Fanfiction by: myIdentity.
Honoured one at Magic High.
Chapter one.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
The room was plunged into deep darkness, save for a single overhead bulb that swayed lazily from a frayed wire, casting erratic, sickly circles of light across the cracked walls.
Its walls were stained with dampness, their surfaces chipped and crumbling; the dampness could even be smelt throughout the room.
At the centre sat a battered steel table, rust biting into its edges, surrounded by mismatched chairs dragged from who-knew-where.
Around the table, figures loomed, a palpable tension hanging in the air as neither side spoke.
Sitting at the head of the table, distinct from the rest by posture alone, sat a young man—or, literally speaking, a boy too young—with an elegant yet almost delicate appearance.
His dark hair was neatly combed, with a few rebellious strands falling out that never failed to go straight despite the constant combing.
Additionally, his pale skin shone under harsh light, giving him a ghostly appearance.
What was most different about him perhaps were those eyes of his dull pupils.
Rather than vibrant pupils with uniqueness to them, his were dull, dead white. Blind, unmistakably so.
Yet, those eyes kept a focused attention unaffected by the smaller movements made by the magician surrounding him.
Instead, he gripped, on his right hand, against the floor, a simple black cane capped with polished silver.
He wore a tailored black suit, which under normal circumstances should look out of place in a place like this; however, he never looked out of place.
In fact, anyone that enters would think he was their boss.
Despite being disabled for a magician, there was no fragility to him.
If anything, he seemed less like a disabled man and more like a hidden weapon waiting to be unsheathed.
Such was the feeling he gave.
Across from him, seated on a chair like him, was a broad-shouldered man who leaned forward, placing his elbows on his lap, and then resting the left side of his face on it.
His face was marred by a crooked nose and a permanent scar that would make anyone think that person must be involved in shady business.
That was also the feeling he gave.
"So," the man finally began, his voice rough and slightly haggard, "the authentic ones – the organisation behind you claims to have the authentic one, not the cheap knock-offs flooding the streets."
The blind young boy gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
His lips then parted with a voice so calm that it was chilling also.
"Yes. We have the items in our inventory having been supplied (robbed) by "that" faction," he said. "Distribution, however, remains…negotiable."
A murmur passed through the gathered thugs.
Some looked at each other in discussion; the others were only more wary of the young man.
Deals like this didn't happen without risk, and not especially when he'd mentioned that faction.
The fact that their trusted agent was this blind young man unnerved them.
They didn't think he'd be that easy; still, they had prepared numerous firearms as well as a few «Antenites».
On the flip side, the leader leaned back, one heavy boot tapping an irregular rhythm against the concrete.
His eyes narrowed as he considered the boy's words. In the end, everything about this deal still smells fishy.
Eventually, he decided thinking about it won't do much.
"How do I believe you're their agent? You don't look much. Blind kid, a few dogs at your heels. What the hell makes you think you can dictate terms?"
The boy tilted his head slightly, as if the insult were a mild gust of wind brushing past him.
"I see; you have a problem with me, huh? But I assure you, I am legit."
As those words left his lips, the room went silent.
Somewhere in the distance, a pipe leaked, the plink-plink constantly resounding, said noise being the only disturbance in the silent room.
The leader's fingers twitched on the tabletop.
"I personally find that hard to begin, and besides, those people don't use intermediaries in the first place."
As though to return it, his lips parted slowly into a thin smile.
"Smart ass, are we now… Who are you to decide what the organisation does?"
He said that, closing his eyes and lowering his head slightly. But they did not take it lightly.
The leader's fist slammed into the table, making everyone jolt.
Even the overhead bulb trembled, its flickering growing worse.
"You little shit, I was planning on letting you go if you didn't make this hard for yourself, but since you want to play hardball, we'll show you what happens when punks like you get cocky."
Despite the threat, the boy remained perfectly still, his cane resting lightly against his knees, his pale, sightless eyes staring at the leader.
"Forgive me", he said quietly, "but I was under the impression this was a negotiation, not a charity."
"Brat, still playing house with me!?"
The insult was veiled, almost tender in delivery, but the effect was instantaneous.
One of the thugs standing at the edges of the room—a younger man with a jittery hand hovering over the hilt of a short sharp object which looked to be a knife—cursed under his breath.
Another cracked his knuckles meaningfully.
Others reached for the ring they wore in hand in order to counter whatever magic he may attempt to activate.
The leader's chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood. "No more games," he snarled. "You're not walking out of here."
The room exploded into movement.
Hands snapped up, firearms cracking up to life with a ratatatatatata sound.
Bullets moving faster than the eyes could track; everything pointed at the blind young male.
Yet, despite all of the noises.
Nothing. Nothing happened.
Bullets, which would have struck him, hung suspended mid-air, as though forming a barrier in front of the man.
However, this was supposed to be impossible.
"What the hell—? What are you lot doing with cast jamming?" one gasped.
"Cast jamming isn't working! There wasn't a sequence activation or sequence cancel!"
"Has he activated the magic before he even came in?"
Turning a deaf ear to their ruckus, he sat still, motionless, his cane balanced delicately across his lap.
