The Endless Balance of an Ancient Sorrow Volume 1 GC Prologue and Chapter 1 Hands of fate, destiny unfolding

 Copyright © 2025 by Ryan Melrose 

 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author. 

This is a work of fiction. 

 All names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, real-world locations, corporations, or institutions is entirely coincidental. If you genuinely believe any character in this book is secretly based on you, you might be reading a bit too deep—or just hunting for a payout. Either way, this story isn’t about you. Maybe talk to someone about that. 

This is the first publication, written and illustrated by Ryan Melrose, and published in Australia. 

The Endless Balance of an Ancient Sorrow Gavern Codex (GC) Volume 1 

 

Prologue 

Sorcery in the Neon storm 

Fraid City a city of innovation and home of the elite that radiated in the light like a beacon. But even the brightest lights cast big shadows. The Neon Hum of Fraid City pulsated like a dying heartbeat, flickering against the rain-slick streets, casting fractured reflections through endless puddles. The air was thick with gasoline fumes and damp concrete, carrying the distant hum of a subway grinding beneath the streets. 

A girl ran. 

Her breaths came shallow and uneven, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a frantic warning. Every footstep—hers and theirs—slapped against wet pavement, echoing through the alleys in a dizzying rhythm of pursuit. 

The city swallowed her in its labyrinth of concrete walls and steel beams, each twist and turn leading her deeper into the place where good things didn’t happen. 

They were behind her. 

Three of them. 

Big Barry, built like a concrete slab, moving with the kind of heavy-footed arrogance that suggested he didn’t bother dodging obstacles—he crushed them instead. 

 Snakebite Lou, thin as a gutter rat, with a grin that could cut glass and breath that smelled like cheap whiskey and worse decisions. 

 Brimstone Pete, somewhere between cunning and completely detached, his voice low and amused like the whole chase was just for fun. 

“Where ya going, sweetheart?” Lou’s voice was mocking, slurred with too much amusement. He picked up speed, his shadow elongating beneath the flickering streetlights. 

The girl clutched her bag tighter, her knuckles turning white, her breath fogging in the cold night air. 

She wasn’t supposed to be here. 

 She wasn’t supposed to be running for her life. 

She should have been home, in her tiny one-bedroom apartment, where the sound of the city was a muffled hum through cheap drywall, where the fridge light glowed weakly behind mismatched takeout containers, where she could forget—just for a few hours—that the world outside had teeth. 

But she wasn’t home. 

She was here. 

 And they were chasing her. 

The graffiti-covered walls blurred past as she turned sharp left, her sneakers skidding against the slick pavement, barely catching traction. She could hear their laughter behind her, the kind that didn’t belong in warmth, but in dark alleys where no one was watching. 

She couldn’t stop. 

Couldn’t think. 

There was only forward. 

Her pulse screamed through her veins, her mind racing through every possible escape route, every alleyway, every shadowed turn—but each step led her closer to nowhere, the city trapping her like a puzzle with no right answer. 

The walls loomed higher, closing in. 

She hit a dead end. 

Her stomach plummeted as she turned, backing up against the cold brick, her sneakers splashing into a shallow puddle. 

The three figures emerged from the alley, casual, entertained, like they hadn’t been running at all, like they knew she had nowhere to go. 

Brimstone Pete wiped the rain off his jacket sleeve. 

Snakebite Lou stretched his arms out, cracking his knuckles. “No need to be shy.” 

Big Barry just grunted, standing like a boulder between her and the outside world. 

She clutched her bag tighter, her fingers digging into the worn fabric, eyeing them like wild raccoons that had somehow learned how to mug people. 

She knew she hit a dead end. 

Her stomach plummeted as she turned, backing up against the cold brick, her sneakers splashing into a shallow puddle. 

The three figures emerged from the alley—casual, entertained, like they hadn’t been running at all, like they knew she had nowhere to go. 

Brimstone Pete wiped the rain off his jacket sleeve, his brimstone-colored hair shifting in the wind. 

Snakebite Lou stretched his arms out, cracking his knuckles. "No need to be shy." 

