After getting info on the mafia yesterday, I decided to skip school. I need more details about this group, and hanging around the slums seems like the best way to get them. I've been out here for hours, sticking to the shadows, watching for anything suspicious.
The old man said they recruit here, so it's just a waiting game until I see one of them. But if that's true, why were they beating that kid? Was it because he refused? That's harsh.
I keep wandering the slums, making my rounds, using my speed to circle the area over and over. It's exhausting, but I can't stop. Eventually, I spot them—the two guys who beat up that kid.
So, they're the recruiters. Makes sense. No hammer this time, though. Guess they don't need it today. I move closer, careful to stay out of sight, and listen in.
"So I heard from the locals some kid's been walking around with a ribbon," the tall one says, his voice low but clear. "Nobody knows where he got it."
A weapon? That's what they're worked up over? Maybe the kid stole it. I mean, I barely had enough for this cheap sword, and no one's asked me about it.
"Well," the short one replies, "if we find him, we'll ask where he got it. If he says the magic words, we recruit him. If not… we kill him."
Magic words? That's why they were beating that kid? I glance down at the sword on my hip. Why didn't they come after me?
"Ay, you feel that?" The short one's voice drops, and his head swivels toward me.
Shit. Did they notice me? I was sure I was being careful.
They both go quiet, their eyes locked in my direction. My heart pounds as I remember the hammer crashing down on my arm yesterday. It still aches. If they make a move, I'll run. I have no choice.
Then, out of nowhere, a kid charges at them.
"I WON'T LET YOU TAKE ME FROM MY FAMILY!" he yells, his voice shaky but loud.
He's holding a ribbon. It doesn't look like much, but he's running straight at them like he's ready to fight. He swings the ribbon, and it snaps toward them, fast and sharp. As it flies, it starts to extend.
The tall one steps forward, and suddenly a sword appears in his hand out of thin air.
"What the hell?" I whisper.
With a clean slash, he cuts the ribbon before it hits him. But the kid doesn't stop. He whips the ribbon again, and this time, it stretches even further, wrapping around the tall guy's sword before he can react. In one swift motion, the kid rips the weapon right out of his hands.
I freeze, watching the fight. Something about it makes my chest tighten. That sword… it appeared out of nowhere, just like mine did.
My mind races. Could there be others like me? Is that what these guys are recruiting for?
Something clicks inside me, a memory I've been trying to bury. I grip my sword tighter, unsure if I'm terrified or furious. Either way, I can't ignore what's happening.
This information is highly valuable. If these two thugs are connected to the mafia, it means this isn't some run-of-the-mill operation. No, this mafia is targeting people who have awakened powers—people like me. That raises a bigger question: why? What's their endgame?
My eyes narrow as I focus on the fight. Something about their weapons catches my attention. That ribbon—it shouldn't be dangerous, but it stretches and twists unnaturally, almost like it's alive. Can awakened weapons be anything?
"So, you're a manifester," Ribbon Guy sneers, his voice laced with mockery. "Well, it seems like I've already gotten my answer. I'll just kill you now."
I see the ribbon snap forward, wrapping around the sword in the manifester's hand. For a moment, it seems harmless—almost sluggish—but then something changes. The ribbon starts to glow faintly, its surface rippling like water. It's absorbing the sword. No, not just the sword—the power within it. I can feel the shift even from here. That ribbon isn't just getting stronger; it's becoming sharper, deadlier.
The short guy steps forward, a grim expression on his face. With a wave of his hand, a hammer materializes in his grip, glowing faintly with his own power. He adjusts his stance, planting his feet firmly.
"If only you joined us," he says, his voice low and heavy. "Your powers seem highly useful. A shame, really."
The short thug smirked, flexing his grip on the glowing hammer as the ribbon flared out like a whip in Ribbon Guy's hand. "You talk too much," he said, his voice steady and unbothered. "Let's get this over with."
Ribbon Guy's smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly covered it up. The ribbon unfurled, splitting into strands that lashed toward the short thug, moving like snakes through the air.
