Corbyn Besson didn't stop running until he stopped at the cemetery.
The group of thieves who had been chasing him since he left school to that place have been left behind.
With difficulty, from the furthest distance from his location, one of the thieves kept shouting at him: Hey, kid! Come on, don't hide, we just want to see what you have in your backpack!
The other thieves who were following him burst out laughing.
But Corbyn didn't listen to them, he just stared into the cemetery.
In the middle of the cold of the night, the cemetery was closed, they always close it around 6:00 in the afternoon so that no one, not even an intruder or a thief or a curious person could get in to disturb those who were resting in peace there. .
Corbyn, his chest heaving from the rush to escape the hands of those ambitious thieves who had been after him since he left his evening classes that night, leaned against the rusty bars, desperately seeking to catch his lost breath.
The screams of the thieves still echoed in the distance, but his mind was focused on another matter to clearly understand what they wanted to tell him.
Through the dense fog that was beginning to cover the ground, he made out a figure walking slowly among the tombstones: an old woman in a black cloak, walking as slowly as if she were a living dead that had just woken up from its deepest sleep.
There was something about her that kept Corbyn from looking away from her presence. Something about the way he moved seemed to attract him significantly, piquing his curiosity. The old woman seemed to be heading towards a mausoleum at the end of the road, one that Corbyn had seen many times during the day when he walked by, but which now, in the darkness, seemed to be charged with a very strange energy.
Without thinking twice, he climbed the bars with such agility that he looked like a spider climbing the walls, as if he had done that so many times that he already had more than enough practice to achieve it in no time.
The metal is cold under his hands and reminded him of what he was doing: he was invading a place that did not belong to him, pursuing someone about whom he knew nothing, much less what his intentions were regarding his presence in that place. . However, a strange feeling inside pushed him to continue forward.
Who was that woman? What was he doing in the cemetery at that time of night when entry was supposed to be prohibited for anyone who wanted to enter?
It was 8:00 at night sharp. It was assumed that at that time, that lady must have already been resting at home instead of making mischief in a holy field.
Upon landing on the ground again, the wind raised the sand and dry leaves around him, whistling between the graves as if the cemetery itself was warning him not to continue forward, that he better turn around and go back the way he came because there he was. He was not going to find anything that he had possibly lost.
Corbyn watched as the great stone doors opened with a deafening creak, as if they had not been moved in many centuries.
Stealthily, Corbyn advanced, trying not to make noise so as not to alert the old woman. The boy remained crouched, walking almost on his knees and covering himself with the tombstones of the cemetery to avoid being seen by the strange woman who had not realized that Corbyn had been spying on her.
When the boy arrived at the mausoleum, the doors had already closed.
But a slight crack appeared between the stones, letting out a beam of faint light from within. The moment Corbyn approached, his heart pounding in his chest, he had a faint feeling that what he was about to do would change his life forever.
Then he put his ear against the cold surface of the door and heard… they were murmurs. The old woman's voice was mixed between whispers and chants that could be distinguished were being recited in another language that Corbyn could not recognize what it was.
The whispers and chants were heard as if they were being accompanied by a second voice, a deeper and graver one. Wasn't she alone?
Curiosity killed the cat.
Delicately, and very careful not to make too much noise, Corbyn carefully pushed the door, just enough to peek inside and see everything. What he saw made his blood run cold. The old woman no longer seemed to look fragile or helpless. She stood in front of an altar, surrounded by black candles that cast dancing shadows on the walls of the mausoleum. In her hand, she held a figure carved from bone, and before her, the air seemed to vibrate with an energy possessed by the dense darkness.
Corbyn took a step back, fear finally possessing him, but before he could take the initiative to flee, the old woman turned towards him. Her eyes, which should have looked at him with tenderness and patience, turned out to be eyes of fury and impatience. Before, those eyes had been hidden under the hood of his clothing, but now, they shone with an unnatural light, and his face, now exposed and being illuminated by the flames of the candle fire, seemed much younger, but terribly distorted.
