《The Fog is Distant》


 To the Daybreak; 1

    CHAPTER 1; TO THE DAYBREAK.


    02.02.XX.


    Mid-Autumn.


    Could it lie in one¡¯s power for today to be a final breath?


    Those miseries cannot be remedied; the truth laid in ##### ¡­ ??? Wait what??


    Why did I push him away?


    We could have succeeded in many things together.


    How ignorant¡­


    The sound of the rain hitting the glass of a window was beautiful. The pattern always brings a sense of comfort to someone whose sense of self has grown white mold. A sigh released an enamoring pattern of smoke held in his mouth, and slender, sullied fingers holding a cigar had, for once, tapped out.


    The cigar fell to the ground, along with the hand that held it. His arm limply holds close to his emaciated figure. The panacea fizzes out eventually as a book, worn but well-loved, sits open on the desk next to his standing body.


    ¡°Really?¡±


    A dry, weeping laugh seeped out of his aching throat. His once limp hand reached up, holding his slender neck with difficulty. Their body was so weak and tired that he could barely even use any force.


    The rain''s sanctifying song seemed to fade away in the distance once the man could not listen to any melody without the by-product of his sorrows simply fading in the background.


    He stood silently, looking at architecture he found unfamiliar through his glass window.


    The crowds outside his window were so large it seemed like he was in some sort of megacity. He was likely in a technologically advanced but olden-style era, based on the olden style of buildings and unique machinery.


    Men who weren¡¯t of the homeless or stall owners were garbed in elegant business attire, and women similarly, although with more variety in style. Perhaps a growing trend, perhaps natural during the weekday.


    He finally walked away from the window, his steps loud yet quiet. The cigar lays untouched on the floor, its ashes only a few centimeters away. The scent was comforting; his eyes closed as he sat on a cushioned chair facing the desk.


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    The dreary man has no memory of the caliginous atmosphere plaguing his surroundings. The dark atmosphere of dawn does not match with the bright red of his dawn in the memories he tries to recall. The gothic, winsome infrastructure was not resplendent of the basic architecture of his home.


    His fatigued, odd gaze seemed to harden at the sight of the open book, more specifically at the date written at the top of the rough paper. 02.02.XX.


    Shouldn¡¯t the month of February carry along the bitter snow? Only the scent of cigars and faint humidity remain in this room. He recalled touching the windowpane earlier, and it indeed had not even a little chill to it.


    The only coldness he felt present rests in his mind and perhaps his eyes. Regardless, he doesn¡¯t feel the most comfortable reading one¡¯s diary. An invasive action, he concurred. But then again, this is technically his diary.


    It didn¡¯t feel the best to admit. He doesn¡¯t have anything he particularly wants to escape from or needs to. He had some friends and a father, too. He left them behind, right? Perhaps forevermore?


    He didn¡¯t particularly need any of them, nor did they need him. Perhaps it is simply this bit of melancholy that leads him to think about them.


    The strange heartbeat that followed his every breath seemed to come to a sudden harmony. His hand raised to hold his chest before turning to the first page of the diary.


    His previously unfocused eyes were now alert. His languid, slouching body was hunched over the book with an intense expression. The contents of the book could be described as mesmerizing for someone like this man.


    The body he holds now is a prophet, essentially. He sees the eventuality of this world and its future, and despite having mortality, can talk to ¡®The World¡¯ itself. But he died for unknown reasons. The last page was written on the date previously mentioned: 02.02.XX.


    Although his throat throbbed and ached, he had no choice but to read aloud. His voice was hoarser than before, and since there was no mirror, he couldn¡¯t see if there was an external cause for the pain. Perhaps someone strangled this body, he thought.


    And apparently, he was also planning on creating a cult. This idea had garnered practically no attraction to him, yet he ponders indulging in it. This body had a good reason for it,t too.


    Although he wanted to stop some of these events, he needed a lot of power to do so. In this world, power and control over others mean everything. Cults were rare because Gods warned their Apotheosis¡¯, otherwise known as Incarnations.


