NOVEL NEXT Chapter 6: Damian's Conviction, Andrew's Hunt
Chapter 6: Damian's Conviction, Andrew's Hunt
Damian stood at the entrance of the Sun God's church, his eyes drawn upward to the majestic dome ceiling. The intricate mosaic art overhead was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Golden rays of light radiated from the center of the dome, forming patterns of celestial beauty. At first glance, the symbols scattered across the ceiling resembled the English alphabet. But as Damian focused, the symbols began to shift, morphing into textures and shapes foreign to him, as if alive with an ancient magic.
The walls of the church were painted in pure white and sunlit yellow, their texture so smooth they reminded Damian of polished marble. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, bathing the entire space in a warm glow. It felt like stepping into a different world, one brimming with serenity and power.
Lost in admiration for the church's architecture, Damian didn't notice the man approaching him until a soft voice broke through his thoughts.
"You must be new here."
Damian turned to find a man in his late forties standing before him. The man wore a robe of yellow and white, his brown hair streaked with a few threads of gray. His beard, though not long, was neatly trimmed, outlining the contours of his face. His brown eyes gleamed with kindness.
"My name is Alexander," the man continued, offering a gentle smile. "But you may call me Brother Alex. May I know yours?"
"Damian," he replied, giving a respectful nod.
"Welcome, Damian," Brother Alex said warmly, gesturing for Damian to follow. "Allow me to show you around."
Damian followed Brother Alex through the grand halls of the church. Each step revealed something new: the vast training grounds where disciples meditated under the sunlight, their minds and bodies in perfect harmony with the power of the Sun God; the prayer hall, where rows of disciples knelt, heads bowed in silent prayer, their devotion palpable in the air.
"This is where the disciples practice purification magic," Brother Alex said as they entered the Sorcery Room, a place filled with sunlight refracting through glass orbs, casting prismatic rays across the stone floor. Damian watched as several disciples practiced spells, their hands glowing with ethereal light.
They passed through the dining hall, where laughter and conversation filled the room, and then moved on to the classrooms, where teachings of the Sun God were being imparted to eager students. Brother Alex also led him to the dormitories, the living quarters for both disciples and the higher-ranking members of the church.
"The hierarchy here is simple," Brother Alex explained as they walked. "Disciples are the foundation, those who are learning the ways of the Sun God. Above them are the Deacons, Priests, High Priests, Bishops, and finally, the Archbishop, who oversees everything."
Damian nodded, absorbing every detail. The tour was comprehensive, and by the time they reached his assigned dorm room, he had a solid understanding of the church's inner workings. But his mind was elsewhere.
"Thank you, Brother Alex," Damian said as he entered his room. "I think I'll start by visiting the library."
Brother Alex smiled knowingly. "A wise choice. There is much to learn within our sacred texts. May the light of the Sun God guide you."
Damian wasted no time. The moment Brother Alex left, he made his way to the library, eager to gather information. The large room smelled of aged parchment and ink, its tall bookshelves stacked with knowledge spanning centuries. He headed straight for the history section, scanning the rows of old tomes until a particular book caught his eye—The Chronicles of the Ancient City.
He settled into a quiet corner and opened the book, his eyes immediately drawn to the detailed recount of a time long ago. The city he was in had once been the heart of a prosperous civilization, built by the devout followers of the Sun God. They had thrived under the blessings of their deity, living in harmony with nature, reaping the bounty of fertile lands, fresh water from the flowing river, and minerals from the nearby mountains.
But that peace had come to an end.
Damian read on, his fingers tightening around the edges of the pages as the story unfolded. The city had fallen under the shadow of a great evil—the Shadow Monarch. It was he who had cursed the land, plunging it into darkness. The once-thriving city was now a forsaken place, isolated from the outside world. The skies were perpetually dark, the fertile lands had withered, and the bounty that once sustained the people had all but disappeared. Livestock dwindled, and trade with neighboring lands became impossible.
Worse still, the Shadow Monarch had placed one of his creatures within the city, an Awakened Devil that monitored the citizens, ensuring no one could escape, nor could any outsider enter without falling prey to the curse.
As Damian read the final lines, his mind raced. 'If what the book said was true, then the city's doom had been sealed long ago. But there was a way out—or so it seemed. According to the ancient texts, the only way to lift the curse was to defeat the creature left behind by the Shadow Monarch. And if the rumors were correct, that creature was a dragon, a monstrous being of shadow.'
Closing the book, Damian leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling. Defeating a dragon? The very idea seemed impossible, but if that was what it took to escape this cursed place, then he had no choice.
He would need to prepare. And quickly.
The dragon was out there, watching. Waiting.
But so was Damian.
…
Dawn broke as the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, casting a soft golden glow on the rugged path ahead. Andrew sat quietly in the back of the caravan, his sharp eyes fixed on the endless road to the City of Pitoa. His hand absentmindedly brushed over the hilt of the blade strapped to his side as he thought of his mission.
His target: Gallagher Demitra, an awakened who had betrayed his comrades during a nightmare creature village raid. Gallagher had slaughtered them all, thinking his treachery would go unnoticed. Unluckily for him, a witness had escaped, and that was enough for Andrew to be dispatched. Gallagher needed to be erased, and Andrew was more than capable of delivering swift justice.
Leaning back in the wooden caravan, Andrew pulled out his runes—small, weathered stones etched with faint, glowing symbols. He turned them over in his hand, their weight familiar and comforting. Each rune represented a different enhancement or ability he had acquired over the years.
