Wait⦠what?! An invitation letter⦠for what? Being a Transcendentologist? He was questioning everything, dropped in tension, the fear of death.
Morganael put his hand forward, slowly, every step was calculated, every second was precious, more precious than anything.
The room was embellished like a hall of a magnificent mansion.
He took the invitation letter and opened it.
πππͺπ’: ππ―π±π₯π²π― πππ°π ππ―π¬π±
ππ€π’: ππ΄π’π«π±πΆ-π±π΄π¬
ππ’π΅: πππ©π’
ππ―π¬π£π’π°π°π¦π¬π«: ππ―ππ«π°π π’π«π‘π’π«π±π¬π©π¬π€π¦π°π±
ππ±π²π‘πΆ π©π’π³π’π©: ππππ’π―π π©ππ°π°
βπ’π©π©π¬,
ππ₯π¦π° π¦π° ππ« π¦π«π³π¦π±ππ±π¦π¬π« π©π’π±π±π’π― π±π¬ ππ―π±π₯π²π― πππ°π ππ―π¬π± π£π¬π― π±π₯π’ π¬π£π£π’π― π±π¬ π§π¬π¦π« π±π₯π’ ππ³π’π―π¨π«π¦π€π₯π±π°, ππ³π’π―π¨π«π¦π€π₯π± ππ¬π²π«π‘ππ±π¦π¬π«.
ππ¦π’π©π‘ π°π²π¦π±πππ©π’ π£π¬π― πΆπ¬π²π― ππ―π¬π£π’π°π°π¦π¬π« ππ«π‘ π€π―ππ‘π’π°: ππ’π’π―
ππ£π£π’π―π’π‘ ππΆ: βππ―π·π’π«π± ππ’π―π·π’π©, π π²π―π’π«π± π©π’ππ‘π’π― π¬π£ ππ³π’π―π¨π«π¦π€π₯π± πππ π±π¦π¬π« ππ¬π²π―.
ππ‘π‘π―π’π°π° π¬π£ π₯π¦π‘π’π¬π²π±: ππ’π©πΆπ―π« ππ¦π°π±π―π¦π π±, π―π¬ππ‘ π«π¦π«π’, π¬π©π‘ ππππ«π‘π¬π«π’π‘ πππ― π«π’ππ― π±π₯π’ ππ’πͺπ¦ππ« βπ₯π²π―π π₯, π°π₯π¬π π«π²πͺππ’π―, π¬π«π’-π£π¬π―-π±π₯π―π’π’-π°π¦π΅-π«π¦π«π’-π¬π«π’-π±π΄π¬-π±π₯π―π’π’-π£π¬π²π―.
βπ¬π‘π’ π£π¬π― π’π«π±π’π―π¦π«π€: ππ―π±π₯π²π― πππ°π ππ―π¬π±.
ππ₯ππ«π¨ ππ¬π²,
βπ’π€ππ―π‘π°~ βππ―π·π’π«π± ππ’π―π·π’π©, π π²π―π―π’π«π± π©π’ππ‘π’π― π¬π£ ππ³π’π―π¨π«π¦π€π₯π± πππ π±π¦π¬π« ππ¬π²π―.
"You should consider yourself lucky, Arthur. Or, shall weβ¦feel lucky?" added Harzent Verzel. He gave a tiny, little smile, full of joy, yetβ¦ would make you faint.
He gladly accepted the offer, because it was the only way to escape.
He was sent back home safely, he thought so.
Knock! Knock!
It was him, knocking on the door.
Ah, man!
The door opened, it was her⦠Alessia Mascarot.
"Who's it again- BROTHER!" she was overjoyed, "Where have you been?! And⦠what's that?"
Her eyes fell on the invitation letter on Arthur's hand, or should I say⦠Morganael?
"An⦠invitation letter⦠?" She was confused and excited.
"Yeah, I got an invitation letter from⦠uh, I will tell you inside." he hesitated, frightened by the joy.
Alessia stepped aside, opening the door so that Arthur could enter.
Arthur entered the door, slowly, calculating every step again and again.
He sat down on the couch in silence and handed the invitation letter to them.
They opened the invitation letter, and went through it. Reading each and every word conscientiously.
His reckoning was right, their throat quietened, and suddenly the world felt too quiet.
The shock wasn't trifle, it was immense.
