The howling of the wind. The burning sensation at the back of my hand. The smoke surrounding my petrified self, slowly clearing to reveal an intimidating-looking figure within. The fierce rattling of my antique rifle. It once perched itself proudly on my desk, but was now shaking vigorously on the floor like a broken toy.
Frankly, it all felt like a setting straight out of a book. A horror book.
The first thing I noticed was her eyes. It was impossible not to. Her irises were blood red, and her piercing gaze, locked with my own, felt terrifying to be under. I instinctively backed away, a multitude of questions running themselves through my mind. The one that I wanted the answer to most was clear, however.
Did this person just materialize out of thin air?
The stranger's short stature did little to comfort my growing panic. Her black military uniform was complimented by a large red cape, seemingly enough to swallow her entire body. The unnaturally strong breeze caused her lengthy hair to flow in different directions, making her appearance all the more menacing.
Her gloved hands rested on a sheathed sword, which in turn rested on the floor of my room.
We simply stared at each other for what felt like eternity. Her presence was extremely overwhelming, enough for me not to notice the subsiding of the pain in my own hand. All I could focus my attention on was my uninvited visitor and her striking choice of clothing.
Of course, my eyes never left her weapon either. I folded my outstretched legs in, ready to rise from my incredibly disadvantageous sitting position and escape. Fortunately, the exit was right behind me.
Finally, the woman stepped forward. I shrunk back in response, my spine now pressed against my door. Her lips curled up into a smirk, perhaps expressing her amusement at watching me squirm.
"Demon King of the Sixth Heaven, Archer-class Servant, Oda Nobunaga. Nice to meet ya... Master."
There wasn't much I could muster in reply.
"Excuse me?"
The Holy Grail War.
A ritual - familiar to every magus in the world - where seven Masters, each with their respective dreams and ambitions, compete for the omnipotent Holy Grail, a holy relic said to grant the wish of it's owner. Each Master is aided by a single Servant, an individual who accomplished great feats in life and wrote his or her name into history itself.
Servants, summoned by the Grail, are required to act according to their Masters' wishes. In return, the Master supplies the Servant with mana, anchoring said Servant to their era and maintaining their existence. At the same time, the Master is equipped with three Command Seals, each one granting the power to demand a Servant's absolute obedience.
Following the bloody conclusion of the Second War, a mysterious phenomenon occurred, causing the Grail to vanish from it's set location of Japan's Fuyuki City. It would later reappear in random locations across the world from Europe to Asia, initiating chaotic Holy Grail Wars in the region each time it did.
In short, it cannot be prepared for.
Without so much as a warning, unsuspecting magi from anywhere in the world could one day see the manifestation of a Master's three Command Seals on their hand, forcing them into battle royale. As a result, the lives of partaking Masters have been oftentimes lost, with rarely a clear victor defined.
That was the true nature of the Holy Grail War.
Of course, I recognized the term. My ancestors were magi, and I had heard stories that a chosen few even participated in Holy Grail Wars of their own. In that sense, I suppose it would be fair to say that I hailed from a prestigious magus family.
But, well, somewhere down the line of the family tree, someone made the abrupt decision to start a normal life instead of dabbling in magecraft. The Cavendish clan, once regarded as specialists in summoning magic, haven't looked back since.
That decision, apparently made by my great-grandfather, had always baffled me.
Why would one ever give up the wonders of magecraft for a simple life of normality? Miracles beyond the realm of science could be made with magic. In comparison, nothing could be accomplished by straying away from it.
Living in a typical, average household, I quickly grew up to forget about magic, it's hidden potential and my own family's history in the world of magecraft - all of which I had read as a young boy in an old dusty book stashed away in my father's library.
However, my desire to be something greater than normal never dissipated.
At the time, there was no way for me to know that my wish was about to be granted in more ways than one.
For now, all I could see was the red beams of light setting the night sky ablaze. Accompanying it was the thunderous noise ringing in my ears, deafening enough for me to feel the need to put my hands up and cover them.