The ride to Pitoa stretched on. The journey wasn't difficult, but it was long. Andrew cursed his inability to communicate with his hawk familiar, which circled aimlessly overhead.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the sprawling city of Pitoa appeared in the distance. Its tall stone walls and bustling markets seemed peaceful at first glance, but Andrew knew the underbelly of every city harbored danger. The caravan came to a slow stop, and Andrew hopped off, tossing a few coins to the driver. "Keep the change," he muttered, before slipping into the shadows.
He moved carefully, sticking to narrow alleys and avoiding the main roads. Asking around for Gallagher would be a death sentence. Gallagher was powerful, and if word spread that someone was after him, the mission would be over before it even began. Instead, Andrew trusted his instincts—and his enhanced senses.
Andrew made his way to a seedy bar, one he knew would be crawling with delinquents and lowlifes, people who might have crossed paths with Gallagher. The stench of sweat and alcohol hit him as he entered, the dim lighting barely illuminating the room. He approached the bar and ordered a rum, slipping to a corner table where he could observe without being noticed.
His eyes scanned the room, noting a table in the far corner that stood out. A group of men sat around it, playing poker. Andrew could hear their banter, their careless chatter, but one conversation in particular caught his attention—something about illegal operations, whispered in low tones. Andrew's ears perked up, and he moved closer, silently listening.
After a few rounds, one of the players busted out, cursing under his breath. Seizing the opportunity, Andrew approached the table. "Mind if I join?" he asked.
One of the men shrugged. "Wait your turn, stranger. Next round, once he's out," he said as he pointed at the man beside him.
Andrew waited, eyeing the remaining players. They spoke in hushed voices, and Andrew's heightened senses picked up snippets of conversation—smuggling, bribery, under-the-table deals. Exactly the kind of crowd that might know someone like Gallagher.
Soon enough, it was Andrew's turn to play. He took his seat, and one of the players handed him the deck. "You shuffle."
Andrew took the cards and expertly shuffled them, his fingers moving quickly as he distributed the hands. He glanced at his own cards—an Ace of Hearts and a 4 of Clubs. A weak hand, but Andrew kept his expression neutral. Bad hand or not, this was an opportunity for him to get to know the people around here.
"I'll call," Andrew said calmly, throwing in his bet.
The man beside him smiled, amused. "Call," he echoed, as did the others around the table. One of the players folded.
The dealer revealed the next set of cards—an Ace of Spades, Queen of Spades, and a Queen of Diamonds. Andrew kept his face still, though his mind worked quickly. Two Aces now, but still not a great hand.
One of the men eyed him. "New around here, eh?" he asked casually.
"Yeah," Andrew replied, his voice level. "Just passing through. Looking to buy something."
The man raised an eyebrow. "And what might that be?"
Andrew met his gaze, unblinking. "None of your goddamn business."
The man grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Feisty lad. You better be careful around these parts. Or that man—might get you."
Andrew's pulse quickened, but he kept his expression blank. Finally, he had a clue.
Andrew's pulse quickened, but he kept his expression blank. Andrew remained unfazed, even as the man across the table flashed a playful grin. "Cocky, are we, lad?" the man said, his voice dripping with condescension. "I say your cards are bullshit."
The other players folded one by one, their interest in the game fading as it became a duel between Andrew and the man. The pot in the center of the table grew larger, and Andrew had a meager 40 coins left, while the man had a hefty stack of 100 coins sitting comfortably in front of him.
"You can give up, lad. This pot ain't worth it," the man taunted, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
Andrew barely registered the mockery. His mind was looking at the odds. On the table lay the Ace of Spades, the Queen of Spades, the Queen of Diamonds, the 2 of Hearts, and the 4 of Diamonds. Not much to work with. Yet, without a hint of hesitation, Andrew pushed all his remaining coins forward.
"I'm all in."
The man roared with laughter, slapping his knee. "Cocky lad! You're quite daring!" He leaned in closer, his grin widening. "The name's Brawn Knuckles, what's your name, lad?"
Andrew's gaze remained steady as he answered, "Wind of the West."
The rest of the table burst into laughter alongside Brawn, their mocking voices filling the bar. "Cocky name for a cocky bastard!" Brawn cackled. "Where the hell did you get that?"
Andrew allowed himself a small smile. "Let's just say it was a name given to me by someone I respected."
"Honorable one, are we?" Brawn sneered, though his amusement remained. He leaned back, his thick arms crossed over his chest. "Well, Wind of the West, let's see if you can back up that name. I call."
The tension thickened as both men slowly revealed their cards. Andrew flipped his over—a measly pair of Ace and fours. Brawn's grin widened as he laid down his hand, a Queen straight.
"Too bad for you, lad. I have a queen straight," Brawn said smugly, gathering the pile of coins from the center of the table. His fingers scooped up Andrew's remaining coins with a sense of ownership. "Looks like you were all talk and no bite."
He spat at Andrew's cards, tossing them across the table like garbage. "Trash cards."
Andrew stared at the cards, his face unreadable, the calm demeanor not faltering even in the face of defeat. He watched Brawn's triumphant expression, the way he basked in the win like it was the highlight of his night. But Andrew wasn't here to win money. He was here for information.
"Good game," Andrew said evenly, standing up from the table. He pushed his chair back with deliberate slowness, his eyes scanning the room once again. As much as Brawn tried to play him as the fool, Andrew had gotten what he needed.
"Leaving so soon?" Brawn called out, stacking his coins.
Andrew smiled, a thin, predatory smile. "Don't worry. I'm just getting started."
"You're a Lunatic, lad." The man shouted as he turned and left the bar.
Slipping into the shadows outside. He had learned one thing in his years as a hunter—sometimes losing a hand meant winning the war. Brawn Knuckles was his next lead, and while the brute thought he had the upper hand, Andrew would make sure he paid dearly for underestimating the Wind of the West.
The hunt had only just begun.