A pale-looking young boy with brownish hair, dressed in a school uniform, sat on a chair in the park, holding a pen in one hand and a notebook in the other. Cyrus wasn't the type of person to write down his life or experiences on paper, but on this particular day, he had decided to finally start keeping track of his life.

"Many things have happened in my life since those accidents. I've lived alone most of the time, since my grandpa refuses to visit me, even though I'm living in his house. I've been working in his profession for about four years now."

The "profession" the young boy referred to couldn't really be called a profession, as he wasn't paid or recognized for what he was doing. He did it purely out of a desire to do so.

Wait, I'm doing this completely wrong… To make a personal journal, I need to start with the most important things first, Cyrus thought.

And so, he began writing the following:

"For as long as I can remember, I've always been able to see ghosts. It didn't really bother me, since I always ignored them. But there are three types of spirits I've encountered since I started all of this.", Cyrus wrote in his notebook.

As Cyrus glanced at the sky, as if searching for something, he continued writing in his notebook:

There are spirits that are reborn as other animals or human beings, those that simply disappear into the sky, and the last type—the reason I started all of this in the first place—are what I call corrupted spirits, or spirits consumed by the "root."

These spirits have only appeared recently, as far as I know. They often have decomposing roots sticking out of their souls in a gruesome way, if I do say so myself—roots coming out of their eyeballs, skull, mouth, and everywhere in between. Some even have root-like tentacles, which are pretty disgusting. Sometimes I feel unfortunate that I'm the only one who can see such a revolting sight.

Those creatures devour anything that moves—well, at least anything with a soul to consume. My job is to track and destroy these corrupted spirits before they cause more harm, which can get pretty exhausting at times. After school, I often spend hours hunting them down. But I'm no Samaritan, or some kind of hero. Far from it, actually—I only do it because I want to.

Before continuing to write any more words, Cyrus noticed a shadow moving beneath his feet. He looked up and saw exactly what he had been searching for: roots like tentacles winding through the city, wrapping around rooftops and streets, slowly devouring any soul they could find at a sluggish pace.

Well, I guess I should write in my journal later. But it's a great time for you because I can't seem to remember what to call my profession. I really have a hard time remembering words…

The boy put the notebook into the bag beneath the chair he was sitting on and decided to track down where the tentacles were coming from.

Moving like a blurred image, the boy ran up the wall of an apartment complex and jumped onto the roof to get a better view of where the tentacles might be coming from.

"So, you finally started to feel hungry, huh?"

Dashing off the rooftop he was on, Cyrus jumped from one building to another, following the multiple root-like tentacles extending throughout the city. He moved at a pace that should have been impossible for an ordinary human. But Cyrus was far from ordinary; a boy capable of seeing the dead as clearly as he could see the living was anything but normal. To him, those words had lost its meaning a long time ago. When those fateful days occurred, he knew he wasn't "normal."

***

After jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Cyrus found himself staring at the entrance of the local metro station. This was where all the decomposing roots had ended up. Tentacles were sticking out of the train station, feeding on the people coming in and out, inserting themselves into their heads and slowly consuming their souls. It was indeed a greedy spirit, feeding not only on the thousands of passengers entering and exiting the station but also extending its tentacles throughout the city.

But Cyrus was reluctant to go in. Over the past few days of hunting the beast, the fiend had been careful to avoid being caught by the mysterious boy chasing him. Now, however, it was extending its tentacles in such an obvious way that Cyrus could easily track it down. This led him to believe that the monster wanted to end things today.

"So, you want a full-on confrontation? Well, I'm glad we both agree. This will leave me some time to remember what my 'profession' is called," Cyrus muttered to himself.

The reason he was so intent on remembering the name of his "profession" was because, just before spotting the tentacles above him, he had been about to write it down in his journal. But, as usual, he struggled to recall the exact words. It was typical of him—he always had trouble remembering complex terms.

Jumping from the rooftop, Cyrus decided to head to the metro station for a final confrontation with the corrupted spirit. Step by step, he saw the tentacles wrapping around multiple people, slowly sucking the life out of them without them even realizing it. The entire station was filled with dark, decomposing roots that only Cyrus could see. He had to act quickly—if he let the beast continue its rampage through the city, many people would eventually die, even if the creature wasn't devouring their souls all at once.