The short thug didn't flinch. He swung his hammer downward, slamming it into the ground with brutal precision. The earth cracked and groaned as a shockwave ripped through the alley, sending chunks of debris flying. The ribbon strands were knocked off course, some cut short as the jagged rocks tore through them.
Ribbon Guy jumped back, his movements agile. "Impressive," he said, his voice laced with false bravado. "But you'll have to do better than throwing dirt at me."
The short thug didn't respond. He lifted his hammer again, bringing it down with enough force to send another ripple through the ground. This time, the earth buckled and surged upward in a wave, hurtling jagged stones straight at Ribbon Guy.
Ribbon Guy spun his ribbon in a wide arc, deflecting most of the debris, but one chunk slammed into his shoulder, forcing a grunt of pain.
"See, that's the problem with you," the short thug said, taking a slow step forward. "You think a fancy weapon makes you strong. But power? Real power? It comes from knowing how to use it."
With that, he slammed the hammer down again, but this time the force was concentrated a pinpoint shockwave that sent a narrow spike of earth shooting up from the ground. Ribbon Guy dodged, but the movement threw him off balance.
The short thug was on him in an instant. He swung his hammer with terrifying speed, aiming low. Ribbon Guy twisted, using his ribbon to block, but the hammer collided with it, sending a jarring vibration through his arm. The ribbon frayed where the hammer struck, its glow dimming.
Ribbon Guy staggered back, his confidence wavering. "You think brute force is enough to beat me?" he spat, extending the ribbon again. It lashed out toward the short thug's head, faster this time, more desperate.
The short thug dodged with ease, stepping into the attack rather than away from it. He swung the hammer upward in a brutal arc, catching the ribbon mid-strike and severing it into pieces.
Ribbon Guy froze, staring at the torn weapon in disbelief. "No—!"
"Lesson number two," the short thug said, raising his hammer for the final blow. "Don't rely on your weapon if you can't back it up yourself."
He brought the hammer down, not on Ribbon Guy, but on the ground directly in front of him. The resulting shockwave erupted like an explosion, sending a wall of jagged earth crashing into Ribbon Guy. The force sent him flying, slamming into the wall of the alley with a sickening thud.
Ribbon Guy crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain, his ribbon limp and lifeless beside him.
The short thug stepped forward, resting the hammer on his shoulder. "Told you this would be quick." He glanced down at his defeated opponent, then spat on the ground. "Pathetic."
Without another word, he turned and began walking away, leaving Ribbon Guy broken dying on the floor.
He's strong. Too strong. If I had that kind of strength.. no, I can't let myself think like that. I have to get stronger, stronger than him, stronger than all of them. I'll take them down the mafia, the thugs, every last one of them and I'll find my sister.
The thought keeps me moving as I make my way home, step by step. The fight left me drained, but I push the exhaustion down. When I step through the door, the old man is waiting, sitting in his usual chair with his arms crossed, his face as unreadable as ever.
"So, you were skipping again," he says, his tone making it clear he already knows the answer.
Damn. I need an excuse.
"No, I wasn't skipping!" I blurt out, standing straighter. "I went to school, but, uh, I had to… you know, go to the bathroom. Real bad. So I found a public one, and… lost track of time?"
The words sound ridiculous, even to me. I avoid his gaze, knowing full well he isn't buying a word of it.
"Uh-huh. Sure," he says, standing up.
Before I can react, he's behind me, and his hand lands on the back of my head with a sharp smack. My head jerks forward from the hit, and I stumble slightly.
"Hey! What the hell was that for?!" I turn to glare at him, rubbing the sore spot.
"For lying," he says calmly, his tone completely unaffected.
I scowl, rubbing my head harder. "You didn't have to hit me like that! And how do you even move that fast? One second you're sitting there, and then you're—"
"You think I'm gonna let you slack off without consequences?" he interrupts, ignoring my protests as he walks past me.
