Legend has it that a long, long time ago, there were three keys, keys to another realm where dark creatures lurked. A key to bend time. A key to bend space. And a key of power. Legend has it that if these three keys were to be used to open the door to this Dark Realm, then the world would end. The laws of physics would throw itself at the wall and pass out. Life would be extinguished like a candle.
Then again, Legend has many things, and many of those things turn out to be bullshit, so maybe you should take whatever Legend has with a pinch of salt.
There is a Psychic. He wears a mask- yes, he's the guy from the last chapter. He's determined to find these three keys, and he knows that they are real. The guy who told this to him was a man of not much importance in the Magic community, however, he had been part of the group that ensured the keys remained safe. Emphasis on HAD. Also he hadn't so much told the Psychic what he wanted to know as screamed what the Psychic wanted to know.
The Psychic sat calmly in a cafe. Men and women and children bustled around, cloudy eyed, ignorant things. How he despised them. How he wanted to just step out and kill them all.
The Psychic was an old, old man. His face, obscured by the mask he wore, cloaked his age, but he was indeed very old. The mask, ensorcelled to show a normal human face to these... humans, hid every wrinkle and line.
All through his long, long, life, the Psychic had sough the meaning of life. He had chased answers down empty hallways, come to many dead ends- and had concluded that life was meaningless.
Life was meaningless. Death- now that, the Psychic was interested in. And when he was done, the entire world would have been plunged into death, and he would have so much to study.
This cafe that the Psychic was sitting in- it was run by sorcerers. These sorcerers kept the key of Time somewhere in the cafe, and the Psychic was determined to find it.
A man passed his table, smiled and nodded to him as he passed. He was tasked with blowing up the whole damn building if anything went wrong- or, if everything went right.
The Psychic closed his eyes. He sent signals to the subconscious of every human in the room- normal humans were so easy to coerce.
One by one the men and women left. The man at the counter frowned. His hand dipped toward the counter. Undoubtedly, there was a gun there.
The Psychic rose, walked towards the counter. He strode swiftly, and the man at the counter pulled the gun out. The Psychic flicked his hand and the shutters slammed down on the cafe windows and the sign on the door turned to say CLOSED.
He moved to a side to avoid the first bullet which slapped into the wall, pulled his own gun from his coat, twisted to avoid another bullet, placed the nozzle of the gun on the man's forehead and squeezed the trigger.
It was messy, but quiet, both of them having used silenced pistols.
He walked into the back of the cafe, shot one man in the head and sending a wave of knives at a second man. He died screaming as they carved him.
The other two men extended their hands, sending wind and fire rushing at the Psychic. A Gale and a Blaze. The Psychic dived behind a kitchen counter. There was a silence, punctuated by the dying gasps of the man riddled with knives and the steady drip drip drip of the faucet.
The Psychic leapt to his feet, and was hit by a damn wall of wind and slammed into the wall. A wave of fire rushed at him and he twisted away at the last second, the fire missing his face and rolling off his ensorcelled jacket harmlessly.
Then he saw it.
At the back of the kitchen, a small brass key that, to his eyes, shone like reflected sunlight off gold. The light, the aura of the two sorcerers before him pales in comparison. The Psychic swept his arms wide, and everything in the kitchen flew at the two men. The Psychic dived over the counter, got behind the Gale, shot him in the head, pushed his body into his friend and leapt for the key. His hand hit a force field and light flared. His hand disintegrated into whirling ashes. He screamed, but now he was close enough to focus and overcome the magical barriers around the key and with his mind he was snatching the key and pulling it into his remaining hand, which had dropped the gun. He turned. The pain was excruciating. The Blaze had also just thrown a handful of fire at him. The key blazed.
And the fire halted in front of him. The Psychic stared in amazement. Then a thought occurred to him. He tapped the key to his stump of a hand, the stump cauterized by the powers generated by the protective enchantments. The ashes leapt from the floor, swirling in mesmerizing patterns, and reformed.
