QUARTET ALLIANCE: LEND A HAND (Wild Duty & Judgement)

Chapter 49: This Isn't You

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4:20 A.M

– Castle –

     The castle lights never shone so brightly before. The illumination reflected over the once shiniest surfaces, now stained with any material that doesn't belong there. What was supposed to be a great day became the worst. But it was to be seen, predicted even. This gorgeous, even magnificent place had the brightness of a star, however, the stronger the light, the darker the shadow, hence why there was a great diabolical phantom that existed within, ready to wound, to hurt, to kill, everything. It didn't matter.

    But what even mattered anymore? A lot. There was a lot. He needed to get out of here, not alone, with all his friends. Escaping mattered. Safety mattered. Even if it meant killing. No, he wasn't a murderer. He was only doing good.

    Cicero's head hung low as he sauntered almost lazily, occasionally raking his fingers through his hair to push the blood-soaked strands out of his face. When he chose to look up after feeling a presence far far away, his breathing hitched. A pulse beat in his ears, blocking out all other sound. His legs refused to walk anymore after that, stubbornly standing over one area, and just as stubborn, his lungs refused to take in more air. His pupils dilated as the image of the person he wanted to see the most began to slowly, very slowly get processed by his brain.

    The only muscles moving now were his lips, uttering, "Z—Zen..?"

    There was no response. Of course there wasn't. He was too far away, and Cicero was speaking too hushed even for his own ears.

     He gulped before trying again, "Zen?"

     Why was he asking it like a question? He should just call out his name, not question it, but he didn't know what was even real anymore. This deprivation was making him go insane. Had his absence been too long that his own brain couldn't believe that Zen could actually—physically be within his reach?

Cicero knew he was anxious, so anxious in fact that the statistics didn't show up before him. He couldn't read anything about Zen. He knew so because the wind felt more keen in his eyes. A tension built up behind them. He needed to shake it off.

     Now isn't the time or place for tears; just how awful would it be to be crying right now? It didn't matter, tears were already running down his face numbly. Cicero bit his lip and moved his legs once more, as if he was testing his ability to walk.

     "Ze—"

     The next moment was unclear. Only red. So much of it and it hurt. It was engulfing, suffocating him. The fire hurt, he needed to move. Cicero glanced around frantically after his senses came back. He was surrounded by a bunch of raging flames. Why did he—

     There was no time to think, Zen was already in front of him, grabbing his hair and yanking his head backward to the side with a bone crunching punch to the face. Cicero fell dangerously close to the flames and froze in shock.

     Why?

     Another punch.

     Why? 

     Warm blood trickled out of his nose. He opened his damp eyes to look at his best friend. He almost couldn't recognize him. What was with that look in his eyes?

     Cicero laid there and took every hit as if he hadn't trained for three years, as if he didn't have a sword on him, as if he was paralyzed.

     The redhead fisted his collar and lifted him slightly, but before he could fling him onto the flames-----