Stopping right before the train tracks, Cyrus watched as a train sped past him before coming to a halt right in front of him. He knew the beast was somewhere along the metro tracks. The fastest way to confront it without putting anyone in danger was to get on top of the train—so that's exactly what he did. Up there, he couldn't protect the people below directly, but from above, he could stop the threat before it reached them.

As the train moved, it became more and more obvious that the beast would be waiting at the end of the tracks, standing in Cyrus's way. Yet, he wasn't afraid—far from it. In fact, he was absolutely confident in his ability to cut the creature down. But just as if in response to his thoughts, from the top of the train, Cyrus caught sight of the beast with his own two eyes, and for a moment, his heart almost trembled.

"Oh, I'm in so much pain… The hunger… The hunger, when will it end?"

Far in the distance, Cyrus heard a voice. It sounded like that of an old man, one who had been dehydrated for years.

"You… it's always you standing in my way. You gain nothing from this, so why can't you satisfy my hunger at last?"

As the voice finished speaking, the train got close enough for Cyrus to finally see the beast clearly. Despite hunting it for days, he had only been able to sever the tentacles that fed on people's souls across the city—not the creature's actual body.

The beast looked like an old man, with skin so frail that his bones were visible beneath it. Roots and tentacles protruded from his abdomen in a twisted, grotesque manner. Every time the beast absorbed a fragment of someone's soul, the tentacles glowed through his abdomen. Even though he had scattered hundreds of these tentacles throughout the city, it seemed he could never satisfy his hunger.

"You're right, I gain nothing from this. But even though I know that, I still have to do what I do."

Cyrus opened his backpack and pulled something out—a wooden sword. Holding it firmly, he positioned it next to his waist, ready for the confrontation.

As the beast lifted its head, the tentacles around it began slowly moving toward the front of the train, preparing to attack. In a raspy voice, the beast asked just one word:

"Why…?"

"Simply because I desire to. And I guess… because that's what the people in my profession do. But I still have a hard time remembering my prof—"

Before Cyrus could finish speaking, hundreds of tentacles launched at him from every direction. Gripping his wooden sword tightly, he swung with a speed no human should be capable of, slicing through the first tentacles in an instant.

"You… you! Do you even know what it feels like to starve every day of the week, every month, every decade? To have decomposing roots forcing their way out of your insides? And yet, even that isn't as bad as where I was a couple of years ago… Hell! But even though he let me escape from that place, my suffering still hasn't ended…"

"The tentacles are getting faster…" Cyrus thought as he continued his assault.

He sliced through hundreds of tentacles with his wooden sword, moving the blade through the air in a fluid, dance-like motion. Though his skill was impressive, he couldn't help but wonder why the beast was focusing all its tentacles on him and not on the train beneath his feet. If the creature had attacked the passengers, it would have been much harder for him to defend them and fight off the beast at the same time—giving the monster the perfect opening to kill him.

"Why are you attacking me and not the passengers? For someone who claims to be starving for souls, you're not showing it here," Cyrus said, dodging and cutting down tentacles in a blur of motion.

"I don't care about them anymore… even if I devour the entirety of this city, it won't satisfy my hunger. But you… you're different. I've realized that! That's why I lured you here—so you would end my suffering, this constant hunger. Isn't it the role of a shaman to guide souls to peace?"

Seconds after the beast made that statement, the walls surrounding the train tracks began to crack. Hundreds of tentacles, identical to those attacking Cyrus, surged toward him from the side, ready to cut him down. But just before they could strike, he spoke:

"Oh, so that's what it's called? Yeah, I guess that's my profession. Thanks for the reminder. So, yeah, I'll do my job—I'll guide your soul to peace. Trust me, you'll never suffer from that hunger again."

As he said those words, Cyrus threw his wooden sword at the ancient man's face, turning his head to dust on impact. The tentacles, which had been mere seconds from cutting him down, also disintegrated into dust. Cyrus didn't know exactly what happened to the corrupted spirits he destroyed, but he knew one thing—they never came back from dust.

As he watched his wooden sword fall onto the train tracks, only to be run over by the passing train, Cyrus pulled out his notebook and pen. He began writing:

"My name is Cyrus Miravine. For as long as I can remember, I've always been able to see ghosts. And for the past four years, I've been practicing the profession of a shaman…"

Chapter One End