Chapter 4: "Breaking News: My Dad Might Be on Interpol's Naughty List"
Elias remained blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding outside the shop. Inside, he was carefully searching through the clutter, hoping to find any clues—but so far, he had no success. His shoulders drooped, and his expression sank with disappointment. He had hoped this place would finally offer some insight into his parents' disappearance, but he remained empty-handed.
Though Elias often acted lighthearted and strong around others, the truth was far more painful. He was deeply distressed by his parents' sudden disappearance. But in order to be a reliable shoulder for his sister, and to avoid worrying anyone else, he kept pushing his emotions down.
He was only sixteen.
Kevin's cruel words from earlier echoed in his mind. "Even your parents couldn't survive being around you forever." Was it possible that his so-called bad luck had finally caught up with them? Could it really be his fault?
As much as he wanted to deny it, after being called a "walking disaster" so many times, it was hard not to start believing it.
A hot tear rolled down his cheek. He tried to wipe it away quickly, but once it started, it was hard to stop.
He let out a bitter laugh. "I really need to get it together," he muttered under his breath.
His eyes wandered to his dad's large antique desk and the worn leather chair behind it. Hoping to sit down and gather himself, Elias walked toward the chair—but failed to notice a small box resting beside it.
His foot caught on the edge, and he tripped hard, accidentally scraping his hand on the corner of the desk before landing on the floor with a thud.
He groaned as he sat up, wincing. Glancing down, he saw a nasty gash on his palm, bleeding freely.
"Great. Just great," he muttered, struggling to get to his feet. His side and leg throbbed from the fall. To steady himself, he grabbed the desk drawer handle—unaware that his blood had smeared across the small lock.
Suddenly, the drawer lock began to glow a faint, pulsing red.
Elias froze, eyes wide in disbelief. The glow intensified for a few seconds, casting an eerie light across the desk… then faded just as quickly as it had appeared.
He blinked, stunned. "What… was that?"
In his confusion, he didn't even realize that the blood on his hand had vanished completely, as if it had never been there.
He stared at the drawer in silence. I already checked this one earlier, he thought. Back then, it had only held a few dusty receipts and some old documents from his dad's antique purchases. Nothing even remotely interesting.
So where had that light come from?
After a hesitant pause, Elias slowly pulled the drawer open again.
This time, the contents were completely different.
Inside were several small antiques he didn't recognize—things he was sure hadn't been there before. Nestled among them was a worn leather-bound journal, and sitting on top of that was a palm-sized, gem-like sphere. It shimmered with swirling, iridescent colors, like it held a storm of light inside.
Elias stared at it, awe-struck.
"…Okay, definitely not a normal drawer."
He carefully lifted the journal from the drawer, his hands trembling with anticipation. A part of him hoped it would contain answers—another part feared it would only bring more disappointment.
Slowly, he opened to the first page and began to read.
His eyes widened almost immediately. No—this couldn't be right. He wanted to believe it was a joke, or that the journal didn't actually belong to his father. But the handwriting was unmistakable. It was definitely his dad's. And it was unlikely that his father would lie in his own private journal.
Still reeling, Elias reread the first entry to make sure he hadn't imagined it:
2/11/19XX
Yet again, I have executed a flawless acquisition—another exquisite piece added to my growing collection. The operation required no small amount of finesse, but in the end, the reward far outweighed the risk. I must admit, the thrill of outwitting that pompous aristocrat brings me no small satisfaction. I daresay he has yet to notice the absence of his prized antique.
Let him search in vain. I left no trace, no clue—only an empty pedestal and the echo of his own complacency. I was, for a moment, tempted to leave behind a signature flourish, but resisted. A gentleman does not boast so crassly, after all—especially when the elegance of one's work speaks for itself.
Confused, Elias read on to another entry:
4/03/19XX
Attended a gala in Vienna under the name "Lucien Ashbourne." The champagne was subpar, but the security system was laughably outdated. I walked out with a centuries-old timepiece tucked neatly in my coat. No one suspected a thing. A successful evening, though the caviar was a tragedy.
"Is this really my dad? I thought he was just a regular antique collector and researcher. Why does this make him sound like some kind of gentleman thief?" Elias muttered, flipping back to the beginning. "Maybe… he was secretly into role-playing? Or these are just drafts for some fictional book he never told me about?"