"You got invited to Everknight League Three?!" she said piercingly, they were astonished, stuffed with misgivings.
It seemed daunting. He was frivolous of what to say, and what not to. His emaciated body couldn't even survive a jab.
"You should renounce this." she added.
"Alessiaβ¦" said Clark, "Arthur, will you be able to do this?"
He was in between of frivolousness and wonderment.
"You'll be handling a ton of peril!" said Alessia, was it an expostulation? No.
"Yes, I think it's the time. It'll be good that I'll be using my skills to do something for this family." he conjectured.
Clark was so weary that he couldn't even think properly of this matter.
"Do not fret, Alessia, Clark, I'll be handling these matters with utmost care." He said.
I can't be this gentleman, I hate this body.
His expressions were vague along with his tranquility.
In this epoch of cursed blessing, what could we even tell?
The lass, or say Alessia, was astonished by his words.
"Okayβ¦" She added.
Arthur gave off a smile, and stood up.
"I'll be thinking about this. Thanks." And he walked towards his room upwards. His gait was of a silent hunter.
He was compelling himself to be tranquil. He could hope no benefit from his gait. Recollecting his old days of immeasurable pain disguised as nostalgia.
He was walking on the stairs upright, beholding a past he should've never lived.
He promised to toil to himself, jangling with what he was before.
He conjectured that this was just a vexatious dream.
He pushed open the weak, rust-eaten door. Oil smeared across the hinges, dripping like it didn't belong there.
Meanwhile below, Alessia sighed. She was trying to prevail upon herself to not think about this bewildering moment.
Clark, who was often mocked and scorned by others for still letting his younger siblings, Alessia and Arthur have higher studies even in poverty conjectured that it was the time.
His striving paid off. It was the day Arthur was truly deceased from existence, replaced with a horrific person.
Forecasting his future choices, he sighed, and accepted fate. Often forlorn by his people, Clark was happy with the new future.
Alessia set her foot forward, walking towards the kitchen.
Morganael sighed out of relief. Rethinking of every possible consequence. Every path had undistinguished consequences.
He once again thought of what to do and what not to do. He couldn't be frivolous, but he was. Determined by his actions, he laid on his bed, looking at the rough ceiling stuffed with wooden planks.
Each action has its consequences, and each consequence is the reason for many actions.
Forbidden by his thoughts, he just closed his eyes and wished for a miracle to happen.
He opened his eyes, and stood up to behold outside, something suspicious for a hint.
He peeped outside, his eyes lingered upon the frivolous clown, acting upon the good acts.
The clown was happy, spreading joy far-and-wide.
The clown wore a short black trench coat, thin, his face was covered with the face of a joker. He looked divine, upon his good acts, and devil upon his murderous acts. He was tranquil as a flower.
His nameplate wasn't even a name, it was in numbers.
20:8:5 1:21:20:8:18
A piece of paper came into view, it was a slip. It fell on his hands, noticing it had numbers, like it was hinting towards a religious book's verse number.
And when he peeped back, The Clown was gone, he melted away into the thin air.
DAMNIT! He shouted in his mind, unconscious of what he was.
His grip lowened, like a tender flower.
He slumped in terror, his throat quietened. He was low, his eyes widened and vacant.
He calmed himself. Looking again at the window.
It felt arduous, his breaths were heavy.
"This should definitely be a dream." he conjectured. His quest to find Arthur wasn't pious, nor was it profane.
It was his time to set off as something he forbade himself to.
His room was like the room of dunce, stuffed with materials unwonted.
Arthur's room was quite small, stuffed with a bed in the upper-right edge of the room, a cupboard in the lower-right room, with a study table in between.
He had a window, straight-forward the door, with a table attached to it. The room was small and cozy. It didn't have that many materials.
There was a bookshelf on the upper-left of the room, stretching long. There was only a very trifle space left in between. And there was a wardrobe on the lower-left of the room.
The wardrobe had white shirts and black vest; black socks and shoes; a black thin short coat; a top hat and a spectacle. The room was one of those tiny comparts that would make you feel cozy and comfortable.
He slumped on his study table, recollecting every fraction of scene he had seen till now.
A beggar in a robe⦠a book⦠which killed me⦠I got transmigrated into Arthur Mascarot in another world⦠and now these 'Everknights'? What exactly is HAPPENING!!!
His striving meant nothing, he was already so weary of what happened in a single day.