I couldn't pinpoint the source of it, but what I undoubtedly knew was that they were sounds of destruction.
The beams destroyed everything they touched. One hit a lamppost standing innocently on the side of the road, and that was it. Boom. It instantly disappeared. Vaporized. It's power was devastating, certainly not something I've ever seen in my life.
From the skies, something descended right in front of me. A person? I had no idea. I faced his... or her... back, so it was impossible to make out any facial features. I stepped forward, opening my mouth in a vain attempt to speak - no words came out.
"... is perfectly correct. Next question, let's see... Cavan Cavendish. Cavan?"
The person donned a long red cape, that was currently having the time of it's life flapping wildly in the wind. I reached my hand out, tugging at the cape in an endeavor to catch this stranger's attention.
"What is it, kid?" Success, though four words and a slightly-turned head was all I got. For some inexplicable reason, my vision was incredibly blurry. The person's face still looked dark and incredibly vague.
"Who... who are you?"
"Hahaha!" The enigma's booming chuckle was enough to rival the noise in the air. "Who am I, you ask? Very well! Allow me to reveal my true name to you!"
Whipping around dramatically to reveal a short girl clad in military black, the owner of the loud laugh puffed out her chest, thumping a fist onto it several times.
"I am...!"
"... your Scriptwriting module lecturer, Ms Karen. Now if you would kindly wake up, Cavan, that would be very nice."
"Huh?"
My eyes opened slowly, and I was startled to be immediately greeted by the face of a demon, staring right back at me. I rubbed my eyes and took a closer look. Oh, just my lecturer. Never mind.
"I apologize for getting in the way of your beauty sleep, Cavan," she hissed. "But I'm trying to teach a class here."
I sat back upright, flashing her what I hoped looked like an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Ms Karen."
Right, scriptwriting.
As Ms Karen returned to her lesson, although not before shooting me another death glare, I looked around, silently admiring the drive of the people around me. All of my classmates were furiously scribbling down notes, as if their life depended on it. Meanwhile, my own notebook, left untouched on my desk since the start of class, looked as new as ever.
Was there even a single soul in the world who would be motivated if they were in my position? ... Probably. But not me.
I stared into space for a good ten minutes, and slowly but surely the devil called sleep was tempting me back into his clutches.
"Alright, and that's all for today. Have a good weekend, everybody." Nice, my ears picked up on that one. It didn't take long for me to snap out of sleep mode. Packing my things took even less time, since, well, I only had one notebook to keep. "For those who're late on it, Monday's the deadline for that report submission. I'm sure you all know who you are."
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I left my seat and began my walk towards the entrance to paradise. In more ordinary terms, the classroom exit. I had a couple of books and movies I wanted to look at over the weekend. The sooner I got started on them the better.
Saying my due goodbyes and "see ya"s to the classmates I passed, I got to as far as the teacher's desk.
"Excuse me, Cavan, but you will have to stay for a little while longer."
Crap. Not now, Ms Karen, not now. Not ever, really.
"Sure," I mumbled, not bothered enough to hide the unwillingness in my tone. As the class' last few students trickled out of the room, she motioned for me to take a seat in front of her desk.
Complying again, I dragged a chair away from a nearby table. I haven't even plopped down fully on the seat when she started going off on me.
"Look, Cavan, I'm sure I don't need to remind you, but you have an exact total GPA of 1.4." Ms Karen leaned in, her face looking deadly serious. "If you aren't going to buck up soon, you're never going to graduate. I don't know how many times we've talked about this."
"About six?" I offered.
She glared at me, something I had gotten very accustomed to. "A GPA of 1.4 is not going to get you anywhere, Cavan. It isn't going to get you a certificate from this academy. It isn't going to get you a future career. If you understand what's good for you, start taking lessons more seriously and stop dozing off in class."
Ms Karen paused, presumably to catch her breath, before continuing on.
"All of us here at Stella Arts Academy want what's best for you. And to achieve that you have to work a lot harder and devote more time to your studies."