Big Barry—the silent, towering presence—stood back, his stance calm, like he was here just to watch how this played out. 

The girl inhaled sharply, forcing her pulse to slow despite the panic clawing at her ribs. 

Stay calm. 

 Don’t show fear. 

"Look," she said carefully, adjusting her grip on her bag. "I don’t know what you guys think this is, but I’m not in the mood for whatever dumb crime documentary you’re trying to recreate." 

Brimstone Pete snickered. "Oh, she’s got jokes." 

Snakebite Lou grinned, running a hand over his bald head, the tattooed snake scales glistening with rain beneath the streetlights. 

"It ain't about the mood, sweetheart," Lou said, his voice thick with amusement. "It’s about how fast you can run. And you?" He nodded toward her soaked sneakers. "You don’t seem fast enough." 

She clenched her jaw, shifting her stance. 

"Yeah? Well, I may not be fast," she shot back, lifting her school bag, tightening her grip, "but I’ve got a mean swing." 

Before they could react—she moved. 

A sharp arc of movement, the strap twisting in her fingers as she swung the bag full force toward Lou’s sneering face. 

The heavy impact slammed against his jaw, sending him stumbling back, nearly losing his footing. 

Brimstone Pete laughed, clapping once. "Oh, I like her!" 

Snakebite Lou hissed, straightening up, rubbing his jaw with annoyance. 

"Alright, sweetheart," Lou muttered, stepping forward, his grin widening as he smacked the bag right out of her hands, sending it skidding into the puddles. 

She cursed inwardly, but refused to flinch. 

Lou's tongue flicked out briefly, playful, before he cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders like he was getting into the rhythm of a fight. 

"And here I was, thinking you were just gonna cry," Lou mused, tapping his temple. "Cute. But if you think a little slap is gonna slow me down, you got another thing coming." 

She shoved a hand into her jacket pocket, fingers grasping cold glass—her phone. 

Maybe she could— 

Lou moved fast. 

Before she could unlock the screen, his hand shot out, slapping the device clean from her grasp. The phone hit the concrete hard, skidding through the rain, its screen flashing once before the brightness faded. 

"Oops," Lou mocked, grinning wide. 

She swallowed hard, her heart hammering. 

Brimstone Pete leaned against the wall, hair rustling in the wind, exhaling lazily. "Man, she really thought she could pull the 911 card? Adorable." 

Big Barry, still silent, shifted slightly—just watching, as if waiting for the moment to step in. 

Snakebite Lou chuckled, rolling his wrist. 

 THEN! 

A dark maroon cape fluttered sharply in the wind, cutting through the neon city haze. Sorrow descended, boots landing so softly it was as if gravity itself barely acknowledged him. 

His wizard-like hat sat proudly atop his head, casting a faint shadow over his bluish-grey textured skin his face like a mask, the only real hint that there was something distinctly inhuman about him. 

 

 

His yellow eyes were dim, but the air around him hummed with danger, ready to flare into something terrifying at a moment’s notice. 

The hooligans stared. 

Snakebite Lou tilted his head, his tattooed scalp shimmering under the streetlights. 

Brimstone Pete scratched his jaw. "Alright. What the hell is this?" 

Big Barry simply blinked, deadpan. "Bro, this is—what? Some kind of vampire hunter?" 

Sorrow sighed. He adjusted his gloves, rolling his shoulders like this was just another annoying errand. 

"Look," he said flatly, nodding toward the girl, who was still pressed against the wall, clutching her soaked bag. "You could just not do this. Maybe go home. Maybe reconsider your entire life philosophy." 

Brimstone Pete snorted. 

Snakebite Lou grinned, flexing in a way he probably thought was intimidating. 

Big Barry cracked his knuckles. 

"That's cute," Lou sneered, taking a slow step forward. "But you got it twisted, vampire dude—we don’t back down." 

Sorrow exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Of course you don’t." 

"You talk a lot for someone who's about to eat concrete," Pete chuckled. 

"Mm." Sorrow raised a brow. "You ever think—just once—maybe you should pick a fight that doesn’t involve someone who literally descended from the sky?" 

