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One, two, three. Three hours passed, maybe four. Did the sun set long ago? Or was it just now? Ten, twenty, thirty. Countless curses exorcized. Absorbed. Consumed. Did they consume him, instead? Tired legs keep pushing away the air before him, to make space for the equally exhausted sorcerer. The stars hang from the darkness above and light it up, even if just a little. Does the sky ever get tired of holding them? Are they heavy on the thin spatial threads? Are the tiny, white, hopeful dots enough, since they don’t even begin to cover the black mantle of uncertainty?
He's the only one present in this narrow road, not a soul beneath the aligned yellow beams. One step after the other in an infallible rhythm, cursed energy as his trustworthy guide; an alert ghost ready to haunt the nearest presence, synonym or not. A lost arrow in the enemy’s war field. Life does not dare make a noise behind him, like a poison slowly infecting the flower fields, giving birth to nothing but unwelcoming land, never to be recovered, never to bloom again. He hasn’t eaten since early morning, a simple tea before classes and training began. He doesn’t feel hunger though, cursed spheres of fear and horror serve as enough sustenance for the doomed.
He wants to convince himself loneliness doesn’t come to him often, either. He’s been going on endless missions alone, with no more company than the terror that follows the apparition of a curse. Satoru nearly perfected limitless, and having a partner only hinders the results. He says it’s alright, they can always meet up after the problems are taken care of. That the problems are ever-present, is left unsaid everytime. Shoko also got better at her own thing, and since sorcerers who can perform healing via reversed cursed technique are scarce, she’s too valuable to be sent in tasks that can be completed by Satoru in less time, with less resources and zero casualties. Is this what the job is about? Making friends just to lose them. Loving just to be a death witness. Protecting others knowing you remain unprotected and uncared for. A silent vigilante praying for safety, invisible effort against too real threats, danger so tangible it could be tasted like a drop of acid falling onto a sensitive mouth.
The last curse of the night is looking right through him, monstrosity towering over him like a hunter over its prey. He does not bat an eye, thumb scratching his forehead because of the habit he’s been harboring lately. Right arm, not extending to its full length, reaches before him, as if he were trying to catch the setting sun between the mountains. The cursed entity, scary to some, folds into itself, Suguru’s hands playing origami with its limbs. The disturbing sphere fits into the palm of his hand, tailor-made just for him to bear. Exorcized. Absorbed. Consumed. The cycle keeps repeating, a never-ending nightmare.
The walk back to the school is uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary. This time, he’s accompanied by the rising sun, mocking the early riser. The birds welcome him, although the greetings sound like warnings for the living, deterring him from entering a place in which he does not belong. Ignoring the curses in the pit of his stomach and the cries in his head, he walks toward the entrance and into his room. He passed in front of his friends’ rooms; he locked eyes with the dust flying between the white curtains draping over the open windows. Were he to linger at their doors, he would’ve witnessed the dust rearranging to showcase memories of them hanging out in eachother’s spaces. The curses within him stir, not agreeing with nostalgia. In his own room now, he grabs the necessary tools to make himself clean, to try and rid of the taste of doom, the stench of non-sorcerer’s fear. He would not have to put himself through hell if those goddamn civilians, those Monkeys, didn’t churn out curses as fast as they breathe. He feels the beginning of an idea brewing in his mind, right between the memories made during the last two years and the cursed energy stored from the newly ingested entities, but he chooses to ignore it. He tries to convince himself that’s not him, maybe the residuals of the enemies that found a home in him (perhaps not).
He spares time to rest in his bed, though sleep never arrives. Four, five, six. He lost count of how many hours he spent staring at the ceiling, at the wall, at the door. The silence of the room sits heavy in his ears. The space is unhomely, only a few decorations on the opposite side of the bed, above the desk. The latter has a thick book he got from the library some time ago; ¨The history of shamans¨ can be read on the cover, golden ink against a black canvas. Forty, fifty, sixty. Sixty shaman deaths counted within the margins of the first chapters. There were a few exceptional cases, all coming from the main clans of the sorcery society, but most of them died young, higher rank curses baring their fangs at them. Defenseless, they met the cold hands of death. Suguru is scared to continue, his mind is screaming at him to return it and go back to the peaceful unknown. He notices the corridor is silent, too, devoid of teens roaming it. This school is hollow. Satoru and Nanami aren’t there, one busy playing god and the other trying to follow. Riko and Haibara aren’t there, they lost the game and met their fate. Sixty-two deaths counted.