Without changing her appearance, the woman said:
"What are you doing here, child?" His voice resonated like the echo of a deep cavern that echoed on the walls of the mausoleum.
Not knowing what to respond, Corbyn was paralyzed, he had no idea how he would get out of that situation. All his instincts screamed at him to run, but his legs did not respond to his calls. He was trapped with the intensity of the old woman's gaze, wanting to penetrate to the depths of his being.
He was no longer facing an old woman, now, he was facing a real witch.
"You made a serious mistake, you shouldn't have followed me," she sighed, and continued saying with a wicked smile on her lips: "Now you know, and I can't let you go."
Before Corbyn could react, a strange heat began to take over his body, it was a heat that did not originate from the icy air of the cemetery, nor from the candles that illuminated the scene. This warmth came from the witch's eyes, which trapped him in a kind of deep, inescapable trance. No matter how hard he fought, his mind became cloudy with every second that passed as he stared into those gloomy, devilish eyes.
Corbyn felt his will fading, as if someone or something was taking complete control of his soul and body.
The old woman, or whatever that thing was, began to recite words in a language that the boy did not understand, but that sounded as old as the very place and time in which he found himself. Yes, he recognized that that language was Hebrew, but it was an arcane Hebrew and that it was filled with much power.
The words rolled off his tongue as if they were some kind of chants that were meant to invoke unknown forces. The atmosphere became even heavier, and a dark energy began to surround Corbyn at that moment.
"Hineini Elohim, shlach et koach le'ish hazé," the witch said, her hands extended toward Corbyn, as the air vibrated around her. Atá tishmor al ha'geshem sheló ve'ten lo koach k'neged ha'choshech"
Thus, Corbyn's body began to convulse even while standing. He felt that something deep and powerful was being awakened within him. There was something he didn't understand, but it was out of his complete control. The whispers of the cemetery died down, and the only thing that existed at that moment was the voice of the witch and her chant that invoked a power that crossed the thin line that divided reality and fantasy.
The witch moved closer to him, her eyes burning with flames with a ferocious intensity. She raised both hands towards the sky covered by the cement roof of the mausoleum, and then, she whispered the final phrase of the ritual:
**"Bo'elai, Elohei Ha'Machshefot! Implant the power of your defense against dark forces into this body."**
Suddenly, a blinding white light filled the small room of the mausoleum. Corbyn's body rose into the air, suspended by an invisible force he could not resist. He felt as if his body was torn into a thousand pieces and put back together, with an unknown energy coursing through his veins in every extremity of his body.
His skin was burning, and the pain was unbearable, but somehow, he endured it. It was as if he had become the vessel for something much larger than himself.
When the light finally went out, Corbyn fell to the ground on his knees, hitting both his knees and the palms of his hands at the same time, he was panting, his heart pounding furiously inside his chest. But something had changed, he easily perceived it. Within him, a new force pulsed with great power, this was a power he had never before imagined he would experience.
"Now, you are mine," the witch announced, looking at Corbyn with satisfaction. "I have given you the power of Defense System Z. This is an ancient power that is meant to fight the dark magic that will soon take over this world. But remember, boy... This power has a price, and that price, sooner or later, you will pay.
With a lot of effort, Corbyn managed to get up. He no longer felt the same as before. The fear has disappeared from inside him. Instead, there is a strange sense of determination that seemed to have awakened in the middle of the old woman's ritual. It was a feeling of unimaginable power that he wasn't sure he knew how to control, but there it was, pulsing, ready to be used at the right moment.
"What... have you done to me?" the boy asked, his voice was hoarse, he was still trying to process everything that just happened.
The witch looked at him coldly, and decided to speak more directly and clearly so that Corbyn could understand once and for all:
"Boy, I have made you the protector, the only one capable of facing what is coming. Now, get out of here. The world out there needs you."
Without knowing exactly what those words were referring to, Corbyn obeyed and left the mausoleum. He felt power running through every vein under his skin, and every step he took resonated in his mind like a strong and precise echo. The world was no longer the same, and neither was he. Something dark was approaching, and Corbyn already sensed it, and, unintentionally, he has just become the key to stopping it.