Chronicles of the Vanishing: A Pervert, a Prick, and the Perfect Ace

Prologue

Aurelius ate dirt.

Not intentionally of course.

He crawled out of the bush, resembling a large gold scarab insect, and spat out the mouthful of stones.

Mother, Father, if you can see me from wherever you are right now, I hope you find it inside yourselves to refrain from disowning your only son.

Something wriggled from the blob of dirt that he'd spat out. He shouldn't have looked.

But he did.

Upon closer inspection, he found that it wasn't just dirt, stones and twigs, but also caterpillars.

How the little critters had ended up in his mouth while he'd dived nose first into the bush was beyond him. It was probably his punishment for being clumsy enough to trip into a tiny skunk hole.

If I were my own guardian, I would disown myself too. He thought sternly.

With a newfound hatred for the forest and all its bugs and unseen skunk holes, the young Jinhai Sect leader pushed himself to his feet, and stalked onwards.

A moonless night. An ominous forest. And a bruised ego.

Things were not going to plan.

Nevertheless, as soon as he reached the agreed meeting spot–a cave, how original–he was the image of dignified grace once more.

If you ignore the dirt stains marking his gold robes that is.

The stalactites framing the cave's entrance resembled the open jaws of a dragon, its mouth open wide in a ravenous roar, as if daring anyone to entire its belly. A warm candle light poured from the cave's interior, the glow maintaining the impression of a dragon's fiery breath.

Shadows shifted just beyond the lip of the cave, edging towards those deadly 'jaws'.

These shadows skillfully clung to the few pools of darkness, stealthily silent.

And if the shadow moved, then a passing civilian would assume their eyes were simply playing tricks on them.

However, the shadows' smooth strides and distinct agile shapes left no doubt—they were cultivators, hailing from diverse sects, united on this night for a singular purpose.

The silhouette of swords strapped to these cultivator's sides suggested they were out for a hunt.

Exactly, what were they hunting?

The unkillable.

That which moves but is already dead.

Ghouls.

But to Aurelius, ghouls were a means to an end.

Even if he was now turning seventeen–old enough to realise that power did not equate to happiness–there was no erasing that childish wish to become the best exorcist, a renowned cultivator, the most powerful martial artist...

Despite both of his uncles already beating him to it.

The richest cultivator? The youngest sect leader? Aurelius already had both ticked off the list, but those were not his hard-earned accomplishments, but titles achieved through inheritance rights. Birth.

Hunting ghouls was a dangerous task, and at times thankless. But it gathered the most respect among civilians and cultivators alike. And he wanted to earn that respect.

He surveyed the gathering of trained cultivators, all preparing for battle.

To complete a mission successfully and rid the world of evil was an honour.