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DATE:21st of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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I got called from back in Concord as I was finishing breakfast—a simple salad thrown together from whatever I saw more appetizing at the restaurant. I wasn't really going for 'heathy' with this one.
Alice's voice sounded lighter than I expected, though there was an edge of anxiety she couldn't fully hide. "I haven't heard from you in days," she said.
She was right. I'd ignored her.
"Busy," I said flatly, stabbing another forkful of greens. "How's your mother?" Was I too casual? I don't even know at this point. Things have been hectic here. I can't imagine how hard she worked over there.
There was a pause, one that stretched long enough to make me lower my fork.
"They... took her," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "The Combine Gang. I don't know why, but they have her."
I frowned. "Why keep her alive?" That was really strange. Her father who had so many drug recipes was spared, but her useless mother was kept alive?
"I don't know," she repeated, her voice shaky. "I'm getting ready to go after them."
"You? Alone?"
"No," she said quickly. "The League's council wants you back, but I told them I'd cover for you until you're done."
"Thanks," I said. The words were automatic. I didn't care about the League's opinion of me, or whether I even stayed as leader. It didn't matter.
Alice hesitated again. "You're still... doing your paperwork, right? That's part of the reason they're not making a fuss about your leave."
"Emily's doing it. I didn't even know she was." Right, I answered it on the fly, but this was news for me.
"Oh." There was a pause. "Well, that's good. Keep in touch, okay?"
I didn't answer.
As the call ended, I leaned back in my chair, staring at the empty plate in front of me.
Emily's voice buzzed faintly in my ear. "You didn't tell her anything."
"There's nothing to tell," I said, standing. What was Emily even expecting? To describe how vicious the mafia is? Or how horrible the locals are? It would be pointless.
---
I got dressed, holstering the SmartGun as I glanced in the mirror. My reflection stared back, faintly unfamiliar, as though the person I once was had been replaced by the shell of a man with a singular purpose. This wasn't the first time my reflection didn't work.
It was time to return home.
But where?
I rubbed my temple, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Memory fragments floated in my mind—faces I knew were relatives, places that felt familiar—but nothing tangible. Nothing useful. I didn't remember any of their names. Not even my address or theirs for that matter.
Except one.
The Church of Saturn in my neighborhood. My uncle was a priest there, and while I couldn't remember his name or where he lived, I knew the location of the church. At least after a quick search on the maps.
---
The Normandians forbade the construction of new temples after the conquest, forcing Ventian priests to adapt their pagan rituals to Normandian-style churches. The clergymen had hoped we'd convert to their religion, but it never took that route.
Instead, we corrupted their intentions, building Normandian churches and desecrating them with our own traditions. The Church of Saturn was no different, its faithless walls housing centuries-old pagan rituals. Celebrations in the name of Saturn were done on Saturday. My uncle would sometimes gather me and my neighbours kids to attend lectures and seminars. He had a bad habit of beating those who were rowdy.
He was never criticized by their parents. Apparently they found his motives just and "holy".
Emily wasn't wrong when she called Mithras unpopular. This uncle of mine, the priest, probably had no idea who he was; only the Syndicate kept his name alive. Without their money, even the temple in Genova wouldn't exist.
---
The Church of Saturn loomed ahead, its unassuming brick facade flanked by narrow alleys. A single bell tower rose into the sky, its Normandian design stark and utilitarian.
Inside, the air was cool and still, the faint scent of melted wax lingering in the quiet. The building was empty—Wednesday was dedicated to Mercury, and my uncle wouldn't have reason to be here unless someone had died.
I can believe how many criminals pretended to be faithful under this very roof. All of these years...
Still, I couldn't wait three more days. Answers couldn't wait.
Emily's voice broke the silence. "This place feels... wrong."
"It is," I replied, my voice echoing faintly in the emptiness.
The stained-glass windows, depicting Normandian saints, cast fractured patterns across the floor, though they were meaningless here. This wasn't a house of their god. It never was.
The church was open.
That meant there was at least one priest in attendance. Even a place like this wouldn't be spared by desperate thieves if it were left unguarded. I moved toward the Iconostasis, its painted panels depicting "The Great Savior" in the Unified style. I never understood the religion.
The gates to the altar were closed, but the lock was crude. Sliding my hand through the opening in the wood, I unlatched it easily.
The altar stood at the center, carved from stone and dedicated to Saturn. The locals liked to complain that the Iconostasis was placed there to punish them, blocking their view of the statue's "majesty." They never cared to learn it was part of the religion they claimed to despise.
