Lucid gasped for breath, his whole body aching. How? How the hell was he getting outsmarted by a **kid**? No matter. He breathed at a slow pace while he watched the kid walk around with half of his mask. Lucid felt for the other half. He wasn't as powerful as he could've been with it.
Lucid was bleeding. Badly. The whole left side of his face -- where the mask was incomplete -- bled in such a shape you could've sworn it was his mask. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. He hid behind a rock, desperately trying to think of a plan. What could he do against this five year old boy? And, to think of it, how did the kid easily get past Lucid's Olympian Guards? Then suddenly, he had a plan.
Lucid held his mask and muttered under his breath, "La maschera mi favorisce." Both halves shone brightly and rose up, fluttering to each other like old friends. The mask clipped together and flew down to Lucid, when suddenly the kid grabbed the mask and put it on his face.
Lucid gasped.
It felt like he was being torn to pieces. "Help, help!" he screamed in pain. "Kid, please!" He reached for the kid's hand. "Oh please," said the child, "Call me Bismuth." and he smacked Lucid's hand away and watched him die.
Bismuth laughed wickedly. "Oh, my!" he swept a tear away. "Bismuth!" his mom called. "Coming, Mom!" Bismuth yelled after her. And so marked the day Lucid, the Ancient God of Dreams, died. And it was all because of one kid.
YOU ARE READING
The Mask of Lucid
Teen Fiction"Have you ever considered killing yourself? It'd be beneficial to your mental health! And extremely beneficial to me!" Bismuth is not your ordinary kid -- he's twelve and put in charge of the entire human race as soon as he clicks on the white crack...