"Yeah," Big Barry muttered. "See, that's the kind of thing that makes me wanna punch you more." 

Snakebite Lou moved first. 

His hand shot forward, a concealed knife flashing under the streetlights. 

Sorrow didn’t flinch. 

His cape moved on its own, twisting in midair like a living shadow, snaking around Lou’s wrist, catching the blade in an effortless trap. 

Before Lou could react— 

The cape threw him. 

A full-body judo toss, sending him skidding across the wet pavement like a ragdoll. 

Brimstone Pete and Big Barry rushed in, fists raised. 

Sorrow sighed. "Gentlemen, please." 

A golden glow flickered around him—then, in the blink of an eye— 

He was gone. 

The hooligans' punches missed entirely, and instead— 

They hit each other. 

Pete cursed, stumbling back, rubbing his jaw. Big Barry barely flinched. 

The girl watched in awe, mouth slightly parted, chest tight with confusion and panic. 

Who—what was this thing saving her? And was it actually saving her—or was she just caught in the middle of something worse? 

Snakebite Lou stood up, shaking off the throw, flexing his wrist. 

"You got tricks," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "I don't like tricks." 

Brimstone Pete wiped his mouth. "Guess it ain’t gonna be easy." 

Big Barry loosened his stance, eyes locked on Sorrow. 

"You still wanna talk us outta this, wizard guy?" Pete teased. 

Sorrow sighed, shaking his head slowly. 

"Oh, you already made up your minds," he muttered, raising his hands. "I just like to pretend there was a chance." 

The three hooligans stepped forward, more determined than before. 

Sorrow exhaled, yellow eyes flickering bright. 

"Fine," he murmured. "Guess we’re doing it your way." 

Sorrow exhaled deeply—the kind of sigh reserved for people who make bad life choices. 

His yellow eyes flickered, glowing brighter as his hand lifted, fingers splaying open toward the air. 

The spellbooks locked to his shoulder shuddered, their faces twisting, Pages flicking. Their glowing eyes snapped open, mouths parting with a faint whisper of incantations, as if they too were judging the sinners before them. 

The pavement hummed. 

A golden light surged outward, flickering around his wrist, running up his arm like liquid lightning, before bursting forth— 

And then, he cast the Repent Spell. 

The moment the yellow wave of magic struck the hooligans, absolute devastation unfolded. 

Big Barry dropped his knife with a strangled yelp, his face contorting in emotional agony. “I—I can’t do this anymore, man—I gotta call my grandma! I haven’t spoken to her in three years! THREE YEARS!” 

Brimstone Pete collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest like he’d been personally struck by divine intervention. "I never meant to disappoint my mother like this—I have dishonored my family! Oh, what have I done?" 

Snakebite Lou staggered, gripping the front of his own shirt as sheer existential crisis overtook him. “I—I wasted my life! I’ve never even returned a library book on time! I—I'm a menace to society!” 

The spellbooks laughed—as all the pages flickered back to the point the spellbooks closed. 

Big Barry began pulling out crumpled bills, shoving them toward the girl with shaky hands. “Here, take it—please—just… just get yourself home safe—” 

Brimstone Pete gasped. “I’ll never be rude again! I swear I’ll help old ladies cross the street—I’ll learn how to bake—I’LL JOIN A YOGA CLASS!” 

Snakebite Lou had entered a full downward spiral. “I’m gonna start a charity, man—I swear—I’ll donate my paycheck—I’ll adopt a puppy—I’LL LEARN TO KNIT!” 

Sorrow adjusted his hat, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement. 

And then it escalated—fast. 

Big Barry slapped his own forehead. “I need to stop being so toxic—I’m gonna delete ALL my burner accounts, man. I promise.” 

Brimstone Pete shoved cash toward the girl, face soaked with tears. “Take it—please—this is my apology fund—I’ll start a ‘Help Random Strangers’ club!” 

Snakebite Lou dropped to all fours, staring blankly ahead. “I'm gonna rescue abandoned kittens. I swear. I’ll knit little sweaters for them. I’ll open a shelter. I’ll—” He wheezed, dramatic. “I’ll become a GOOD PERSON!” 