But what matter to me was that my uncle wasn't here.
---
On a table to the side, wrapped in red cloth, lay the form of a knife.
Uncovering it, I found a blade meant for animal sacrifices. Its hilt was silver—or so they liked to claim—with a polished ruby embedded near the guard. The blade was sharp and clean, the product of careful maintenance despite its frequent use. They brought it out every Saturday. While symbolic, it was impractical. Silver was too sensitive for the wear and tear of weekly rituals.
The blade's weight in my hand felt strange.
Where was the priest who left this church unlocked?
---
I froze, the sound of faint footsteps echoing from the hallway.
Hiding against the Iconostasis, I waited as the figure approached, slipping through the unlocked gate.
In one smooth motion, I stepped behind him and clamped a hand over his mouth. He stiffened under my grip, but the moment I bent my head to see his face, I knew.
White hair, small eyes, the scars near his nose and beard from decades of cheap blades—his look had barely changed. He was older now, frailer, but there was no mistaking him. My uncle.
I released him, and he stumbled back, grabbing the ritual knife from its place on the table.
"So much for it being 'sacred,'" I muttered, my voice dripping with irony.
His eyes darted toward me, fear flickering behind his confusion. "Who are you? Why are you in the Altar?"
I tilted my head, watching him with faint amusement. "How do you not recognize your own nephew?"
He froze.
Raising my left hand, I mimicked one of the poorly posed prayer signs he used to drill into us as children, a crooked grin tugging at my lips.
"Kassius?" he whispered weakly. So that was my name. Kassius meant Empty or Vain in old Ventian. How ironic.
"Who else hated these vain gods as much as me?" I'm not sure he would get that joke.
His expression shifted, his face reddening with shock. He stepped forward and swung his hand toward me in an attempt to slap me across the face, but I caught his wrist easily.
"I'm not a frail little boy anymore," I said coldly. "You? You're as skeletal as ever, Uncle."
"Y-You can't be... the son of the Ianii," he stammered. "His whole family died in a fire." Ianii wasn't my father's name. That is how a butcher was called in Old Ventian.
"The fire did kill my family," I said simply. "But I ran away. The rest is... a long story."
I released his hand, and he stumbled back, gripping the knife like a lifeline. Even then he didn't try to stab me earlier. Was he perhaps scared of what would happen if he failed?
"There's no reason to waste time," I continued. "I came here to find what remains of our house. I can't remember where it was."
His confusion deepened, his lips trembling as he stared at me. Twenty-five years. That's how long it had been since the fire. Of course he was struggling.
But I didn't feel anything—not anger, not grief, not relief. Whatever tethered me to this man had burned away long ago.
Still, I needed answers.
---
"Are you going to put that knife down?" I asked, nodding toward the blade in his hand.
The question snapped him out of his trance. Slowly, he lowered the knife, Placing it back on the cloth before glancing toward the exit of the altar.
Without speaking, he walked toward it, unlocking the gate and placing the key neatly on the door.
I followed, a few steps behind, watching as his shoulders hunched slightly, his frailty more apparent now than it had ever been.
The silence between us was heavy, his years of absence weighing down every step. He was strangely scared, but I didn't know why. I certainly wasn't.
I wasn't sure if he was glad I was back, or if he wished I had stayed dead.
The corridors between the three-story buildings were tight, cramped, and painfully familiar.
Not because I used to play here—God, no. I wasn't allowed outside as a child. But this place carried its own kind of nostalgia, bitter and biting. The memories weren't mine, but they clung to the bricks like old scars.
Scars like the ones my classmates used to show off in fifth grade, earned from beatings that took place right here in these same corridors. Future gangsters in the making.
I glanced at my uncle as he stumbled slightly, his left foot dragging awkwardly. A reminder that even priests weren't spared here. He had either been mugged or worse at some point, yet despite his frailty, he continued on as if the streets weren't filled with predators.
---
"Why were you at the church on a Wednesday?" I asked, my tone sharp. "And with the ritual knife, no less."
"My business, not yours," he muttered, his voice harsh and dismissive.
I clenched my jaw, briefly debating whether to slap him, but the sound of whistles interrupted us.
---
They came from ahead—three men stepping into the narrow corridor, their blades catching the faint light that filtered between the buildings.
Behind us, more gangsters emerged from a doorway.
My uncle tried speaking to them, gesturing with his free hand as though reasoning with animals ever worked. His words were pointless, little more than noise.
I didn't have time for this.