    But as someone who could see the eventuality and the destined fate of everything around him, how could a God¡¯s tampering mean anything to him? The World had agreed with the original man¡¯s decision anyhow.


    It was tiring to continue thinking about this, felt the man. He didn¡¯t know this body¡¯s name, nor did he want to worry about a name. This body isn¡¯t alive, but it¡¯s living. How can he mourn for someone who is living?


    He sighed and hid his face in his hands before groaning quietly. He wasn¡¯t even making sense right now. Organize your thoughts, he told himself. The way to use the ability is described in great detail in the beginning.


    Close your eyes and imagine a beautiful, starry sky. Look at one of the stars and walk up to it as if to pluck a dandelion from its soil.


    When you see the star move away and look down if you see your reflection, try for another star.


    If you see more stars, the star you plucked is not a part of the eventuality and, rather, the causality. You can see it, but if you try to change it, you will be forced to pay a price.


    That was it. The description was simple and detailed enough to understand. It was likely a real place he would get pulled inside once he asked to be. Imagining it might be one of many ways.


    Perhaps this body was a teacher before his insanity. He seems to originally be a gentle person based on his early writing.


    Nevertheless, he won¡¯t try it. There are enough events to work on currently. This is the wish of this body, and no matter the method, he will succeed. Although he didn¡¯t ask to be here, every being fears death.


    Even Gods, no?

 The Morning Bird鈥檚 Song; 2

    CHAPTER 2; THE MORNING BIRDS SONG.


    After about a day, he¡¯s learned many things. First, although this body lives in an incredibly small space, he has an exorbitant amount of money.


    Judging by the words written on the coins found scattered everywhere in the house; this world uses a coin system referred to as Sovk. Why¡¯d they write the difference between each coin on the back of them? Just in case a situation like this happens.


    The Sovk coin has three different types: Copper parts, silver parts, and gold pieces. A silver part would equal 13 copper parts, and one gold piece equals 25 silver parts.


    1 gold = 25 silver = 325 copper.


    This body has about 1,500 gold pieces inside this little safe. He could imagine the almost infinite amount of copper parts and silver parts that would be. Of course, he doesn¡¯t think these pieces are pure gold since, to make up for manufacturing costs, they should need to mix it in with something.


    What a valuable thing a single gold coin is. So valuable, he came to wonder why this body had never used it. Regardless, the problem of funds is not one to worry about as of now. Should he look for the first cult member?


    But¡­ What would this cult be about? He didn¡¯t find the prospect of masquerading as a God amusing. Even the role of a Saint would be better. He refused to become an Apostle, and even if he did, how could he fake being one?


    It didn¡¯t take much for him to decide on being a prophet; After all, he does have the power of one. There are many events written in this diary, and approximately 12 of them occur within the next 10 months.


    Based on the extensive research written in other notebooks not labeled ¡®diary,¡¯ this body wasn¡¯t lying about his prophetic abilities and had someone to prove it to. The only question was the identity of that unknown figure.


    Even through the intense concentration, the pain in his throat was heavy. He intends to go to a clinic nearby, praying the costs aren¡¯t too heavy. He still wants to save as much as possible, of course.


    After resting for a little, the emptiness in his stomach grew almost impossible to ignore. The rain was still going strong, and he wasn¡¯t sure this body wouldn¡¯t get sick in the downpour.


    Walking to something he presumed to be a closet, he opened the door to see plenty of lounge garb and coats. Many of these clothes were of solid colors, and few had more intricate details, but those were clearly of higher quality as well.


    He¡¯d thought briefly and decided to fit in, dolling up in an intricately designed black coat, a black waistcoat, and a white dress shirt underneath. Similarly, black slacks found their home on slender, long legs and, after accessorizing himself with a gold watch, he¡¯d found in the closet as well.


    He left the room and walked into a surprisingly tidy place, with its many books organized into shelves and a clean kitchen with few candles still lit. A hangar stood by the wooden door, with a hat and thicker coats hanging on it. An umbrella stood on the floor against the hangar.


