“Nothing…” he murmured as he felt his eyelids close. “There’s nothing I can do…” Sleep overtook Victorio, and as he drifted into emptiness those were the last thoughts on his mind. The feeling of powerlessness, and the word “nothing.”
As soon as the darkness overtook him, a voice in the expanse answered his thoughts: No, Victorio Marcos Cruz. There is something you can, and must, do.
Reality snapped back to him, even though he knew that he was still asleep. Wasn’t he? Victorio now stood in the center of a void. Although he could see nothing, he could almost feel a plane around him—a vast, stretching lack that existed in all directions. He was shaken by how real this felt…he was still dreaming, right? What was that voice?
Victorio Marcos Cruz, the voice—a gentle, yet firm voice, vague in both gender and intent—began. Spear of Creation.
Unable to discern the direction of the voice (it seemed to come from everywhere at once), he turned around in place. “I’m…sorry?”
You are not powerless, the voice informed him. You are the Bastion Against Decay.
Victorio’s shoulders slumped. He let out an ironic chuckle. “Yeah, right. I’m just the kid of just another asshole who won’t help anyone,” he mumbled under his breath, his father’s words still a wound in his chest. “Whatever-the-crap you just called me, that’s not me.”
A wind suddenly, violently, ripped across the empty plane. Victorio nearly stumbled and held his hands in front of his face against it. It didn’t feel cold, yet it chilled him to the marrow.
The voice returned, powerful, booming, and thumping through Victorio’s frame like a concert’s bass: Bearer of Light, within you is the key to worlds. Do not doubt, do not hesitate, and do not be afraid.
Victorio staggered backward several steps, nearly falling over under the voice’s power. “What’s happening…!” he whispered.
Your world stands against a tide, the voice thundered. Ever growing in strength.
Through the painful gusts, Victorio struggled to keep his eyes open. They were starting to water. “What do you mean?” he called out to the air.
It approaches, it continued. Lustful for the foundations of your world.
Victorio’s vision cut to a distant city in mid-day. He didn’t know this place, only that it was Asian, judging by the people filling the streets. For some reason, a lot of them were sitting on the ground.
It hungers, and feeds naught but on the desperation of the living. Even now, its servants search for a weakness in the walls, the voice said, sounding grave.
Victorio saw a woman in black, staring out across a bay, and raising her arms as though overwhelmed by the beauty around her. However, something was unsettling about her, especially as she gradually lowered her arms and knelt. As she did, this vision within a vision granted him the eyes to see the power that danced around her fingertips—sticky and teeming, like bugs on a carcass.
A weakness that will crumble the barriers and allow the armies within.
The woman in the second sight placed her fingers against the sidewalk, and the concrete rippled and warped.
“Armies…?” Victorio repeated.
He nearly jumped when he saw pairs of empty eyes, one after another, open under the woman’s shadow in his vision.
Decay and destruction come, Victorio Marcos Cruz, the voice pressed. Will you stand against it? Will you take up arms and defend your world?
“But I don’t understand!” he shouted, standing up as straight as he could. “What is this? What do you want?”
The voice rose again in strength against Victorio’s feeble protests. We ask nothing, child, they said. Accept your destiny, or it will pass to another. Do not question, do not falter.
The rushing currents gathered near him, swirling and folding in on themselves until a snap of ozone signaled the end of the storm-like force. Light at last appeared, and amid the endless nothing…a spear. It floated in mid-air before Victorio, gleaming and pristine. Its edge shone like polished silver; embellishments like navigational markings swirled down the shaft, lines and angles and dots (or perhaps constellations?). The head, vaguely diamond-shaped, was forged in a shimmering, Stygian metal. He stared at it in awe, overtaken by the strange sense of purpose this object held.
If you wish to save your world, Victorio Marcos Cruz, the voice said, soft again. Then take hold of your destiny.
Victorio swallowed hard, still unsure of whether this was all a dream. He had the distinct feeling something very important would happen if he said yes. And that he needed to do exactly that.
Choose, Warrior of Creation.