---
My hand darted for the SmartGun, firing three quick, precise shots into the men blocking our path.
The first fell instantly, the bullet carving through his temple. The second spun sideways as the shot hit his chest, and the third collapsed with a bullet in his throat.
I jumped forward, ducking under a slash from one of the gangsters behind us before sending a shot cleanly through his head.
The last man hesitated, his blade trembling for a fraction of a second before he turned to run. I shot him once in the lung, once in the neck, and once in the stomach.
No survivors.
---
I didn't bother glancing at my uncle's expression.
When he froze, rooted to the spot, I grabbed his collar and pulled him forward, dragging his frail frame past the narrow section before throwing him to the ground.
"Are you insane?" he shouted, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Why did you kill them? They were—"
"I don't care who they were, old man." My voice cut through his protest like a blade. "Move."
His mouth opened as though he had more to say, but I raised the gun slightly, silencing him. He staggered forward, his steps unsteady but obedient. What was he going to do? Belittle me about morality? As if he was moral. A preacher to criminals. Just being witness to all their sins and not doing anything to change that should be a crime. He has no right to define good from bad if he doesn't impose that standard on people that flock to him. As if the gods would forgive our crimes. If Saturn was real he would spit on my uncle for his lies. That is the greatest crime of all. To tell these murderers that they don't need to change their lives because the gods will forgive all their crimes just with some praying and a little animal sacrifice. It was almost evil.
And he questioned me?
I think that Emily was also on his side, but she didn't raise her voice.
---
We reached a small park, where a fountain stood at its center, the water long since dried up. My uncle pointed toward a building across the way, his trembling finger aimed at a burned-out husk at the crossroads of two streets.
"That was your home," he said softly.
The structure was skeletal, blackened beams jutting into the air like broken ribs. It was in pieces, but I could remember it. On the ground floor was the Butchery, the cellar being storage, The first floor was the kitchen, the bathroom and our guest room and on the second floor were the rest of the rooms. Yes, now that I'm close I can visualize it. all these fragments coming together like a cheap kind of puzzle, with uneven edges and random pieces. It was all here.
I stepped toward it, my body tense, but a wave of nausea stopped me in my tracks. Gritting my teeth, I climbed onto the edge of the fountain, sitting heavily.
Emily expressed words of encouragement, but they went deaf for me.
---
My uncle tried to leave, but I called after him weakly.
"How was my father named?"
He hesitated before turning back, his white eyebrows furrowing. "Your Father's name is Marcellus, son of Dramaticus. Your mother was called Mirabella". Taking a seat beside me, he chuckled bitterly as he looked toward the burned building.
"You drank from the River Lethe?" he asked. "No wonder your presence is so unfamiliar."
I knew the reference. Lethe—the River of Forgetfulness, or Oblivion. Souls drank from it before reincarnation, their past lives erased. I am 100% sure that this wasn't the reason for my holes in memory.
"That's not what happened," I replied sharply.
He ignored me, continuing as though he hadn't heard. "I felt you would come. Something was wrong—I could feel it. I brought the knife to the church, ready for a soul's passing."
"You're wrong," I snapped.
He turned to me, his expression calm but unreadable. "Now that you've seen the scene of your parents' end, you can rest. We can come back and finish the ritual."
My hand moved instinctively, the slap cracking through the silence.
"Stop living inside your theology," I growled. "I'm not a ghost. I'm not a soul. This is a body—a real body."
I slapped him again, harder this time, as though to prove the point. "Was that mental?"
"Dreams can occur even in real life".
Naah. I had enough. I punch him in the cheek, holding him by the collar to not fall. I was extremely angry. His words were almost some kind of insult. 'The dead speak' kind of humor. "Is this also a metaphor you cunt?"
He opened his mouth to reply, but I drew the gun, the click of the hammer silencing him.
"Those men are dead. If you want to move something to the afterlife, go bury them."
His lips trembled, but no words came out. Finally, he nodded.
"I'll be at the church," he said quietly before rising and walking away without another word.
Fuck this. A god this, a god that... God's aren't real. Reincarnation isn't real!...
I am such a fool. Superpowers are miracles yet I try to think of them like science. Isn't that just hypocrisy?
I sat by the fountain, staring at the burned building as the sun dipped below the horizon. There was just so much to think... to say... Marcellus huh? And I am Kassius? I suppose I now have to face him. That was the reason for coming here in the first place. But how to do that? I was starting to feel tired.
And as my eyes seemed to weigh down, despite Emily's cries, I think I fell asleep? Falling into the fountain...