    This body indeed left home, at least occasionally. The hat was a dark brown, and when he went to grab it and looked inside, there were two initials carved into it. Perhaps it¡¯s the name of the manufacturer, he thought as he put it on.


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    He grabbed the umbrella and stepped outside the door, turning around to lock it. He digs inside his pockets and pulls the key out, locking the door and walking away.


    The hall has a low ceiling, holding the odor of depravity. Lowering his face slightly, his lips faintly contort in displeasure. Wherever he lived before, the smell was certainly more pleasant than this. How disgusting, he wanted to say.


    The umbrella in his hand stayed closed as he walked in the direction of wherever he assumed the exit to be. Two doors, larger than the rest he¡¯d seen so far, appeared in his sight. One was slightly broken, he noticed, but the other was fine.


    He pushed the door that was broken lightly, and it slowly swung open until it hit the wall behind it with a thud. How odd, he thought briefly. But once he walked out of the complex, such thoughts were labeled unnecessary.


    As he looked up at the sky, it was an endless expanse of gray clouds and torrents of rain, hounding those who did not have protection and ¡®avoiding¡¯ those who did. The crowds were not quiet but not loud either¡ªpeople must be in a rush to get to where they needed to be.


    Looking around, although there were street signs here and there, there weren¡¯t any visible clinics. He decided to ask around and walked up to someone he presumed gentler in gait.


    Pushing through the pain, he tapped on their shoulder. ¡°Sire, may I inquire where the nearest clinic is located?¡± As their gazes met, he pointed at his neck and hoped for the best. His throat was hoarse, so perhaps the man would assume he had soreness or something.


    The stranger looked at him quietly for a moment before looking at his neck. Their green irises seemed to dilate, and their lips twitched in confusion. ¡°Sir, are you okay?! I¡¯ll take you myself!¡±


    They grabbed his wrist tightly, and he winced in slight pain. The stranger didn¡¯t notice, so the state of his neck must be horrible. His umbrella collided with numerous people along the way, but every time they wanted to pick a fight, they paled and hurried away.


    The green-eyed fellow stopped in front of a pristine-looking building with somewhat familiar letters on it. They turned and looked at him with a tense expression before turning away in thought and seemingly deciding on something, pulling him inside.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± The stranger said as they tapped their shoe on the floor anxiously. They likely needed it for check-in.


    ¡°My name is¡­¡± He paused.


    What was his name?


    Could he make something up?


    Right now?


    Before he could continue, the person in front of them had walked away, and they pulled him forward.


    The person writing down on paper in front of the two seemed to recognize him. ¡°Ah, I remember you. What name did you make up last time? Angra Hegesias, right? Will you use it again? Really, when are you going to stick with a name?¡±


    As she incessantly scolds him mercilessly, the stranger¡¯s grip tightens with tension, and he grows impatient. ¡°Lady, can you hurry it up? Do you not see his neck?¡±


    Irked by the disrespectful tone, she seemed to have stood because of the stranger¡¯s disrespect before fully seeing the injured neck he¡¯d badgered her about.


    Various spots on his neck were a bright red reminiscent of camellia. A few darker, bigger areas were a deeper shade of purple. Overall, it looked like he¡¯d escaped a killer.


    ¡°Oh, oh my!¡± Her breath heaved, and her face winced in horror as she laid a hand on her chest. ¡°I sincerely apologize, oh Lord! Get a Healer or Apothecary, please!¡±


    She turned to one of her coworkers, who immediately listened to her request. Meanwhile, the injured man began thinking about her earlier words despite the ruckus and tight grip on his wrist.


    What was he to make out of the woman¡¯s words, especially her comment about having plenty of ¡®doctored¡¯ names? Angra Hegesias, despite being such a pretty name, was one of many.


    Shall he make use of it or doctor a new one?


    Angra Hegesias, he murmured without making a sound. It was a name that stuck on the tongue. It was suitable for now.