Ah, yes, the classic 'you have to work harder' line. I've only heard it about a few hundred times over the past year. Having nothing to say in reply, I simply nodded mindlessly.
"I'm sure you can make big improvements as long as you get your head down and start working harder. Just like you were back in your first year." Ms Karen sighed. "What happened, Cavan?"
I had a feeling that last part was more of a rhetorical question. She had already asked the same thing several times, not getting a straight answer even once. And today was no different.
"Nothing, Ms Karen."
A few more minutes of nagging was finally followed by the green light to leave the classroom. I practically flew out of the chair in my eagerness to leave. The conversation had left a bitter taste in my mouth.
You have to work harder, I mused, as I walked down the corridor filled with classes and lecture theaters.
It's not as if I never tried.
Unfortunately, Stella Arts Academy was a school for the talented. And 'talent' was something I did not have.
Digging my hands into my coat pockets, I quickened my pace. Past the cafeteria, past the seemingly infinite number of lecture halls, past the teacher's office, past the football field. The school gates were a welcome sight.
I hate staying in places where I feel I don't belong, Stella being number one on that list.
In fact, it only felt more unwelcoming with each passing day.
The security guard at the gates shot a warm smile in my direction, but I was in no mood to respond with anything but a small nod. Talk about rude.
The sky outside was littered with grey clouds, signalling the start of a heavy shower. The first drops of rain were already falling. I could only grunt in annoyance while pulling the hood of my jacket up to shield my head from the incoming downpour.
I got my run down to the bus stop under way, memories of my first day at Stella flashing through my mind. The weather had been just as ominous, with rain clouds threatening to spoil my induction into tertiary education.
Writing a book and becoming an author had always been my dream. When I read the letter of acceptance paving the way for my enrollment into Stella, a school famous for being the alma mater of numerous well-known authors, artists and designers, I was convinced that it was the start of something great.
This could be the start of my dream, I had reasoned with myself. Ironically, it turned out to be the end of it instead.
A harsh reality check lied in wait for me at Stella. Everyone around me was just so... talented. There wasn't any other way to put it. It was clear that most of my schoolmates were born to be something greater than the average person.
In the Creative Writing & Storytelling course I chose to pursue, even when I worked my hardest and tried my damnedest, I was always kicked to the bottom of the pile when it came to schoolwork. Everyone did... well, everything better than I did.
"Check out my script! I worked really hard on it," I would tell a classmate.
"Sure, you should look at mine too," he would reply, and proceed to show me a script rivaling that of William Shakespeare's Macbeth. My own work felt tiny next to his. Of course, when the results returned, it received a much lower grade as well.
What I learnt from my first year in Stella Arts Academy was that talent mattered and nothing else did.
So I just stopped trying.
I could be studying hard, grinding every night to craft what I thought would be the perfect story. The next morning, about a hundred people would show up with something better. It was a neverending scenario, always repeating itself in every class and every module without fail.
The worst part was knowing the fact that I couldn't stop it with my own hands. Not unless I was someone else. Someone talented, with the skills, passion and power required to achieve the ambitions he had set for himself. Basically, someone entirely different from the person that I am.
The initial drizzle had turned into a heavy torrent of rain by the time I reached the bus stop, and just in time too. My bus was nearing and in plain sight. I hurriedly flagged it down, feeling a little better. At least today wasn't all bad. Standing and waiting for buses in the middle of the rain wasn't exactly my idea of fun.
I boarded, quickly finding a comfortable spot, and looked out the window to silently admire the scenery of raindrops splattering on glass.
Indeed, if only I was somebody else...
Relaxing back into my seat, I removed my hands from my pockets... and frowned. A tiny mark had found it's way onto my right hand, blending in with my skin so well I wouldn't have noticed without taking a second look.
Ink? Paint? How did it get there?
No matter, I thought, moving my other hand to rub it off and thinking that would be the end of it.
Little did I know it was just the beginning.