I groan and drop onto the couch, still rubbing my head. His hits always hurt way more than they should. It's like he's breaking some kind of rule of reality just to make a point. Maybe this is what they call toon force. Or maybe it's just me living in some kind of slapstick comedy. Either way, it stings.
I'm sprawled out on the couch, still rubbing the spot on the back of my head where the old man smacked me earlier. It still stings. I glance up, and there he is, standing in front of me, arms crossed, his usual scowl etched into his face.
"Hey, old man," I mutter, breaking the silence. "You know anything about people who awaken weird powers? They're called manifesters or something."
His eyes narrow, and for a second, it feels like hes searching my soul, trying to peel back my thoughts and see what I'm really asking. The room feels heavy, like his gaze alone could knock the air out of me.
Finally, he steps closer, looking down at me. "Nope," he says flatly. "Never heard of 'em." His voice is casual, but I can tell he's holding something back. "I stay in this house, keep my head down, and mind my own business. You'd be smart to do the same."
I frown, sitting up a little. "This isn't something I can just ignore. What if—"
Before I can finish, he cuts me off. "Focus on school," he says, his tone sharp now. "If you skip again tomorrow, I'll hit you even harder."
I snort, leaning back into the couch. "Yeah, yeah, you've made your point."
"Have I?" He steps closer, looming over me. For a second, I think he's about to smack me again. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're asking for trouble."
I wave him off, not bothering to respond, and push myself off the couch.
As I walk upstairs to my room, his words echo in my head. Maybe he's right about trouble, but I can't just sit around pretending everything's fine.
In my room, I glance around. The mattress is on the floor, my old laptop is propped up on a crate I use as a desk, and my guitar leans against the wall next to my closet. Not much, but it's better than most people in the slums. At least I've got a roof over my head, thanks to the old man.
I sit on the mattress and pull my laptop onto my lap. If the old man won't give me answers, I'll find them myself. After a quick boot-up, I start searching. Manifesters. Awakened powers. Mafia. Anything I can think of.
Most of it is garbage clickbait, vague rumors, nothing real. But after an hour of digging, I stumble onto an old forum buried in the far corners of the internet.
The posts are ancient, the formatting clunky, but some of the stories catch my attention. People talking about strange abilities, unexplained events, and whispers of organizations targeting those with powers.
One thread in particular stands out: "Manifesters and the Mafia – Connection?" The original post is years old, but it talks about people disappearing after awakening powers and mentions a group working in the shadows.
The replies are scattered and cryptic, but one name keeps popping up: "Keagan ."
I sit back, staring at the screen. Keagan. It's not much, but it's a lead.
I lean forward, staring at the name on the screen. Keagan. It's mentioned repeatedly in the thread, like a phantom woven through the whispers of the city. No one seems to know exactly who or what Keagan is. Some posts claim he's a ruthless enforcer, a man who works in the shadows to keep manifesters in line. Others say he's the head of a powerful mafia syndicate, orchestrating everything from kidnappings to assassinations.
One post stands out:
"Keagan isn't just a person. He's an idea, a fear they use to control manifesters. But I've seen him. Trust me, if you've awakened, stay out of the slums at night. People who cross paths with him don't come back."
The words send a chill through me, and I can't shake the feeling that this isn't just paranoia. There's something here, something real.
Another post, dated years ago, adds more fuel to the fire:
"Keagan's crew is hunting for strong manifesters. I saw them take my brother. They said he'd 'become useful.' Haven't seen him since."
I lean back against the wall, my laptop still perched on my lap. The more I read, the clearer it becomes Keagan is involved in all of this. Manifesters, the mafia, the violence I witnessed in the slums. It's all connected, and this Keagan guy is at the center of it.
The sound of the old man moving downstairs snaps me out of my thoughts. I glance toward my door, half expecting him to burst in and lecture me about staying up too late. When the coast seems clear, I refocus on the screen.
Scrolling further, I find a link to a blurry image. It's a group of people standing in an alley, their faces shadowed. One of them is holding a weapon a massive hammer while another has what looks like a tall dude with a sword. My heart skips a beat.