His lips tightening in resolve, Victorio slapped his hand around the grip of the spear. “Yes.”
Power rushed over him, filling every pore and seeping into his bones. All that was left of his thoughts was a calm focus. Light filled his eyes, and his entire body relaxed. Then he was gone.
Chapter Five
The Empty
The agent of decay smiled as she knelt on the concrete. A portion of her power flowed into the ground, seeping through and leaving the gateway’s mark. She rose to her feet, filled with a surge of excitement. Soon the gates would open, and the heaving mass of humanity would be its key.
All around, the crowd’s anger, bitterness, and desire for destruction manifested. The low murmur that followed in her wake transformed into unease. As she stood in the midst of it, the unrest grew. The humans crouched in the protest were confronted by others in police uniforms—who demanded they disperse. The protesters, without giving her a second glance, grew defensive. Frustrations climbed, not a single human aware of the slivers of the powers of the Black flowing between them.
Slowly, the agent turned away from those in the square, discomfort escalating into heated arguments. She walked down the street, a gentle smirk resting on her red lips as a ribbon of Chaos’ influence followed in her wake.
Anger swelled. The protesters stood, but only to shout and clench their fists. Righteous anger butted against cold indifference.
Then the first fist flew. Then the flood of beautiful chaos began.
The agent stood among humans coming to blows, screams, and fury flowing through the streets. A light titter fell from her lips as tourists cried out in fear and ran from the scene, and local and foreign camera crews ran toward it like hungry carrion. She grinned and turned to face the still unseen streams of energy running between each human conduit. The streams intensified into rivers of frenzied emotion, then ebbed and settled on the pavement.
Human stares fell on her as she laughed. Those closest to her could see her mortal guise—and paid her enough attention to register confusion and disquiet.
The gates were opening.
The soldiers of entropy began to rise.
They formed from the myriad shadows on the ground. Spidery, dripping limbs haltingly dredged themselves into the daylight. Seas of eyes opened, crying out for companionship in their eternal fates. They rose, some on two legs, others on four, some drifting like gestures in the air. Each of them sang cries of despair that layered in a symphony of emptiness tied between each shadow; unifying the twisted forms.
Human shrieks of terror rang through the streets as they saw the instruments of their destiny. The creatures of the Black ran forward, slashing at mortal lives and reaching for the souls which unknowingly cried out for them.
“This is what you wanted!” the agent shouted to the fleeing humans.
Cars and carts were discarded as owners fled. Gunshots from policemen ripped through the air yet passed like a breeze through the armies of decay—their hazy forms ill-suited for harm from physical weapons.
“Togetherness!” the agent sang out over the pure, blissful sound of chaos. “Pain will end; none will have greater than another ever again.”
A child had staggered in his clumsy attempts to flee. He was the first to join the sea of decay. A spindly fingered hand gripped his wrist as he sobbed, and the empty nothingness of the attacker spread up the ch
ild’s arm. Soon the form that was once human youth was enveloped in shadow, and a new pair of eyes, shining and despairing, lit up its indistinct face.
The agent watched in euphoric glee and spread her arms as though reaching to embrace all of Hong Kong. “Accept us, or not, we still come.”
Then the Destroyer arrived.
A human woman cried and struggled to free her leg from a shadow’s grasp. A bright, terrible light flashed. The shadow fell back and hissed in terror, its voice torn from the hum that the soldiers shared. The light solidified, and at its center stood a figure. It was young, with copper skin and black hair. Its eyes burned with the fire of creation, and in its hands was the Spear. The Spear.
The agent, had she needed to breathe, would have lost her breath at that moment.
The Destroyer swung effortlessly, its movements guided by Creation itself. The Spear made short work of the shadow at its feet and paid no mind to the humans retreating in a mixture of fear and awe.
With a flurry of the Spear, the Destroyer ran forward. Shadows and all manner of creatures of decay let out a wail of dismay as it ran at them. The bright blade of the Spear flashed forward, above, to the side—with merciless ferocity it laid waste to all beings of chaos in its path. As the Spear tore through the fighters, the scent of tides and the tingle of the air before a storm followed in its path.