Then—Lou grabbed the girl’s wrist, eyes glassy, lips trembling. 

"Ma’am. I know you can just beat me. Yeah beat me within an inch of my pathetic life—that makes us even, right? I need to atone.” 

The girl jerked her hand away, wide-eyed, blinking rapidly. “…What the actual hell?” 

Sorrow let out another sigh—this one deeper, more tired. 

Then, bathed in golden light, he vanished—leaving behind a completely dumbfounded schoolgirl, three sobbing criminals, and a pile of guilt-driven cash that would definitely cover a taxi ride home—and possibly a self-care spa day. 

  

The Agents of FATE were quick on the scene they were Fraid City peace keeping authority higher than your typical Australian Police Departments. 

The FATE Agents exchanged glances, utterly baffled. 

Three notorious criminals were begging to be locked away, sobbing through their confessions as if prison were a heavenly sanctuary. 

Agent Eye stood at the centre of it all, motionless, assessing the chaos before him. 

And then, Millana spoke. 

"Look, I know what you're thinking," she snapped, still clutching her soaked school bag like a lifeline. "This sounds ridiculous. I GET IT. But what do you want me to do, huh? Pretend it didn’t happen?" 

Agent EYE’s helmet didn’t move, but the weight of his stare was undeniable. "Miss Millana Kalako, I am simply asking you to consider how improbable this sounds." 

Millana threw her hands up, exasperated. "Sir, I almost got mugged, and then some.. THING! descended from the sky, yelled at these idiots, hit them with a magical guilt laser, and now they’re trying to bribe me with soggy twenty-dollar bills!” 

Big Barry sniffled loudly, holding out another stack of crumpled cash. 

Millana pointed aggressively. "SEE? That’s NOT normal!" 

Agent Eye sighed, exhaling slowly through his helmet’s internal filters. 

Brimstone Pete hiccupped between sobs, his voice uneven. "Officer, please—just take me in—I’ll sweep the prison floors! I’ll knit socks for the elderly—I’ll never jaywalk again!" 

Snakebite Lou was fully spiraling, shaking as he muttered to himself. “I need to do charity work—I need to—volunteer at a soup kitchen—I NEED TO DONATE BLOOD—” 

Millana gestured wildly at them. "THIS. IS. INSANE." 

Agent Eye remained calm. "So, this sorcerer—did he give his name?" 

Millana scoffed. "DOES IT MATTER? He threw a guy using his cape. He literally evaporated into golden mist. I’m pretty sure physics has LEFT THE BUILDING." 

Agent Eye inclined his head slightly, just enough to give the impression of consideration. 

"And you have no idea where he went." 

Millana groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "No. He vanished like an anime protagonist doing a dramatic exit scene, okay? What do you want from me?" 

Agent Eye sighed again. 

At least the vigilante hadn’t killed anyone. 

This time. 

 

 

Introduction welcome to Fraid City 

Fraid City 

You wouldn't know it was there. 

Not unless you had the right kind of eyes, the kind that could see beyond the obvious, the kind that questioned the gaps in reality. 

Brisbane—a sprawling metropolis, a titan among Australian cities—was home to millions. Its streets buzzed with commerce, students, workers, and wanderers. To the average person, Brisbane was just Brisbane. But step in the right direction—turn down the right alleyway, pass through the right threshold—and suddenly, the city you thought you knew is no longer the city you stand in. 

This is Fraid City. 

Not a district. Not an extension. But something more. 

A city hidden inside a city, a place that shouldn’t exist, but does. 

It’s easy to miss. You could walk through Brisbane a thousand times and never find it. But it’s there, nestled in the shadows of skyscrapers, tucked between the fractured zones of urban life, resting beneath the veneer of the world’s natural order. 

You know it when you feel it. 

One moment, you’re in the chaos—the places where people bare their teeth like animals, where disputes turn to violence in the blink of an eye, where the weight of unspoken laws hangs thick in the air. 

Then, you take another step—and everything changes. 

The atmosphere is cleaner, the people calmer, the streets filled with families, students, inventors, and innovators. The marvel among the stones, the diamond in the rough—the part of the city where the best of humanity flourishes while the rest struggles to comprehend its presence. 