"It's them…" I whisper to myself.
These are the same people I saw in the slums. The hammer guy, athe sword dude And if they're connected to Keagan, then that means the mafia really is targeting manifesters.
I clench my fists. The memory of that kid, beaten and bloody, flashes through my mind. If I hadn't stepped in, they would've killed him.
I glance at the closet, where my few possessions are tucked away. My eyes linger on the cheap sword I bought at a market a few weeks ago. It's nothing special just some basic steel but it's all I have right now.
I shut the laptop and stand, pacing the small space of my room. My mind races with everything I've learned tonight. If I want answers, I have to keep digging. But this isn't just about finding my sister anymore.
This is bigger.
The slums aren't just dangerous they're a hunting ground. And Keagan's mafia is running the show.
I grab the sword from the closet, holding it for a moment as I think. My grip tightens, and I set it down next to my mattress.
If Keagan's really behind this, then I need to find him. I need to be stronger.
But first, I'll need more information. Tomorrow, I'll go back to the slums. I'll watch, I'll listen, and I'll find out who Keagan really is.
The next day drags on as usual. The halls are crowded with students rushing between classes, the chatter of a hundred different conversations filling the air. I move through the crowd, my thoughts still on what I uncovered last night about Keagan and the mafia. I have a feeling I'm missing something something crucial.
I decide to start asking around. Maybe someone at school knows something.
I approach a couple of guys leaning against the lockers, laughing and joking like it's any other day.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual. "You know anyone named Keagan?"
They stop laughing for a moment, exchanging confused glances. One of them shrugs and looks me up and down like I'm asking about some mythical creature.
"Keagan? Dude, you're asking about someone from a fairy tale or something. Never heard of him," the taller one says, then smirks. "You sure you're not just trying to sound cool?"
I feel my face flush with irritation but try not to show it. "Nah, I'm serious. Just asking around."
They both just stare at me for a second before the taller one snorts. "Weird. Whatever, man," he mutters, turning back to his conversation.
I don't let it get to me. I move on to the next group of kids near the cafeteria. I ask the same question, but the result is the same—confused glances, a few chuckles, and more dismissals. It's like I'm speaking a different language.
"Keagan?" One girl asks, her voice laced with mock curiosity. "Are you some kind of detective or something?"
I shake my head, frustrated. None of them know. Or maybe they're just playing dumb. Either way, it's not getting me anywhere.
Just as I turn to leave, I hear a voice behind me.
"Keagan? You're looking for him?"
I stop in my tracks, then turn around to see a guy with messy red hair standing there. He looks familiar, and it takes me a second to place him. This is the guy I knocked over in the hallway a few weeks ago, the one who didn't even flinch when I shoved him.
I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah. You know him?"
The red-haired guy studies me for a moment, then glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers. His expression softens slightly, and he steps closer.
"I overheard you asking," he says in a low voice. "And I'm… trying to find him too."
My interest spikes. This is the first time anyone has seemed even remotely familiar with the name.
"Really?" I ask, my voice a little sharper than I meant. "Why?"
He hesitates before answering, and I get the feeling he's choosing his words carefully. "Let's just say… I've got my own reasons. But I know someone who's connected to him. Or at least, to his crew."
I narrow my eyes. This guy seems to know more than he's letting on.
"You have any idea where I can find him?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
He shakes his head. "Not yet. But if you're serious, I can help. I'm looking for him too. It's dangerous, though. You sure you want to get involved?"
I don't hesitate. "If it gets me closer to finding out what's going on, then yeah. I'm in."
The red-haired guy looks me up and down, sizing me up like he's trying to figure out whether or not I'm serious. Finally, he gives a small nod.
"Alright. Meet me after school. I know a place we can talk. You'll want to hear what I've got."
I nod in agreement, a mix of excitement and caution in my chest. Finally, someone who knows something. This is one of the biggest steps I've taken in figuring out this mystery.