One of the thugs, furious, drew a pistol from under his jacket and fired.
However, it was as futile as the bullet pausing mid-air.
Obviously, they saw it, but they didn't want to believe such a thing.
The other thugs responsible for the cast jamming intensified their control of their «Antenites» to mess with his magic sequence.
Still. The result was the same.
All for nothing. It was like they were throwing pebbles into an endless, invisible ocean.
The boy let out a soft sigh, long-suffering, as if the entire ordeal had become tedious.
He lifted his hand — not even his whole hand, just a single, unhurried finger. The gesture was delicate. Almost bored.
And then —
— bodies hit the ground with a sound like sacks of wet cement being dropped from a height.
One after another, the agents' bodies slowly began to inflate in a weird way, their eyes rolling back.
Then, before the thugs even realised it, a low, dull splash echoed out, along with even lower thuds and mushy noises against the ground.
Only the leader remained standing, frozen in horrified awe. He slowly lowered his gun, letting it clatter uselessly to the floor.
The boy, cane still poised in his lap, turned his dead-white eyes toward him.
There was no need for further negotiation. The silence that followed was so complete it felt like the room itself had stopped breathing.
Bodies lay sprawled across the floor—already gone. No hope for them. All of his trained men, even those equipped with "Antenites", stood no chance against him.
No way, he thought.
Once more, he looked over at his men, most of whom were left without their lower halves; their upper halves were completely gone.
Sweat dropped.
The flickering light above buzzed once, then steadied, casting long, grim shadows over the aftermath.
He was the only one standing. And of all people to be in front of, it had to be him. Then, was he authentic? There was no use thinking about it now. No, he shouldn't even think about it.
But the more he tried not to think about it, the more his breath caught in his throat, his face contorted between a grin and a grimace, with sweat clinging to his brows.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then let out a dry, humourless laugh.
"...So, that was it, huh? The agent that approached us, and you here…"
"We have never done anything for your organisation to cast their gaze at us, so why?"
Saying that finally prompted the young boy up. His hand slid the cane down from his lap as the tip tapped against the floor.
His posture was calm, neither tense nor smug; calm as though they had just concluded a friendly board meeting.
"It's not about the illegal things you're doing. The higher-ups have had enough. Especially going so far as to negotiate for illegal substances from foreign nationals—that's the limit, don't you think?"
With a twirl of his left index finger, he said that, shaking his head, which only made the leader bark out another laugh.
He even went so far as to play house simply to confirm that fact. No, the fact had been confirmed; it could be that he just wanted to play out this moment.
"So, that was it, huh? What a vicious person. You all already knew about the deal, yet you still toyed with us like this? How vile."
The boy inclined his head ever so slightly, not quite confirming but far from denying. He never even minded the insults directed at him.
From his tone, the young man could tell he had already accepted what was coming next, so he simply took a step closer and reached for his chair, sitting heavily on it.
The leader then looked around the corpse-filled room, then back at him.
"What did you do? How the hell did you do it?"
Ah, the boy tilted his head slightly, the way a cat might upon hearing a curious sound.
"No activation. No movement. Hell, you didn't even blink. My men… they couldn't touch you. What was that?"
It was after he heard that the boy finally made another expression; it was one of playful, confused acknowledgement, his mouth forming a little o.
"Simply a simple magic that initiates recursive spatial subdivision at Planck-scale intervals. By introducing pseudo-boundaries within three-dimensional coordinates, physical vectors targeting the user are forced into infinite recursive detours, rendering direct contact mathematically impossible."
"GAH! TOO LONG!"
The thug leader almost choked at that. He wasn't any good at complex things.
But after shouting that, the young man's already excited features dimmed back to their usual cold elegance.
With a small huff, he turned his back, the tip of his cane tapping the floor as he walked away.
His cold, clouded eyes remained unchanged. Everything about his movement was as though mechanically calculated, and he was adjusting his body accordingly.
"In this world, I remain invincible. What does a man do to another who doesn't even exist in the same world? That is me."
His voice was quiet as he said that, laying his hands on the rusted knob of the door.
Opening the door, there was a low pop from behind him. Despite this action, there was no happiness, remorse, guilt, or expression on his face.
Simply, he passed through the doorway, his steps disappearing into the long, narrow hallway of the negotiation room, which was lined with rusted pipes.
The air smelt of old oil and colder things—stone, sweat, and silence.
Dim red lights pulsed every few metres along the ceiling, their flicker constant and low, like a heartbeat on life support.
"Hm?"
He paused only when the corridor turned sharply toward the exit.
With one hand, he reached into his jacket breast and retrieved a small communicator—a smooth, matte-black device no bigger than a thumb drive.
A soft click as he flicked it open. The receiver activated with a faint pulse of magical static.
"Relay", he said.
A woman's voice answered immediately. "Receiving."
"Mission complete," he said. There was a pause — perhaps the sound of rapid typing on the other end.
Then: "Confirming all targets neutralised?"
"Primary target and fifteen subordinates. No survivors."
"Understood. Return route active. Debrief within the hour."
The line went dead.
The boy slipped the device back into his jacket and resumed walking—his cane clicking gently, tapping on the ground rhythmically as he left.