Chapter 1:
"September."
The hunter world is an extraordinary world— awesome and gruesome creatures, unimaginable treasures, mind-blowing adventures, miracles even. But caught up in this extraordinary, people often forget that the ordinary is right there around the corner. It continues to exist with its much shinier counterpart, with no alternative but to be disregarded.
A lot of people are part of the ordinary, even in the glorious hunter world. While there are those who are drawn to the magic of the unknown, some go by with their everyday lives, just living in the known. The known and ordinary exist, sometimes becoming collateral damage of the unknown and extraordinary.
You must have seen it; regular people suffering at the fate of mutations and missions. News anchors losing their lives entertaining speakers that were a mix of a handful of species; policemen having their fingers snacked on by anomalies dashing by with the speed of light; oh, and my personal favorite, millions of human beings gathered as sacrifice and sustenance for the greater good of a superior race.
We ordinary people saw it, we knew of it. The news coverages provided more than apt descriptions and visuals of these oddities— oddities for us that is. Despite that, we went on with our very ordinary lives. How is that? You may ask, and you'd be right to do so. The answer is quite adequate, almost poetic, in its simplicity. It's easy to shelf the unseen and unknown as a fragment of the imagination.
We sleep peacefully at night because we've convinced ourselves that these strange and amazing things won't make their way to us. It's very much like leading full, driven lives with the reality of death looming over us. This is what makes the world go round. In the strange hunter world, this is what makes the average individual able to survive and immerse themselves in their ordinary.
The drizzle. The wind running wild, the drops on my palms, I'm wet all through, yet my heart is still dry. I search my soul, still incomplete, to find a destination, the one that was meant for me. The breeze tastes the rain, so humid, so pure, which part of my existence is real, I am not sure. The end that I bring is something denied, by not just my heart, but also my rebellious side. My lips are silenced, by that one word, I shall forge my own path, not follow the herd. My soul still waiting, wrapped up in pain, for that one moment, when I shall, find, harmony in the eye of the hurricane.
Midnight. The creator, the slayer. The initiator, the terminator. The end that meets the blade, the start that touches it ever so slightly. The time that marks the end of the path, but the start that forges its own.
Midnight. The enchanted word, magical. Just once said raises belief in the surreal, non-existent. Yet, where it holds magic, it also holds catastrophe. The time when dreams end, hearts break, the depressed lose hope; the dark acquires its complete reign.
It was a similar night when it all was written to be, portrayed, and carried out by destiny. The haunted night, that tore a soul, broke a heart, took a life. It was the blade, that pierced right through, the flesh, the blood. The voice was merely a whisper, just a blame, demanding reason for betrayal, for pain. The dark's dominion was yet to come, for what was conquered, was not enough.
They were flashes, mere echoes, yet only one was the clearest in my memory, the sight of a woman, staring, accusingly, at me. My will already broken, crumpled like sand, as I watched this sight, with blood on my hands.
September, the month. The nine to the twelve, the three less than the dozen. The cold, the frozen. The bite in the air, the crack to the ice, the flap to the wing, the tick to the clock. This month, with its particular windy chills and teeth-shattering shower, was considered the most notorious, or what I liked to call it, not serendipitous in the least way. It was the death of nature, the funeral of broken dreams, the revival of oppression, and the burial of hope.
It was all that, and more, not just because it was the high school starting month, end of vacations, and when the homework assignments were due, but because it was the particular Zoldyck month. The reaper month, the murderer, the month of the Zoldyck's sovereignty, the scythe to the throat of the innocent.
It wasn't just one of those myths you read at the end of the entertainment section of the newspaper, this month with its grey and misty outlook was the pure definition of fear. It was that particular blow that made the flame shiver ever so slightly, yet it was enough to be remembered and avoided. The month that kept you on your guard, the one that casted its shadow on the hearts, forcing the doors to be shut.
Not assumption, but belief. Nearly five years ago, the Ten Dons were discreetly and secretively murdered, right in the heart of their base, exactly at the most critical time of the annual auction. Needles so brutally, yet in a highly artistic manner were sunk in their flesh, no blood, yet so much foul, chaos, destruction, and tragedy, on this very month. Arterius, the capital, the heart and soul of the Gorteau, victim of not murder but massacre, innocent lives not slayed, beheaded, four years ago, on this very month. Toshiro Inazami, grade eleven member of JCI, not killed, assassinated. Not in his apartment, not in some deserted street, right in the middle of a national interview, surrounded by his security officers, three years ago, on this very month. Delegates of the independence committee, not executed, eliminated, two years ago, on this very month. Mafia leaders of Padokian states, not erased in an extermination, in a bloodshed, one year ago, on this very month.