The Psychic thought for a moment, then picked up his gun, turned it on the Blaze, and fired. The bullet froze in mid air. It would take the fellow some time to realize that he was dead. From the Psychic's perspective, anyway.
He walked out the back door, restarted time. He pulled out his phone, called someone. The call was declined, and the Psychic started running.
He wanted to be far away when the explosion was triggered.
•~•
The Gale- the man from the last chapter- walked into the backstage of the circus. He took in the situation at a glance. A man- the Linguist, a language speaker- purred softly to a pair of lions. Borgdo, the Giant was stroking one of the lions on the head. A Blaze- the fire breather of the troupe- was sitting cross legged on the floor, reading a book.
The Gale stepped into the room. The Linguist glanced up, saw the Gust, asked him what he's doing here. The Gust doesn't say anything, just pulls a gun and shoots the Linguist in the leg. The lions roar in rage and lunge forward, but a burst of air send them flying into the Blaze. Borgdo charged forward, his enormous hands flexing. Another bullet went flying, but this time it merely bounced off Borgdo's hands. Those hands were tough as iron. The Gust whipped the air at Borgdo, but Borgdo is already shifting his stance, withstanding the onslaught of air. The Gust clenched his hand, and the wind abruptly stopped. Borgdo stumbled forward, and the wind whipped out again, throwing him backward before he can regain his balance. Flames whip at the Gust, but he's already in motion, leaping for cover behind a chest. The chest becomes uncomfortably hot, but as soon as the flames ease the Gust leaps from cover, using the wind to propel him forward. A dagger glints in the electrical light, and the Blaze falls, clutching at his chest. Borgdo's shadow falls over the Gust, and a fist the bigger than his head catches him square in the bag, lifting him to the top of the tent. The Gust turns in midair, his back screaming in pain. By sheer luck, his back isn't broken.
The air roars and then the Gust is shooting like a falling star straight into Borgdo's chest knocking him off his feet. Even as Borgdo falls, the Gust's gun flashes and then Borgdo the Giant topples. It's like the collapsing of Goliath.
A bullet streaks past the Gust's face and he jerks back, twisting to see who is shooting. The Linguist. The damn Linguist. The wind twists, and the Linguist's gun leaps into the Gust's hand. Two guns turned to point at the Linguist.
"Where is the circus master?" asked the Gust, his voice low and dangerous.
"I..." the Linguist licked his lips. For a sorcerer whose power lay in his tongue, he seemed, amusingly, at a loss for words.
"You were looking for me?" asked calm voice. The circus master stepped into the tent.
The Gust looked at him. Then he looked at the Linguist. "Sorry," he said cheerfully, "But it appears I don't need you anymore."
The Linguist screamed and cursed the Gust in a dozen different languages, and then the Gust put a bullet in his head and he fell silent.
"These people were my friends," said the circus master quietly, "They were good people. They didn't... they didn't deserve to die like this."
"Oh, more people than they are going to die. And soon," said the Gust.
"If you'd wanted to find me," growled the circus master, "You should have asked at the receptionist." He whipped out two guns, nearly faster than the Gust could see, and before he could shoot a bullet the Gust had fired twice and the circus master was lying on the floor, his blood pumping out of him slowly, wondering how the hell he had got there.
The Gust walked to the key, and ripped it from the circus master's neck. He inspects the key, observed how it seems to shine with its own inner radiance. Then he flicked his hand, and he vanished with a whoosh as the Key of Space activated.
•~•
The circus master lay on the floor. His both twitched. His hands began to glow, and he lay them over the bullet wounds in his chest. He could feel the organs punctured, the arteries nicked, the heart that was slowing, the life about to leave his body.
Then the bullets rose out of his flesh, the infection of bacteria that had come with the bullet burned, the organs regrew. He got to his feet, slightly shaky. That had been close.
He needed to report to the Council.
But first, he needed to get a hot dog or something to eat.
He was famished.
•~•