Fraid City is not alone. 

These hidden worlds exist everywhere, tucked into every major city, waiting for those who stumble upon them—those who realize, without even knowing how or why, that they’ve entered another place entirely. 

And once you step inside, the real question is… 

Will you ever find your way out? 

  

 Chapter 1 

Hands of fate, destiny unfolding 

 The school bell rang, but Silus barely heard it. 

Hindembar High buzzed with the usual after-school chaos—students cheering, running to their parents, laughing too loudly, filled with the energy of youth. Teachers stood near the gates, giving gentle goodbyes to their students, reminding them to stay safe, do their homework, and get some rest. 

Silus Mikana heard none of it. 

The 15 year old stepped out of the building, barely acknowledging the crowd, peeling off his stiff school shirt, revealing his streetwear underneath. He shoved the uniform deep into his bag, letting out a breath that carried the weight of everything unspoken. 

The moment his feet hit the pavement, the world narrowed. 

People moved around him, passerbyers happily engaged in their lives, unaware—or perhaps, intentionally ignorant—of the sorrow in his stride. 

He knew it was coming. 

The usual judgmental comments whispered in passing: 

"Hey, kid, lighten up—life ain't that bad." 

 "Geez, stop looking so miserable—people got it worse, you know!" 

Silus didn't react. 

What was there to say? 

No one cared about the truth behind his sadness. No one wanted to understand—they just wanted to feel better about themselves by dismissing it. 

His shoulders tightened. 

And the memories came. 

The news reports. The blurred footage of the collapsing Krane—the scaffolding that had taken everything, crushing the lives of innocents, including the only people that mattered to him. 

And then, the face of Mr. Nathaniel Hoddinger—the business tycoon responsible for overseeing that project, standing before cameras at a press conference. 

Silus could still hear his voice, crisp and carefully rehearsed, weaving an illusion of corporate remorse: 

"We deeply mourn the victims of this tragic accident. We are committed to supporting the affected families with full compensation and assistance—no one will be forgotten." 

Lies. 

None of it came. 

The families who lost everything were given promises on paper, empty words wrapped in legal jargon, with claims buried under bureaucracy so deep they were never meant to be processed. 

Silus had seen the grieving families struggle, begging for the support they were assured they would receive—only to be met with ignored phone calls, delayed responses, and rejection letters full of corporate nonsense. 

And him? 

He had nothing. 

A child who had lost his entire world, left to wander through life like a phantom, unnoticed, unimportant to the system that had wronged him. 

His fists clenched. 

His walk quickened, shoes hitting the pavement harder, pushing through the fog of his memories, forcing himself forward, despite the overwhelming despair clawing at his chest. 

By the time he reached the cemetery, night had fallen. 

The world was quieter here. The air was cool, the faint scent of damp stone and earth lingering. 

His parents’ names were etched into the tombstone, still clear despite time’s attempt to wear them down. 

He stared at them. 

His eyes burned. 

But he didn’t cry. 

He couldn’t cry anymore. 

The cemetery was quiet. 

But Silus’s mind was anything but. 

He stood before the cold stone markers of Harmon and Arlia Mikana, the names of his parents etched deep in the weathered slabs, surrounded by dirt, damp grass, and the hollow absence that had defined his life since that day. 

His fists clenched, his jaw tightened, his breath shaky—but he spoke anyway. 

Because who else would listen? 

“You planned that day for me.” 

His voice was sharp, bitter. 

“You were supposed to spend time with your son—you wanted to take me out for once, not be stuck working—JUST ONE DAY.” 

His nails dug into his palms as he exhaled sharply, trying to rein in the frustration festering inside him. 

“And what happened? What happened? They DROPPED the scaffolding. They didn’t check their equipment. They didn’t CARE. And now you’re both gone—because of incompetence. Because of greedy, lazy, careless people who couldn’t even do their damn jobs right.” 

The wind stirred. 

Silus barely noticed. 

His emotions had nowhere else to go. 