Culprit? Responsible? Mastermind? All them. The Zoldyck family. The world's most notorious assassins. In the extremities of the hunter universe, what fascinated and terrified me the most in shockingly equal parts was the Zoldyck family. They were like that gory motion picture you couldn't quite stomach, but couldn't look away from either. Their history, legacy, and the mist of myths that surrounded them were just… exquisite. All of it beckoned you in like you wouldn't believe.
Any job no one else could get done, they were called in. Wanted to hire professionals, they were called in. Someone to assure at all costs the execution of the mission, they were called in. Regardless my hate for violence, I couldn't but, if not more, feel admiration towards them, towards their work. How they carried themselves. They killed for a living, and where that was repulsive, it was reality, it was life. Everybody killed for a living, it was just illustrated in different ways. Some stole, some cheated, some blackmailed and others lied. In other words, everybody killed, their character, their conscience, themselves, all for a living.
This year was just like any other, with its mysterious and dark outlines, the grey, almost smoky clouds, predicted no good. I took a deep breath and escorted my new rubber boots, which squeaked after regular intervals, rubbing with each other, on the uneven and cracked sidewalk. Eventually, I would hear a splash, as the muddy puddles swallowed up my feet, and as they emerged back up, the bottom hems of my jeans felt wet and soaked. I didn't mind, it was actually quite refreshing.
I glanced once at the sky, the light rays, even though dim, peeked from behind the ominous-looking grey blanket of fluff and along with the tiny raindrops, pricked my eyes. Like I said in my prelude, I was part of the ordinary. Excessively so even. Or so I thought.
Claire Ajibana. 17. A-type personality, high-school senior, probably a nerd, and secretly a die-hard fan of conspiracy theories. In the hunter world, one came by lots of those.
I buried my hands in the pockets of my jacket, the collar of which was covering about half of my face. My exhales were visible, as they condensed, twisted. and took off. I slightly shivered as I walked on, shaking off a bit of excitement, the cold weather made me feel energetic. That's how autumns always were in Noda, the little city, somewhat located in a very, very southern side of the United States of Saherta, cold. Population, about ten thousand. Not too crowded, not deserted, just perfect, just home.
I took a few more paces and spun around, the automatic doors of the supermarket opened, throwing a gust of warm and stale air right at me. I hurried in and rubbed my hands together, I wasn't cold, that was just an old habit. Right at one corner, I grabbed a basket from a little column and went through the grocery list once again. I had all the necessary items in about ten minutes, which was just about as long as I was willing to give.
I strode through the shelves right to the end when something in my peripheral vision made me stop. I took a few steps back and smiled at my luck. Right in one corner of the candy section, there it was, the last box of chocolate balls. Without another thought, I reached out for the confections. They belonged in my basket, and soon in my stomach, that was their destiny. I went with the beat in my ears, giddy of my almost-accomplishment.
It took me a few seconds to register the pull that was keeping the box in place. I realized that someone was tugging at it from the other side of the aisle.
"Oh, sorry," I said, startled, spotting the boy who had a hold of the other side of the candy box. The gaps in the shelf were not very wide, so I could only make out patches of him. Silver hair, blue eyes— gorgeous.
"Um, you can- have it," I sputtered as soon as I recovered from the suddenness of it all; the people-pleaser in me as fast and shifty as always.
He simply moved his head in a single nod of acknowledgement, took the goods, and moved away.
I blinked at his rudeness. What an absolute asshole, I thought. The people-pleaser in me was immediately trampled by my old friend, sudden rage, and I headed to the end of the aisle just as he made his way there.
"Excuse me," I said pointedly, not caring that I didn't even reach his shoulder in all my angry glory.
"You're excused," he granted, looking unimpressed and annoyed even. I wasn't sure if his choice of words was meant to insult or not, but the superior expression on his face said enough. Like he had just bestowed upon me some unimaginable honor by allowing me to speak to him.
"I was being polite," I told him, my hands gesturing unnecessarily. This tended to happen when I was flustered. My mom said I juggled when I was rattled.