He tried to convince himself—but ended up searching his phone for some of the antiques listed in the journal. The results pulled up news articles about those items being stolen, complete with photos that unmistakably matched several of the antiques in the desk drawer.
Elias wanted to cry in frustration. He'd come here hoping to find clues he could take to the police to help with the search for his parents. But now… how could he hand this over? If his dad was found, wouldn't he just end up getting arrested?
Could his father's past have caught up to him, and he'd gone on the run? Elias stared at the journal. He needed to keep reading.
As he continued reading, the passages grew stranger and harder to understand.
8/12/19XX
Today marks a most gratifying milestone—my awakening has progressed to the Bronze Tier. At merely 23 years of age, I dare say such advancement is rare, if not exceptional. The increase in my capabilities, particularly in the construction and manipulation of magical arrays, is nothing short of remarkable.
Compared to the limitations of the Iron Tier, this new level of proficiency promises a far smoother path ahead. I anticipate my future endeavors will proceed with significantly greater efficiency and elegance.
"What does this even mean?" Elias muttered, leaning back in the worn leather chair as he skimmed the page. "Bronze tier? Iron tier? Was he playing a video game or something?"
He frowned. "No… this entry's way too old for that. Those ranking systems didn't even exist back then."
He kept flipping through the journal, skimming past entries filled with terms he didn't understand—awakened levels, spirit arrays, elemental nodes—until one finally made him pause.
12/5/19XX
Today, I encountered a most unsettling development. A man—cloaked in civility but radiating menace—approached me with an offer of affiliation. He claimed to represent a faction known as the Crimson Pact. Their name alone speaks of theatrics, but beneath the dramatics lies something far more insidious.
Though unaware of my less-than-legal pursuits, he recognized my capabilities as an awakened individual. It seems their group has an uncanny ability to sense power, and they believe mine sufficient to merit recruitment.
Their promises were generous—power, protection, influence—but I found their presentation repugnant. The envoy's bloodlust was palpable, his manner far too practiced, as if the taking of lives were merely business. And he was not the exception. The others I observed carried the same air: poised, courteous, and utterly lethal.
I do not claim to be a virtuous man. I've made my living acquiring what others would not part with. But I have my lines, and they are drawn in blood. I will not become a butcher in exchange for advancement. The Crimson Pact is a nest of serpents, and I intend to steer well clear of their coils.
Elias rubbed his brow, trying to make sense of everything.
"The Crimson Pact? That sounds like one of those secret villain organizations from a fantasy novel. Maybe this really is just my dad's roleplaying journal?" he thought, but he kept reading.
2/3/20XX
Though I had resolved to avoid further entanglement with the Crimson Pact, fate—or perhaps folly—has led me to a deeply unsettling revelation. They are far more abhorrent than I had initially presumed.
While surveying a potential location for my next acquisition, I inadvertently trespassed upon one of their hidden gathering sites. I had selected the location for its discreet architecture and seclusion—qualities ideal for my purposes—but I was unaware that it served as a base for the Pact's clandestine activities.
Curiosity—or perhaps arrogance—compelled me to observe. Concealed in the shadows, I became an unwilling witness to one of their meetings. What I overheard was not the usual posturing of a secret society, but rather something infinitely more sinister.
They spoke, without hesitation or remorse, of abductions—dozens of missing persons, many of them children. These individuals, they claimed, had been sacrificed in pursuit of forging demonic pacts. Ritualistic killings. Arcane experiments. The rumors of disappearances I had dismissed as urban legend now bore a horrific truth.
I find myself gripped by an unfamiliar conflict. What is one to do with such knowledge? I, of all people, cannot bring this to the authorities. My reputation as an international fugitive precedes me. Who would credit my testimony—especially when the crimes in question involve demons and awakeners, concepts hidden from public awareness?
Aegis would listen, perhaps. But I am already marked by them—an unregistered awakener, deemed a threat on sight. Approaching them would be tantamount to surrendering my freedom… if not my life.
And so, I am left with this bitter irony. I, who have made a life of operating in the moral gray, am now burdened with the truth of something genuinely evil. I am no hero—never have been. But I cannot ignore what I've seen.