ALPHA SOUL
Hi my names max. I don’t have a last name because I’ve never been known by any other name than devil spawn or hell child. All because of my piece of shit old man Lucifer. Now I know what you’re thinking but no I’m not the son of Satan, but yeah I know who the hell would name there kid Lucifer? Some crazy mother fuckers that’s all I can say. My old man was a mass murderer who not only lived up to the image of Satan himself you could’ve sworn he was the actual being personified. The worse part about his method of killing was that he would literally kill everyone within arm’s length with his bare hands. My mom had spent the time he was away trying to live a normal life but she had told me only one thing that it wasn’t my old man’s fault it was his blood making him do that. That he carried a very specific bloodline that caused him to go into a fit of berserk rage and kill anyone in sight and that if I was lucky I wouldn’t have been born with it. Apparently my luck fucking SUCKS!! The upside to the whole thing is that I can control my berserker instinct better than my father who had no control at all. The downside is apparently I’m a hell ova lot stronger than my old man apparently each generation is twice as strong, fast and lethal as there predecessor. All my life I’ve been criticized isolated and especially when my old man and my mother disappeared leaving me alone in the isolated wood cottage my old man had built.
A strong light emanates from outside illuminating the side of max’s house with clattering of metal and raised voices.
“What the fucks going on” I scream as I hit the scene to see my house sent up in flames and seeing the towns villagers outside screaming chorus’s as my house burns down to its very foundation.
“Fuck he’s here” screams the village heads son
“Rufus you mother fucker!!” I scream walking up to him and grabbing him by his shirt collar “why the fuck are you burning my house down!? I haven’t done anything to any of you guys!!”
“We don’t want your kind here anymore” spat Rufus
“My kind!!” yelled max “my kind? I’m just like you! You fucking pathetic little weasel!!”
Incredible pain erupts in the base of my skull as blood freely pours out from the base of my skull where that cowardly fucker Stanley had struck me. I lose consciousness hearing ‘leave him he’ll die when the house frame collapses on him.’
I wake up cold and alone. My muscles stiff and my throat dry my joints creak and protest as I stretch my aching muscles after being left lying on the ground for about 11 hours. I gingerly touch the back of my head wincing as I brush the part of my head that had been hit. My hand brush’s my blood matted hair and when I pull my hand away from my head chunks of dried blood come with it. I look solemnly around the clearing the ashy gray clearing where my house once stood. The only remnant of my house was a golden ebony chest that hadn’t been touched by the flames. I run over to the chest to see the cause of the ice cold feeling emanating from the chest. I find the key I need to open the chest right next to it laying on the ground buried under a pile of ash. I place the key in the keyhole and twist only feeling the slightest bit of resistance as the chest scrapes away what little rust had been accumulating over the years since my old man disappeared sending my mother into a spiraling pit of despair until she too disappeared in a blazing white light. The chest snaps open to reveal a set of pitch black leather clothes. The soft and comfortable kind. Not the stiff itchy crap. A smooth long sleeve shirt. Pair of soft and very smooth pitch black leather leggings. A padded leather vest and comfortable black leather boots. And underneath all the clothes is my old man’s sword shadow render a long sword with a pitch black sheath and a luminescent silver blade. I throw off my torn and singed clothes and shiver as my body is subject to the elements but only long enough for me to throw on the leggings and the long sleeve shirt than strap on the vest and test the feel and balance of the sword but when I try to unsheathe the blade it stuck fast and turning the sheath over and over in my hands until I notice the engravings on the sheath ‘otkriti svoj pravi oblik’ puzzled I try to pronounce the foreign words only to realize that I can’t even say anything at all. The moment I stop trying to say the words im able to speak again but a voice rings in my head over and over again saying ‘when the time is write you will be able to speak our language’. On that happy note with an immense migrane I set off on a journey with practically no destination except away from here.