"Hm," he answered, with a deadpan look at me. "Could've been better." That was accompanied by a small derogatory nod, in which he also looked me over like he was clearly bored of what he saw.
Okay, my boring jeans and a raincoat combo wasn't winning me any modeling contracts, and yes, this boy looked like he had just landed fresh from the shoot of a magazine for snobby rich people, but-
I scanned his attire in hopes of replicating his uninspired stare. A crisp, pale blue linen shirt, the sleeves casually rolled up to reveal a glimpse of a silver watch peeking out from underneath. The shirt was tucked into a pair of perfectly tailored khaki chinos that had a slight taper at the ankle. A thin, brown leather belt with a simple buckle cinched everything in at the waist.
Okay, he wasn't trying too hard, but there was an effortless elegance about his attire, and he was clearly loaded, hence the stuck-up attitude. I hated him already.
The guy went ahead and passed a hand through his hair- the air of superiority about him even more evident than before. He wasn't just an asshole, I realized. He was also full of himself.
"You're- you're giving me notes on being polite?" I asked incredulously.
"Clearly," he answered, and I swear I never knew I could grow to hate a person this fast.
My eyes narrowed at that. "I don't like you," I blurted out before really processing my words. My brain and mouth filter was obviously defected.
"I'll survive," he assured, arching an arrogant brow, before walking around me. This man was treating me like I was an annoying fly he was unable to swat away.
"You know what? I take it back," I ground out, resisting the urge to step on his foot. Also, my rubber boots didn't have much to give in the department of injury. "I want that candy back, you're rude and a supreme asshole."
For a second I wanted to mentally punch myself for progressing on to such strong language in such little time. But then I saw that he looked amused, and not the least fazed by it. "Whoa, those are some big words for a tiny person." Then I wished I would've gone for something fouler, but I just stared at him stunned at his audacity.
"Alright, take it," he conceded holding out the candy box, and I almost felt bad for the way I handled things. Almost- until when I made a motion to reach for it, he held just a little higher.
I looked at him, unamused. He, in turn, looked exceptionally pleased with himself.
I made a move for the box, and again, he raised it up a little more. "You don't want it?" he asked, provokingly, feigning the image of complete naiveté.
"What are you, a child?" I demanded, my teeth gritted in frustration.
His free hand lifted to touch his chin; a gesture of fake contemplation. Why did I already know this asshole was going mess with me more? "More like a wise, ancient being trapped in this youthful form." He said that complete with the motion of directing my attention to his entire body— which even I, in my state of utter resentment for him, could not deny was very nice.
I pursed my lips. "Funny. I want the candy back."
"And I conceded, take it," he spelled out like he was trying to put syllables together for an idiot. He followed this by using his height to his advantage again when I retried to snatch the box from him.
By this point, I realized there was no winning with this supreme motherfucker. I had moved on to feeling embarrassed and suppressing the lump in my throat. "You know what?" I stammered, feeling my mouth tremble with the intensity of anger I was feeling currently. "You're-you're—"
He raised his eyebrows in mocking anticipation. He already knew I wasn't going to be able to finish that meaningless sentence. "I see your vocabulary is as limited as your…" he didn't take that further, and didn't have to either, because his eyes signaled very evidently that he was referring to my height.
The infuriating part of all of this was that I wasn't even short, by no standard, really. I stood at a decent five feet, seven inches. But this outrageously tall demon had somehow made a standing joke out of it.
"You're a jerk!" was the only fabulous comeback I could produce on such short notice.
He put a hand on his heart. "Now, that one seriously hurt," he announced in a mockingly pained tone.
I followed through with the idea of stepping on his foot, but he was still a step ahead and avoided the impact. He clicked his tongue while moving his finger in a sideways motion right in front of my face. "I don't think so teacup Tasmanian devil."
The last thing I could do was groan and frustration and exit the scene. I focused on my anger repression exercises while going through the self-checkout counter. You wouldn't believe my luck that just before I packed my last item, I saw the silver-haired jerk standing at the counter right next to mine.
He had the audacity to raise his eyebrows at me and hold up the chocolate box in a claim of victory with the broadest, evilest grin I had had the misfortune of witnessing.
Luckily, I recovered my wits right in the nick of time and held out a finger loud and clear at him before leaving the store for good. What a shitshow of an evening.
My only solace was that I wasn't going to have to see that unbearable person ever again.
Boy was I wrong.