It was… quite frankly, fucking impossible to process all this. My brain felt like it was trying to sprint through a labyrinth made of anxiety and adrenaline. Magic? Otherworldly weapons? Sinister priest mentors? Yeah, this was totally normal. Not like I was losing my mind or anything.
Father Sinclair seemed to notice my mental breakdown because his face softened, like he was holding back some comment about my deer-in-headlights expression. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, though, and when he finally spoke, his tone was measured—almost deliberate.
"I'd like to propose something to you," he said, his voice low and calm.
That snapped me out of my daze. My head tilted slightly, suspicion bubbling to the surface. "What kind of deal?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager.
He paused, as if carefully choosing his next words. Then he leaned forward, locking his piercing gaze with mine. "I want to take you under my wing. As my protégé, my disciple, or whatever term makes you feel special." His words carried an intensity that made my stomach flip.
My eyes widened as my brain raced to catch up. This was not where I thought this conversation was heading. My thoughts whirled faster than the crappy ceiling fan in my old bedroom. Why is the world moving so fast?
Pros and cons. I needed to focus on the pros and cons. He was powerful—probably the second most powerful thing here, right after the scythe. He was also a priest, which, in my mind, meant he was probably a decent guy. Right? Priests are supposed to be nice. That's like, a rule… isn't it?
But…
"Why?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. "I'm sure you're not telling me the whole story. What's the real reason you want me to train under you?"
Father Sinclair exhaled slowly, his gaze turning distant. For a moment, he looked older—tired, even. "It's simple, really. In all my years, I've crossed paths with countless beings—creatures, foes, and allies. They had powers ranging from wielding fire to controlling time itself." His voice dipped, tinged with an odd melancholy. "But I've never met anyone like you. Your circumstances are… unique. Call it curiosity, if you must. I want to see how far someone like you can go in a world where magic reigns supreme."
He hesitated, then chuckled softly. "And maybe, just maybe, I'm an old man who's never had a disciple. Everyone else in the Church has passed their knowledge on to someone… but not me. I have no kin. Perhaps I wish to experience that, even once, before I leave this world."
His words struck a chord I didn't expect. For a moment, I almost felt bad for him. Almost. Then his voice sharpened, and the gravity of his next words hit me like a truck.
"But I warn you—accepting this will change your life forever. You'll step into a world where danger lurks at every turn. Trust will become a luxury. Your friends and family won't be safe anymore. And the comforts you've known? Gone. Permanently."
His tone sent a chill down my spine, making my hands clench involuntarily.
And yet… he was right. Once I accepted, I'd never be the same. For fourteen years, I'd lived a normal life—one filled with stability and mundane dreams: a loving wife, three kids, a peaceful retirement in the countryside. But deep down, I knew I didn't belong to that dream anymore. Not after today.
"Fine," I muttered, my voice steady but quiet. "I accept."
Father Sinclair's face split into a wide grin. He clapped his hands together, his excitement practically radiating off him. "Excellent! Yes, truly excellent! What a day—what a lovely day! The best I've had in years!" He let out a hearty laugh and grabbed my arm, yanking me to my feet with a surprising amount of force.
I yelped, wincing at the sudden movement. "Ow, what the hell, old man?!"
"Oh, my bad," he said, waving it off with a light spell that instantly healed me.
I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why the hell didn't you do that earlier?!"
He gave me a sheepish look. "Uh… I wasn't sure if you were an enemy yet."
This bastard.
As we stepped outside, I couldn't help but glance back at the scythe, which had been eerily quiet throughout our conversation. Suddenly, it shimmered and shot toward me, stopping just inches away. It crackled with dark purple sparks, the energy curling around it like an aura of pure malice. It felt… alive, almost playful, like it was mocking me.
"What the—" I started, stumbling back.
Father Sinclair let out a long, impressed whistle. "I never thought I'd see the day that thing would be tamed. Honestly, I didn't think it was possible." He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Best not tell the Church about this, by the way. The Pope would lose his mind. It's, uh, kind of forbidden knowledge."
I blinked. "Are you serious? The Pope? Forbidden? Why are you trusted with this thing, then?"
He chuckled dryly, running a hand through his hair. "Ah, well, once upon a time, I was a big deal in the Church. These days? Let's just say our relationship is… strained." His face darkened briefly, like he was reliving a bad memory. "The scythe was almost transported to the Vatican once, but when the seals around it weakened, its power spilled out. Hundreds of beings—demons, angels, and things I don't even have names for—were drawn to it. Many good people died, including my mentor. Since then, it's stayed here, locked away."
He glanced at the weapon. "It's not just a weapon, you know. It grows stronger with every soul it reaps."
The revelation sent chills down my spine. I looked at the scythe again, its dark energy swirling ominously. A weapon that grows stronger the more it kills… fitting, in a terrifying sort of way.
"Right, enough questions for now," Sinclair said briskly. "You're moving in with me."
"Wait, what?!" I sputtered.
"If I'm going to mentor you, you'll need to be under my guidance 24/7. Non-negotiable."
I opened my mouth to protest but stopped myself. What life am I clinging to?
"Tomorrow, I'll erase your existence from the town's memory," Sinclair said matter-of-factly. "You can choose to let certain people remember you, but it won't bring anyone comfort. Trust me."
I hesitated, then sighed. "Just… erase me completely."
He nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, let's get moving. I'm knackered."
Two miles later, after a grueling uphill climb, we reached his home—a cozy wooden house perched on a hilltop, surrounded by a small garden and a breathtaking view.
Inside, it looked exactly like an old scholar's hideout: books and scrolls piled everywhere, a fireplace crackling warmly, and a faint smell of tea and ink. My room was small and bare, just a single bed and a lamp. Not exactly luxury, but better than I expected.
Sinclair yawned loudly. "Right, first command: rest. Eight hours, minimum. You look like death warmed over."
"Goodnight, Father… or whatever I should call you," I said, climbing into bed.
He laughed heartily. "Call me whatever you like, kiddo. Sleep tight."
As I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, a strange unease settled over me. I couldn't shake the feeling that today's decision—this path I'd chosen—would haunt me.
Little did I know, I'd soon come to regret this decision.