Before all hell broke loose in that hollow room, Yaga called him. Another mission. ¨A simple job. No aid required¨ he said. Suguru can’t help but chuckle, stray thumb finding his forehead again. He doesn’t try asking for a partner anymore, no one is left to follow him but his own shadow and the curses. He dresses himself in his school uniform, shiny signature button of the jacket looking right back at him in the mirror. He ties his hair in a bun like he always does, with the usual hairs of his bangs falling into place like puzzle pieces, completing his appearance, no changes. After grabbing his phone in case of an emergency, he exits the main building.
With his return to the outside world, the night followed suit. Bugs chanting in unison, water of the ponds tranquil, no ripples present in the surface. Neat, almost organized. An hour passed before he arrived at the scene, a tiny village at on the mountainside, full of wooden homes and green fields. Seven, eight, nine. A few souls finding their way back to their points of origin. However, it is quiet; similar to the school. Similar to the ponds, there are no ripples in the surface; apparent serenity. His cursed energy detects the threat. Seventy, eighty, ninety. Ninety curses he has in store that are suitable for this mission. Ninety-one when he finishes.
He walks through the village, following the stone path dimly lit by the lanterns hanging by the doors of the houses. Stray weeds cover the margins of the path, they caress his shoes as if asking for forgiveness, for another opportunity to grow as tall nature will let them; to fulfill their potential. His enemy awaits for him near the periphery of the village. Tall and menacing, slender hands terrorizing nearby villagers. They cannot see the opponent, confusion drawn on their faces, accompanied by nonsensical movements. Preyed upon by their own creation. Fate circling in on them; inescapable end. He hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. Should he let them meet destiny’s resolve? Just who is he, who does he think he is, to play with what is written in the stars? He’s not Satoru. He can’t play god even if he wanted to. Omnipotence is out of reach. Unwillingly, he stretches out his arm; humanity’s abominable creation kneels before him. A bigger hunter. Natural selection.
Exorcized. Absorbed. Consumed. Threat secured. Another one unleashed.
The fearful villagers look at him, thankful words coming out of their cursed bodies. Humanity is hanging on for dear life, he realizes. In this world, you either exorcize or get consumed. If you’re lucky you get to do both, like him. Monkeys can’t see curses. Their creation remains invisible, peaceful until it isn’t anymore. Unaware of the consequences of their existence. He can’t even look at them.
Cries yank him away from his thoughts. There’s a house with a few lights on, a concentration of non-shamans happening on the doorstep and on the interior of a room, apparently. He makes his way in, pushing angry bodies to reach the source. At the end of a corridor, there’s a room with two or three villagers, all in a defensive stance, protecting themselves from something. Or someone. Two young girls stare back at him, his body dark against the brightness present in the corridor behind him. Now, confusion is painted on his face. Thumb finding its way to his forehead. The spot is almost sore from the repeated movement. ¨Those two are guilty! ¨, ¨They brought evil to our homes, we need to rid of them¨. Their words become background noise to him. His cursed energy becomes uncontrollable, rage and irritation behind his thoughts. He smiles at the girls, potential shamans in a small cage. They stare at him, hope in their eyes. Suguru turns his back on them, now facing the others. He isn’t god and he’s tired of pretending he can be.
Ten. Ten times did the monkeys beg for their life. Not in a way that mattered.
A hundred. A hundred lives seized that night. Only three remain.
He’s no god and he plans to ensure there’s no need for one, either. Signature button of his jacket looks right through him from the floor. Death of a savior. Birth of a curse.