It was night now.
"The food is ready!" it was Alessia, who had prepared the food 'completely' herself.
First dinner of my life in this new world⦠he conjectured it as one of the most beautiful he'll ever experience⦠experience food made from the hands of his sister.
He gave a smile, he had to tarry his whole life for this. He was overjoyed, a fool⦠happy from what he would never have again forever.
This was something he was meant to have, but couldn't.
He belonged to it, but was forbidden by the forest.
He stood up, and walked towards the door, the handle was at its repair-position, it needed a repair. He still ignored it and came down the stairs, reckoning everything he would be beholding and what he won't be.
He came off happy, to set off again in a world he was unknown to.
Devoured by his thoughts, he sat on the dining table.
Alessia came with the food, and settled it on the table.
"Uhm⦠brother, why are you so happy⦠?" Alessia asked, confused, raising her left eyebrow like interrogating a criminal, she looked adorable still.
"Must be because of him being invited into Everknight Foundation. Arthur, your talent paid off." Clark explained with undermined happiness, "Now, can we have the food?"
"Oh, sorry! I'll be bringing water right nowβ¦" her voice gradually lowered, she was smiling in joy.
It was said way before: It's better to starve than to eat anything, so as to be alone rather than be with anyone.
The dinner was ready, they all slumped, smiles dripping off their faces, their bliss tender as a flower, mellowing and stuffed with bliss.
It made Morganael happy, from inside. Deep within he knew, he wasn't supposed to be here too.
He was wrong again. His tranquility was flowing better than a river.
They all ate happily, talked about everything. For the first time in his life, he was happy. No one was there to act stern to him.
Meanwhile, on earth, it was the last day of someone.
They had all paid their condolences to Morganael.
Later that night, when everyone was asleep, it was their uncle who was still awake, depressed by his acts.
He was weeping in silence, he got out of the van, sat near the lake of Morganael.
"Morn, sorry, my child, I'm sorry- I- I'm sorryβ¦" he was weeping piercingly, trying to control. His grip tightened.
He took out a gun heading to his head.
"I'm coming thereβ¦ to meet you, Mornβ¦"
He shot himself. His grip weakened, and at last⦠he was in silence, in a better place. He could still meet Morganael, but unaware of his fate. It was what it meant to be.
"The dinner was tasty!" Morganael added, blissful with the deliciousness of the food he ate.
He went back to his room, and slumped back at the studying table.
What was that number? And what did Arthur's book even mean! It was all over his brain now.
Until he just decided to sleep, very mature.
"Either way, the best path to gain relief is to take relief." he added just to cheer himself up.
He closed his eyes with a smile. He was already lost in comfort. Now, the only thing which could make him feel worthless was just a vexatious dream. Unlike Arthur's book, it wouldn't be vague.
He had finally fallen asleep. Crestfallen from inside, stuffed with bliss on the outside.
His smile meant way more than just a visual representation of bliss.
He was devoured in darkness. Often wished he just perished away. Or melted away into the thin air.
Who knew? His tarry was way long. It could've been deducted.
This was a generational war, Filver and Mascarot. Sharing a bond of life. Two branches of the same tree. Stuffed inside with white cream, burnt even enough from outside.
It was a crimson night, or the crimson week. The crimson moon woke up a bit late.
Four weeks of absolute penalty, disguised as a night and source of new life. Two weeks were crimson, two weeks were blurple. Even the time is so broken, forty-eight hours a day. Twenty-four months a year. Thousand years per epoch. Five epochs per Era.
And the list goes on, rooting itself from a divine blessing to a cursed miracle.
Life was already tough in here, yet⦠people found peace, people found meaning, people found what we couldn't⦠a purpose.
A purpose, full of toxic waves, of an outcome coming into rage.
It was now day, and he woke up from a dark nightmare. He recoiled upon waking up.
Until, he realised. He had to meet Everknights again. And get a responsibility he could gain never again.
Finally! I'm here. The shop looks fancy, though. In this historical era? Nah. This world truly is unique! Anyway, why aren't there people in here? There is immense crowd usually.
The place was silent.
Wait! Am I lucky...for not visiting them yesterday night?! Was there some kind of...shooting? He had his hopes up, his mind was now tangling with questions he'd never be willing quest about.
And here, is where it all started. The dawn of death and life, between hell and heaven, there was demise.