    Angra turned his gaze to look at the stranger who¡¯d dragged him here. The man looked very special¡ªsomeone who could be of great use to him. He looked to be someone who stood vibrantly, even in the distance.


    A unique-looking Healer came by as soon as those thoughts crossed his mind. They immediately led him to a small private room where he began receiving treatment for his neck injuries.


    The man from earlier seemed hesitant to follow him in but ended up doing so, seeing Angra¡¯s pleading gaze. His parted lips indicated his interest in speaking, but they pursed. After half an hour¡¯s silence, Angra was incredibly bored.


    ¡°Name?¡± He spoke softly, feigning gentleness.


    His eyes seemed to warm for a brief time before speaking quietly. ¡°Hellain Saint, sire. I apologize for making you speak first, given how the land lies. I¡¯m socially inept, you see¡­¡±


    The lone question for Hellain in Angra¡¯s mind was if it was ordinary for a stranger to care so much about an unknown person¡¯s injury. He didn¡¯t give much thought to his ¡®social ineptitude.¡¯

 The Urging Decaying Life; 3

    Occasionally, lament sank into the hearts of patients as the incessant and never-ending rain descended, and they, though habituated to it, mourn the absence of the moon.


    Regardless of the wet conditions that have persisted for months now, the roads and sidewalks laid surprisingly firm for this era; though Angra pondered, wondering what ¡®this era¡¯ meant.


    ¡°This rain was ordained by those in the Heavens,¡± the old man cried, ¡°The Exalted must be bestowing peace! Please, forgive me! I beg of you!¡± His wrinkly skin, his red sclera, and his pallid appearance.


    A horrifying state that seemed to be preaching so loudly, yet no one even looked at him. Angra was the only one to pay a glance, yet the man was so scared of simply that. Why?


    Angra recalled the old man¡¯s obese figure in a dimly lit corner of the clinic room. Recalling the memory, a faint guilt permeated his skin and sunk through even the marrow of his bone, irregardless of him not quite grasping why.


    He¡¯d never met the old, grumbling man before. It conceivably had to be a case of overflowing empathy, concluded Angra.


    Though, looking back, Angra should have asked if he was alright. He sighed, exhaustion prevailing, guiding him to lean onto his somewhat new¡­ acquaintance, Hellain.


    The two sat on a bench in a deserted corner of the less-than-noisy city. A faint awkwardness lingered in the air, and Hellain¡¯s brief, momentary, and unending glances didn''t save him from the bitter flavor resting on his tongue.


    ¡°Um, following an injury of such a horrid degree, it¡¯s likely it may happen repeatedly. Might I implore you to explain what happened? Although the sinews of the Yard may be troubled, they do help¡ª¡±


    Angra raised a finger against his own lips, asking for silence. Although his throat was now numb, speaking a little wouldn¡¯t hurt. That was one able clinic.


    A painful sigh pierced through the downpour that pittered and clashed against the grey ground they stood on, lathering both of their faintly shivering frames. No matter where you are, it''s easy to get cold when it rains on your frame.


    Hellain¡¯s shut lips were about to attempt talking, so although Angra dithered, he resolutely began to talk. ¡°Speak aptly of the Watchmen. Is to bring all pitiful strangers to justice your vow to Mithra?¡±


    Hellain sighed and looked at Angra pensively. ¡°Your emphatic tone may easily offend others who lack cognizance, unlike myself.¡±


    Angra pretended to reflect on his tone before turning his head with a sarcastic expression. ¡°Truthfully, I can¡¯t find a single piece of motivation for me to care.¡±


    Hellain first held a rather bewildered look before his pale lips curled inwardly and his eyes seemed to crinkle as his shoulders trembled. His eyes full of mirth and gaiety seemed to bring a lightness in Angra¡¯s heart that weighed heavy heretofore.


    Eventually, Hellain couldn¡¯t hold it in anymore.