The agent quickly ducked into an alley, watching the carnage from afar and nearly losing her sunglasses. Uselessly she watched as the Destroyer cut its way to the mark of the gates, and powerfully raised the Spear.
She hissed and fell into shadow, aware that in only moments this world was lost to them. Chaos would not take this world.
A new Destroyer was born. However…if she were lucky, perhaps the agent of chaos would be able to crush this one.
✽✽✽
The cameras, both from news crews and from the cellphones of amateurs, were still focused on the otherworldly scene near the park at Kowloon Square. When every shadow on the ground had solidified into twisted creatures it sent witnesses into a panic, and as the unknown creatures converged on civilians and police, something like lightning had burst from the cloudless sky. A bright flash of light signaled the arrival of a figure that sent waves of horror through the hordes of monsters.
It was only a boy. Young, clearly of Latin descent, dressed in long, denim shorts and a t-shirt covered in graffiti-style silkscreen. His empty eyes glowed with some kind of power, and in his loose grip, he held a polished and elegant spear.
As soon as his bare feet shuffled forward, it was difficult for any camera to follow him. He went from listless and still to a blur of movement. The spear burned with light every time it struck one of the creatures, and it was all but effortless for this boy to slice and slash through their numbers. They hissed and wailed in terror, fleeing from him as Hong Kong’s people had been fleeing them.
Cameras focused on him when he paused in the center of the square. A haze circled the ground—black veins throbbing in the pavement, stretching out like toxic mold. The boy stood in its center, then gripped the spear and lifted it above his head. A unified shriek resonated through the inky masses then was silenced as the boy thrust the spear into the concrete with a sweeping strike that brought him to his knees.
Every camera watching flickered. A light that nearly drowned out the sun-filled the area, a thunderous wave that rippled from the boy. The shining resonance tore through the creatures yet passing over the populace like nothing more than a strong wind.
Then silence.
Slowly, onlookers rose to their feet, hushed whispers rising by degrees. Every last creature was gone, as were the markings on the ground. All that remained was the young man, standing alone. The spear sat in one hand, though his posture was relaxed, and his empty eyes faced the ground before his bare feet.
A university-aged woman who had been among the protesters drew close to him. Her long braid and bangs were in the same disarray as her rumpled pants and layered shirts. Cameras watching the scene focused on her as she hesitantly brushed black strands from her face.
“Hello?” she began in Cantonese, hinting that she was a Hong Kong native. “Do you speak Cantonese? Mandarin?” she ventured, changing languages. When the boy remained still, she cleared her throat. “English?” she offered. “D-Did you…make those shadows go away?” she continued in the latter, while others pulled themselves up and gradually approach. “I just wanted to thank you. Do you…understand?”
While the boy did not raise his head, his grip on the spear firmed and he brought it upright with a loud clang of the butt of the weapon against the ground. Nearly every onlooker flinched, including the young woman who all but stumbled backward. The wordless defender made a long, sweeping arc with the spear; light followed the motion, and with that he was gone.
The boy would never be seen in that world again.
Chapter Six
The Twilight Runner
Victorio’s head was still hazy, but he heard voices.
“Ah, he’s startin’ to come ‘round,” a gruff, masculine voice said in an Irish accent.
“I dunno, Braz…” a female one replied. “He seems kinda skinny to be a Spear Bearer.”
“Shh, he’s just young, that’s all.”
Blearily, Victorio dragged his eyes open, rubbed his face, and noted the massive headache pounding at the back of his brain. Something lingered at the back of his mind…he was…in China? Was it China? Looked like China or something. There was a spear…and walking shadows. Someone had been asking him questions in what he was aware of were three different languages, but he had understood every time. And for some reason, he hadn’t answered. “Muh…?”
“Now…ye’ve been through an ordeal,” the man said gently, and Victorio could feel a warm, solid hand resting on his shoulder.