The world hadn’t given him an outlet. It hadn’t given him justice. It had only given him empty words, false promises, bureaucratic nonsense wrapped in pretty paper meant to silence grief rather than fix what was broken. 

Hoddinger stood up there and lied to everyone. He promised help—he promised ‘compensation’—but do you know what happened?” 

His laughter was hollow, sharp, bitter. 

“Nothing. NOTHING! He sat there and let families drown in the mess HIS company made, let them suffer, let them beg for help they would never get! And what did anyone do?” 

His voice rose. 

“NOTHING! Not a DAMN THING! People lost their parents, their siblings, their loved ones—and Hoddinger just kept moving forward like it was some PR hiccup!” 

His vision blurred, though whether it was from rage or sorrow, he didn’t know anymore. 

His fingers touched the stone, tracing the names as if they could still feel him. 

“I hate them. I hate this city. I hate this LIFE. I hate that everyone else just… keeps moving on like it didn’t happen.” 

Silence. 

Heavy. 

Unforgiving. 

He let out a long breath, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he murmured, voice raw now, anger fading into exhaustion. “But I miss you. Every damn day, I miss you.” 

And still, he spoke—because even if the world had stopped listening, they never would. 

He eventually fell silent Instead, he let the silence consume him, let the wind carry the weight of his emotions—because he didn’t know how to let them go otherwise. 

And then— 

The presence. 

Someone was there. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

  

standing among the graves, was a man in a suit—still, composed, his hands resting idly in his pockets, as if he belonged to the very shadows around him. 

The man stood among the graves, unmoving, watching. 

A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, ember faintly glowing in the dim light, the smoke curling up toward the sky in slow, lazy tendrils. He didn’t blink. He barely breathed. He simply observed—studying the boy before him with the kind of sharp calculation reserved for experiments rather than people. 

Silus was venting now—grief, rage, pure, unfiltered bitterness spilling into the night, his words drenched in anger so deep it threatened to drown him. 

Good. 

That’s what the man needed to see. 

He exhaled slowly, dragging the cigarette from his mouth, flicking the ash aside with a casual precision. 

This one—this boy fit the criteria well. 

He’d been shattered in all the ways that mattered. The kind of loss that wasn’t clean, that didn’t come with a sense of closure or relief—only rage and resentment, an unresolved scream trapped in his chest, clawing for a purpose it would never find. 

And this—this was exactly why Silus was the perfect recipient. 

Because he wouldn’t break further. 

He was already broken. 

This was not about kindness. Not about salvation. 

This was about a burden, one that needed a host with enough rage to keep it alive. Someone angry enough to accept it without questioning, someone who wouldn’t crumble under the weight. 

The man took another slow drag, studying the way Silus clenched his fists, the way he let his grief spill without shame, without hesitation. 

Yes. This boy would do just fine. The man had been watching Silus long before tonight. 

Long before the boy ever set foot in the cemetery. 

It had started years ago—when tragedy struck, when the scaffolding stole everything from him. That was the moment Silus became interesting. 

But grief was not enough. 

Grief alone did nothing. It could fade, soften over time, become something hollow and survivable. But rage—rage was sustainable. Resentment had weight. Bitterness had endurance. 

And so, the man ensured Silus would never heal properly. 

He watched, waited, nudged. 

His presence had always lingered, unseen, an invisible shadow at the edge of Silus’s life. He wove himself into the fabric of the boy’s misery, nudging encounters, twisting circumstances, ensuring each day carved the pain deeper. 

The whispers in passing—“Hey, kid, lighten up—life ain’t that bad.” 

 The rejection letters—bureaucratic walls blocking compensation, delaying hope, suffocating any chance for closure. 

 The suffocating presence of Hoddinger’s lies, replayed endlessly in the media, reminding Silus again and again—justice would never come. 

Each moment hardened the boy. 

Each injustice sharpened his edges, sculpting him into the perfect vessel. 

He was not ready before. 

But now—now, the bitterness had rooted itself too deeply to be pulled out. His anger had become second nature, his resentment woven into his soul. 

Finally, Silus was ripe for what came next. 

