The twilight's dim light faintly illuminated the stained glass windows of the old church, casting broken colors across the worn pews. The air was thick with silence, disturbed only by the faint rustling of the rosary beads as they slid through his fingers, one prayer after another. Each bead clicked softly, a quiet echo that disappeared into the vast, empty space of the church.
"Amen," he whispered, his voice steady and clear.
The man stood, the long black robe fluttering gently as he rose with practiced grace. His movements were fluid, betraying the strength and energy that still pulsed through him despite the calmness in his demeanor. He wasn't weighed down by age, but rather by the responsibility he had chosen to bear. His hand slid into the pocket of his robe, pulling out a weathered Marlboro pack, the edges frayed from years of constant use. With a swift, almost automatic motion, he drew out a cigarette and placed it between his lips.
Striking a match, the sudden flame illuminated his sharp, youthful features. His eyes—sharp, yet filled with the quiet understanding that came from seeing too much too soon—reflected the flicker of the fire. He inhaled deeply, the smoke filling his lungs before it escaped his lips in lazy tendrils, rising and dissolving into the shadows around him.
It's time to return, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate like the prayers he had just uttered.
Without another word, he turned and walked down the aisle, his boots tapping lightly on the stone floor. The cigarette dangled from his lips, casting a faint orange glow as he made his way to the exit. The weight of his purpose settled on his shoulders, but it didn't slow his stride.
__________
John's eyes flickered open, greeted by the soft warmth of sunlight filtering through the thin fabric of his tent. The sounds of life in De Witt camp were already well underway—children laughing, the murmur of conversations, and the distant clatter of makeshift tools. The camp had woken long before him, as it often did.
"Wake up, Grace. It's time for school," John said, his voice calm but insistent.
"Do I have to?" came the muffled response from the bundle of blankets beside him.
"Yes, you do. Come on," John replied, pulling the covers back just enough to reveal Grace's sleepy face.
The girl squinted at him, her brow furrowed in protest, but she knew better than to argue.
Rules were rules, and in this new world, discipline was survival.
Father Jeffrey had insisted on setting up a school of sorts for the children in the camp. It was a strange echo of the old world, an attempt to maintain some sense of normalcy amid the chaos that had become their lives. The kids needed to learn—reading, writing, arithmetic—but perhaps more importantly, they needed structure.
John tugged on his boots, his movements quick and efficient, though he couldn't help but feel the heaviness of the day settling in already. His hair, still messy from sleep, fell into his eyes as he yanked on his jacket. He glanced back at Grace, who was slowly dragging herself out of bed.
"Isabelle will take you today," he said, zipping up his jacket. "I have to leave early."
Grace sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Okay. Be careful."
John smiled softly, ruffling her hair. "I will. I always am."
His hand brushed the flap of the tent aside, and he stepped out into the daylight. The sun was already high in the sky, its warmth doing little to chase away the tension that hung in the air. De Witt camp stretched out before him, a ragtag collection of tents and makeshift structures. It wasn't much, but it was home—for now.
"Morning!" Kevin's voice rang out from a few tents down, his usual grin plastered across his face.
"Morning," John replied, though his tone was more clipped than cheerful. Kevin was always far too chipper for this early in the day.
"Ready for another exciting day of survival?" Kevin joked, jogging over to meet him.
John raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, thrilling."
Kevin chuckled, not missing a beat. "You can't fool me, man. I know you love the adrenaline rush."
"Right," John said dryly, brushing past him.
"Listen, can you wait for Isabelle? I need to head out."
Kevin nodded, clapping John on the shoulder. "No problem. Stay safe out there."
John offered a quick nod of thanks before heading toward the camp's gates. Since arriving here, his days had fallen into a routine—helping Grace, scouting for supplies, and searching for his parents. But every day, the hope of finding them grew dimmer.
Once outside the gates, John pulled out a worn map from his pocket. His eyes traced the faded lines and red marks that littered the page. Each mark represented a place he had searched, each one a dead end.
"Today's Columbia," he muttered to himself, folding the map back up and shoving it into his pocket.
__________
The cold streets of New York welcomed him like old friends. The towering buildings that once bustled with life now stood as silent, looming sentinels over the empty roads. John's footsteps echoed as he walked, the only sound in the otherwise still city.
His breath fogged in the chilly air as he moved through the desolate streets, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. He wasn't alone. He never was.
Magic Missile.
At his command, the magic circles in his palm flared to life, spinning rapidly as mana condensed into a glowing orb. His wrist flicked, sending the missile flying down the alley. It zipped through the air, then curved sharply around the corner.
Boom.
A guttural scream followed the explosion.
John's eyes narrowed as he turned the corner, his gaze falling on the dark alley where the source of the sound had come from. He knew what was waiting for him.
___________
"Good morning, Father Jeffrey!" a passerby called, waving.
"Morning, Father!" another added.
The priest nodded in response to each greeting, his eyes scanning the faces of his community—his flock.
They were his responsibility, his purpose. His tools.
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned, and forgive me for what I will continue to do, he thought, the weight of his choices heavy in his mind.
____________
The creatures that watched him from the shadows blinked, their glowing eyes fixed on him. Among the writhing mass of beasts, one stood out—larger, more grotesque than the rest. Its deformed limbs twitched as its antennae swayed in the air. Its wings, like those of a beetle, fluttered restlessly.
"Fireball," John whispered.
A ball of flame materialized in his hand, burning brightly against the cold darkness of the alley.
"Wind Ball," he muttered, his other hand conjuring a spinning vortex of air.
The two spells swirled together, growing larger with each passing second. John's eyes gleamed with cold determination as he released the combined spell, sending it hurtling toward the creatures.
Boom!
The explosion rocked the alley, flames engulfing everything in their path. The creatures shrieked in agony as the fire consumed them, their bodies disintegrating into ash.
_____________
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE RECEIVED 400 EXPERIENCE POINTS!
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____________
John smiled to himself as he watched the ash settle.
"Being a mage definitely has its perks," he muttered.
_____________
Only the glow of the cigarette illuminated the small room now. The man exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift lazily toward the ceiling. He shut the door behind him with a soft click, the cold stone walls of the corridor stretching out before him.
No one screamed. No one groaned.
His eyes lingered on the darkened room for a moment longer, before he turned and walked away.
"Genesis, chapters six and seven—God's wrath upon the wickedness of man. He flooded the earth, sparing only Noah and his family," he recited under his breath, his voice calm. "Men, women, children, all drowned in unimaginable agony."
He made the sign of the cross, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.