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    His heartfelt laughter bellowed through the quiet and lusterless park, and Angra almost imagined the sun rising through the dull torrent of rain. Angra didn¡¯t know where to place his hands and the same thought raced in his mind: Should he laugh too?


    But the rain quickly engulfed the skin of his hands with water and he looked at it with a faint bemusement.


    They¡ªno¡ªhe forgot it was raining.


    Hellain had calmed down a bit, though the avoidance of his eyes seemed to reveal the fragility of his calm.


    ¡°I¡¯m hungry.¡± Angra looked away, feigning discomfiture. Hellain must be his first cult member. He totally just didn¡¯t want to get out of the rain. Or have an actual friend here.


    ¡°Would you like to visit my temporary abode?¡± Hellain asked with a wider grin than Angra had ever seen before. Guilt corroded his thoughts and feelings as he recalled his impure intention.


    Sanctity, forgive me, thought Angra. He¡¯s going to use such an inviting individual.


    He nodded and stood up, holding his hands above his head as he looked at the rain with squinting eyes. Angra¡¯s left eye hurt when he looked at the clouds.


    Hellain took out a hidden umbrella from inside his jacket, saying ta-da as if everything was alright. Angra glared and his teeth grinded, wondering why he hid it for such a long time.


    But nonetheless, Hellain¡¯s viridescent eyes seemed trapped in a question as he unfolded the umbrella. A question Angra likely lacked an answer for.


    ¡°I¡¯ll lead the way.¡± Hellain smiles.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª


    Angra leers at the steaming plate of food with a slight reverence. The uncanny texture was unappealing, but its flavor was surprisingly savoury and gentle.


    He chewed it quickly as the taste usually faded after one or three seconds of chewing, but eventually he finished the plate. His stomach ached, but not in hunger.


    Moreso adjustment.


    The torture the feeling of starvation brought was something that only grew with attention; it begged for it and grew with it and wanted it.


    It was really terrible. He sighs with a faint degree of joy and pain, as even mere water he swallows reminds him of the soreness in his throat. Did he have to hurt everywhere? Was this an effect of his prophetic blessing?


    He pushed those thoughts away, he pushed his bowl away, and he scooted his chair back for space.


    Hellain stared at him with a half-finished platter, wondering why he liked it so much. ¡°Have you not eaten?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m stupefied.¡±


    ¡°Sarcasm?¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    Hellain stood up, taking his plate and Angra¡¯s, intending to clean the dishes. ¡°Stay tonight. The rain is unusually sad.¡±


    Angra looked at him curiously.


    ¡°To Hear No Evil.¡±


    A solemnity that challenged even the heavy quietude of the outside encapsulated what was once a warm air.


    To Hear No Evil is one of three promises described in the unknown man¡¯s diary. The other two are similar; To See No Evil, and To Speak No Evil.


    It was mostly unknown as to what they entailed, but after hundreds of years those before the current era figured out two rules.


    I: ¡°Evil¡± is defined by sin. Everything considered sin by the Sovereign who¡¯d blessed you is wholly unperceivable by hearing/sight or you cannot speak of it to anyone. To forcefully listen, look, or speak of the ¡®Sin¡¯ is considered Mad. There are punishments regarding forcefully bypassing your promise.


    2: To reveal it to someone doesn¡¯t affect anyone in any way unless revealed to one afflicted with The Curse of Curses.


    It was unknown to Angra what the Curse of Curses was, but in a way he didn¡¯t want to find out.


    Angra¡¯s affliction¡ªthat he now understood was just a curse¡ªis apparently called the Curse of Sickness. He would perpetually be sick with something, though it¡¯d eventually leave on its own for something else to replace it.


    But regardless, if Hellain told him his Promise to his Soverign, shouldn¡¯t Angra do the same?


    What was his Promise again?


    ¡°To¡­¡± He paused, ¡°Speak No Evil.¡±


    Hellain¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t change, but soon his lips curved and a smile graced his elegant and defined features.


    He turned around and left the room, leaving Angra to his own devices. Angra just wondered why he mentioned his Promise so arbitrarily.