The man took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke with calm satisfaction, watching the boy vent to the graves, his voice raw, his frustration uncontainable. 

Yes. This one would do just fine. 

The gravestones stood fresh and uncaring, as Silus continued to stare at them. His fingers tightened around his father’s old, worn-out watch, gripping it like it was the last tangible piece of them he had left. 

And yet, time had betrayed them. 

They were gone. 

 And the world had moved on. 

The McGullen Corporation  had paid lip service to their deaths—an accident, they had said, something tragic and regrettable. Compensation had been offered to silence the noise, but Silus knew the truth. 

This wasn’t an accident. 

It was greed, corruption, negligence—a company cutting corners, knowing the risks, but choosing profits over people. His parents had just been casualties of a system that didn’t care. 

Silus squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. 

“They should pay for this,” he whispered to himself. 

And then— 

"They won’t." 

The voice, smooth and amused, came from behind him. 

Silus jerked his head up, startled. 

A man stood just outside the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp—black suit, polished shoes, a cigarette burning lazily between his lips. His slick hair fell just past his ears, framing his face like a shadow. Sunglasses obscured his gaze, but his grin—his wicked, knowing grin—was unmistakable. 

"It’s a darn shame,” the man mused, taking a slow drag. “Good people, taken away, because of someone else’s carelessness. And what happens next? Nothing.” He exhaled smoke into the air. "Life moves on. The rich stay rich. And you?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting behind the lenses. 

"You just get to watch." 

Silus swallowed, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. 

“…Who are you?” he asked, voice rough from grief. 

The man took a step forward, his presence almost suffocating. “My name?” He tapped the cigarette lightly, letting the ashes fall. “Not important but if it matters you can call me the Entity. What is important is what I can offer you.” 

Silus tensed, frowning. “I don’t want anything from you.” 

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “No, see—that’s where you’re wrong.” His hand gestured toward the graves, then settled back at his side. "I can see inside you, boy. I can see your pain. But more than that—" 

He leaned slightly forward, voice dropping into a murmur. 

"I can see the fire burning underneath it." 

Silus’ breath hitched, suddenly aware of just how close this stranger was—how his words pierced straight through his defenses. 

"You don’t just want justice," the man continued. "You want vengeance." 

Silus shook his head, stepping backward. “No—I just—” 

"You want them all dead, don’t you?" 

The words cut deep—too deep. 

Silus clenched his jaw, the overwhelming weight of his emotions threatening to consume him. 

"I—No, that’s not—" 

"You think it every day," the man interrupted smoothly. "You picture it—how it would feel, how it would end, how they would finally suffer. You want them to pay, and you know nothing will ever be enough unless they’re gone." The man smirks before continuing his push. "I can give it to you boy the power to make them all pay you want it don’t you look at yourself of course you do.” 

Silus’ hands trembled. 

It was true. 

 But hearing it said out loud—that was different. 

The man reached forward, placing a hand on Silus’ wrist. 

The moment their skin touched, his eyes flared red. 

A sickening crimson glow spread between them, creeping up Silus’ arm like poison, sinking into his veins, his bones, his mind. 

Pain exploded through Silus' body. 

He gasped, his pulse hammering, trying to rip his arm free. 

"No—stop!" 

The man’s smile widened. 

"Oh, but this is what you wanted," he whispered. "Don’t fight it, boy. Accept it. Embrace it." 

Silus' body shook violently, his mind twisting, bending. His vision blurred, his breath hitched— 

And then, in an instant— 

The pain shattered into power. 

His breath steadied. 

 His lips curled upward. 

 His tears were gone. 

Silus looked up—his eyes now glowing red, mirroring the man’s. 

A grin spread across his face. 

And then— 

"Hey!" 

The sharp voice came from behind them. 

The graveyard caretaker, an old man dressed in a dusty coat, approached with a scowl. "What the hell do you two think you’re doing?" 

Silus turned. 

He felt power now. 

Real power. 

His smile darkened. 

"You’re annoying," he muttered, lifting a hand toward the caretaker. 

"Please die." 

The old man stopped, blinking once. 

Then, without hesitation, he walked toward his shovel, standing