages. There were a few which were sent recently—within the past week.
“Gratz on ur promotion, drinks ltr tonight?”
I recognized the sender immediately — Hao Wei, an associate understudy-in-training (I’m serious) for the Practitioner Circle, who was the same age as me. We first met during our mandatory army duty, and only realized that we were both members of the Circle after a chance encounter during an official function sometime last year. He liked to text this way, although one would never expect it from the polite way he spoke in real life.
Then there were other types of messages, like this rather impressive text: “We, of the Raasataban Clan of Ghouls, do cordially extend our congratulations to Lord Newton for his promotion and official inauguration within the Practitioner Circle. We will be sending our official correspondence and representative for your viewing pleasure at a date and time that would suit you.”
The Raastaban Clan was a relatively new player within the Southeast Asian region, a collective of hantu who had lasted long enough to materialize. They didn’t lay claim to any particular heritage or ancestry—unlike most other supernatural groups. In a move that surprised the people in the know, the hantu had managed to overcome their differences to band together sometime in the twentieth century. Enigmas — a catch-all term that referred to humans with supernatural powers — had reacted to them cautiously at first, but years of peace had blunted any distrust towards the other party.
In a way, the Raastaban Clan could be considered strong allies of the Practitioner Circle and other major Enigma organizations which existed outside the Circle’s influence. The formation of the Clan was accompanied by laws that banned noxious interactions with humans; opting to promote Enigma-hantu interactions and relations instead. It therefore went without saying that the Clan was one of the most modernized supernatural communities out there—a fact their higher-ups made sure to flaunt.
After typing out an equally polite message, (which was fairly annoying) I shut off my phone and made for the bathroom—thankful for the running water and electricity. After training in my mentor’s space for so long, I’d nearly forgotten the luxury of modern conveniences.
Igor’s demesne was borderline medieval, and the man frowned upon the ‘frivolous use of limited resources like water; although he probably could turn an entire sea into drinking water if he put his mind to it. Or, for that matter, to make a sea out of nothing...
As warm water streamed down my face, I had a premonition that a tiresome task would be approaching. Other powers, who boasted of both lineage and authority, were bound to pay a visit sometime soon. I could expect the smaller powers to send a representative, like the Raastaban ghouls, while the truly ancient factions might send a hideously long and tiresome letter of correspondence to me, and I, as a representative of the Circle, would have to reply with all formalities and due diligence.
Of course, a newbie like me wouldn’t be considered much in the eyes of the ancient powers. It was far more likely for them to communicate directly with the Southeast Asian headquarters located in central Singapore, or even the secretive Circle HQ.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Circle’s only purpose for stationing me here was for me to gain experience in this hotbed of supernatural issues; tasking me with missions to expel or subjugate any troublemakers. As for whatever diplomatic exchanges the Circle had with the other powers, it was none of my business. Still, it wouldn’t hurt for me to establish contacts with the locals, and it wasn’t like missions from other powers were off the table—I was free to accept requests from whomever I wished.
At any rate, it would be foolish of me to expect a peaceful life from now on.
It didn’t take long for me to finish my shower. I wiped my hair dry and made my way to a nondescript room, which was entirely empty except for a dull circle marked on the aged hardwood floor.
A simple circle
, infused with will, was incredibly versatile, but only magic users well versed in runes could make full usage of them.
I closed my eyes and established a mental link with the circle; a simple task that anyone who possessed an inkling of spiritual power could accomplish. I meditated for a few minutes and watched as the once dull circle started glowing—its yellowish light increasing in intensity at every passing moment. Soon, the lights coalesced into a traditional mail box which hovered in the air. There was a horizontal slit on the front, but the design was otherwise mundane and lackluster.
In modern times, most mail sent by Enigma organizations wouldn’t arrive at someone’s actual residence. Some enterprising Chinese cultivator had come up with the concept of creating a transceiver—dubbed the Beacon—that used one’s individuality as the medium around 400 years ago. A mental fingerprint, in layman’s terms. The transceiver could both receive and send mail, including any small, physical objects. Within thirty years of its conception, the transceiver had become a necessity, and the supernatural community worldwide raced to replace any and all outmoded methods.
The Beacon’s invention was unparalleled, its supremacy unchallenged in informative systems. No one had bothered to come up with an alternative, resulting in a monopoly that raked in riches for its creator. His descendants are still probably rolling around in money from this legacy, which makes me envious every time I laid eyes on the Beacon.
It was like email, but as centuries passed, more and more features had been added to it. The Beacon was now central to supernatural life, be it as an organisation or the individual.
Having finished setting up the Beacon, I headed to the living room and started dusting the place. I had left this place for a good three months and it was showing. The bedroom alone was like an abandoned bunker in the aftermath of a nuclear strike, and dust had settled on so thickly that baking some morbid cake with it was definitely viable.
To Fling a Light Page 1