The cobwebs cleared from his head, and Victorio looked at the owners of the two voices. His stomach lurched when he found himself staring at a five-and-a-half-foot tall boxer…the dog type, to be specific…with a human hand resting on Victorio’s shoulder and a wide smile across his snout. White blotches marked his reddish-tan fur, including a band that ran from between his large, human-looking blue eyes, to his canine muzzle. From his wrists to his hands were wrapped in tape like a fighter, over his haunches he wore a pair of drab olive calf-length trousers; on his head, he sported a cabbie-style hat. Beside him stood a black and white, four-foot cat, upon two feet like her companion. Her expression read less kind and more skeptical. Massive, yellow eyes considered Victorio while half-open, and her white muzzle formed in a half-frown. Atop her head sat a floppy, wide-brimmed witch’s hat—a once solid black, now worn to a dark gray, and adorned with a gold, crescent moon. The rest of her attire also clearly spoke ‘witch,’ from her buckled shoes and black robes to her orange-and-black striped stockings, and white-collared, black dress with a wide, gold-buckled belt. From the hem of the dress, a white-tipped, fluffy black tail swished back and forth impatiently.
Victorio had woken in front of living, breathing versions of the Wandering Stars. He knew their names already, their voices. He had suffered through their adventures beside his siblings for two seasons thus far. This was Brasil and Gatina.
“No need to worry fer now,” Brasil said gently, his smile calm.
“Holy freakinJesuscrap!” Victorio shouted incoherently, pushing himself away, his eyes the size of saucers. “Y-You!” He pointed. “You’re cartoon characters!”
Gatina threw her hand-like paws up in the air, her robe’s wide sleeves fluttering. “And that’s our Spear Bearer. Thank goodness we’re safe now!”
“Gatti,” the dog snapped, nudging her side.
“Oh…” Victorio laughed painfully, rubbing his temples. “I’m…still dreaming. All of it was a dream. China, those shadows, the voice, all of it’s a dream! Thank God,” he added, running a hand through his hair. “It all was so real…”
Brasil laughed lightly, then leaned close to Victorio. When the
cartoon dog neared, Victorio’s smile faded, but he didn't shrink away from him. Without even the slightest change of expression, Brasil flicked the side of Victorio’s head.
“Freakin’ ow!” Victorio snapped, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”
“Ye still dreamin,’ son?” Brasil asked with a knowing grin.
The enormity of the dog’s words sunk in, and a sudden, hollow feeling settled in the pit of Victorio’s stomach. His dark eyes flicked to Gatina, tapping her pointed shoe, and then back to Brasil.
They were real. Even though it made no sense, there really wasn’t any arguing how real the situation was, how real his observers clearly were, or how much Victorio’s muscles and feet ached.
Numb, Victorio lowered his hand. “It’s…It’s not a dream…Where am I…?”
“Ye’re not home anymore, son,” Brasil said. “Come on, let’s get you on yer feet.”
Still stunned, Victorio accepted help from the muscular dog, and he was soon standing. He glanced at his feet and sighed. He remembered the fight in China and suddenly recalled why his feet must hurt so much. He could see his toes and could feel some kind of blister forming on his right heel. “I…forgot my shoes…” he mumbled, a bit disappointed in himself that this was the first thing he could focus on—the only thing that felt normal.
“Consider it a favor,” Gatina sighed, and pointed her wand at his feet. With a loud ‘pop’ Victorio now stood slightly taller, wearing what he could only consider the idea of ‘shoes.’ It was hard to call them anything else, they were sneakers, but nothing so identifiable as such, and his toes now felt cozy in a pair of comfy socks.
“You owe me,” she added with a toothy grin.
“Uh…thanks?” he mumbled. At that moment, Victorio studied his surroundings, tried to take in this bizarre new reality. He stood on the deck of a ship, an old-timey sailboat with a wide sail that glistened from a single mast. All around the vessel was a deep, night sky, and while he could feel a gentle swaying beneath his feet, he couldn’t see the moon reflecting off the water. In fact, he couldn’t see any water at all.
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