Prologue Chapter 2 (4k words)

As he fell, the wind roared past Uzziel's ears even through the helmet, the world blurring into a dizzying whirl of colours and shapes.

Despite the chaos, his mind remained eerily calm, detached from his body's rush of adrenaline. He felt the air against his skin, the sharp sting of cold biting through his suit.

This was the moment he had been preparing for—like a barren land finally receiving rain, just enough sustenance to keep going a little longer.

His body responded to the plummet with an instinctive surge of more adrenaline, every muscle tense, his senses elevated.

This constant flood of adrenaline was what kept him alive, a vital force that prevented him from being bedridden. Without it, his body would betray him, rendering him weak and incapacitated. The only thing it did not touch was his mind, which remained as still as water, a tranquil lake untouched by the storm raging around his body.

Everyone believed he relied on inhuman luck to escape danger.

He scoffed at that. "As if I would ever tie myself to something as fickle as Lady Luck," he thought with contempt.

No, he relied on something much more real and dear to him. It wasn't luck, but a primal force that had been with him since birth, lying dormant until that fateful day he met Mitra. It was as if his very spirit had been waiting for that moment, finally awakening a heightened cognition within him.

As he continued to fall, he felt a connection to everything around him. The world seemed to slow, each detail standing out in stark clarity. He noticed the subtle shifts in air drafts, the play of light on the jagged rocks below, and the exact angle of his body as it sliced through the sky.

Every whisper of the wind was a message meant only for him, guiding him, speaking to him in a language only he could understand. 

It was his instincts.

It was an unerring compass that had never failed him, a gift that transcended mere survival skills. It was these instincts that whispered to him now, steering him away from danger and towards survival.

And it was because of these feelings that he knew with certainty that there must be more in this seemingly mundane world.

At five seconds, it clicked. He straightened out, spreading his arms and legs, angling his body like a bird catching the wind. His instincts guided him, telling him how to adjust his limbs, and how to shift his weight to gain control. When he was 110 meters down, he began to glide forward. The wind caressed him.

As he moved ahead, gaining more speed, the ground was no longer a threat but an ally in his flight. His instincts called out to him again to stay at his current speed, and he listened, trusting them. The rush of wind was now a symphony, each note was a signal that he was exactly where he needed to be.

As he moved forward, he saw the first of twelve signs to guide his way and zoomed over it with precision. Ahead, he noticed a fork in his path. As he flew closer, the choices became more distinct: one path veered sharply to the left, the other to the right. Uzziel closed his eyes, blocking out the rush of the wind and the pull of gravity, focusing entirely on what his instincts conveyed.

"Go left," they told him, and he listened.

With a swift adjustment, he veered left, feeling the air currents change subtly around him. He continued to glide, his body reacting to every nuance of the wind, waiting, knowing that what lay ahead would not be the dead end Johnson had warned him about. He opened his eyes and saw the next sign, confirming his choice. He was right.

He sighed mentally. Instead of elation at surviving a 50/50 scenario and escaping a gruesome end, he felt a tinge of disappointment, knowing it was all downhill from here. The initial thrill of facing the unknown, of relying purely on instinct and skill, had been the peak of his excitement.

The subsequent signs would not hold the same allure; the challenge had already been met and conquered.

He glanced ahead, seeing the path unfold with less uncertainty. The remaining signs would be straightforward, mere markers as intended rather than true tests of his abilities. The adrenaline that surged through him now was a familiar guide, no longer spiking with the same passion.

"Well, let's get this over with then," he muttered.

With that, he began to speed up, pushing his body to its limits. He wasn't worried about failing. His mind and body were acclimated to this intense experience. He felt the wind resistance increase as he accelerated. The next signs appeared in quick succession, each one a blur as he zipped past. His focus was unwavering, his instincts guiding him flawlessly. The initial rush had given way to a steady, controlled descent, every movement calculated and intentional. 

He knew exactly what to do and how to do it.

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He was not ashamed to admit that he exclaimed out loud when he saw Uzziel plummet uncontrollably immediately after he jumped.

"He is done for! I am done for!"

This was supposed to be his very first job; he hadn't even been here for a week! Who would hire him now? People didn't like a vulture journalist.

Though he didn't consider himself a journalist and had never left Haliwood, maybe all hope was not lost!

"Quit making so much damn noise, Mark!" an annoyed voice beside him called out, making him jump.

"Right, I forgot I wasn't alone," Mark muttered, trying to cover his embarrassment. Before he could say anything, the man continued.

"Just watch; he'll be fine. We just have to do our part," the man said, his voice calming. There was a familiar glint in his eyes as if he knew something no one else did.

"Sorry! Didn't mean—"

"I said be QUIET," the old man barked, pointing towards the monitor. "It's our duty to capture this moment!" he added, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"Crazy old man! If you wanted to film something gruesome, why don't you go to a war zone somewhere?" Mark grumbled under his breath while looking at the old man.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice from his earpiece. "Well, let's get this over with then."

Wait! It was Uzziel. "But how?" he wondered to himself, snapping his head back towards the monitor.

"Haha, you missed it, you little shit! I told you to be quiet." the man laughed at him with glee. "I knew it; the only thing that will kill men like him is old age!"

Mark watched the monitor in amazement. Uzziel was flying, gliding through the air with the ease of a seasoned professional. His movements were precise and controlled. "How... How did he do it? Was he just pretending before? Has he orchestrated all of this for the show?"

"Go and get his bottle, rookie. It's the purple one," the old man suddenly said to him.

"Damn it, Nicholas, when was that my job?" Mark protested.

"I just decided it was," Nicholas replied, his tone sharp. "Now quit your whining and go get it!"

There was an undeniable authority in his voice, one that brooked no argument. "Besides, you missed the good part anyway."

Mark didn't dare say anything further. He scurried off towards the van in the distance that held Uzziel's equipment.

"It was your fault that I missed it," Mark grumbled under his breath, shuffling and searching for the bottle. "Ah, there it is. Hmm, it doesn't look any special," he muttered to himself as he held up the bottle. "It just looks like a normal water bottle."

Curious, Mark wondered if the contents held anything special because of the nicknames the fans gave Uzziel. "The Immortal," some called him, on account of his surviving the craziest stunts.

Others dubbed him "The Vampire" – a nickname particularly popular among his female fans. They insisted it was because he was as pale as one and no amount of makeup could cover it or his handsome face.

"They probably think he sparkles in the sunlight too," Mark grumbled at that thought as he shook the bottle.

He noticed the liquid inside felt thicker, more viscous than water. His curiosity grew. "Maybe... maybe it isn't water?" Before he knew it, he had opened the bottle. "It's red! Don't tell me he really is a vampire?" Mark, now pale, looked at the crimson liquid. "No, no, surely not. Let me just take a whiff. I heard blood is supposed to smell like metal."

Finding some courage, he brought the bottle closer to his nose.

He expected a metallic tang but instead, a wave of sweetness enveloped his senses. It was a rich, almost overwhelming scent, like a bouquet of ripe berries and honeyed nectar. The sweetness was so intense it nearly made him sneeze.

"Ah—what the hell! Why is it so sweet?" He almost dropped the bottle in his surprise. "I didn't know Uzziel had a sweet tooth."

"Mark! Get your ass here!" Nicholas' voice cut through the air, followed by the soft thud and rustling of a parachute landing. The sound was unmistakable: a muffled impact, followed by the faint whoosh of the canopy collapsing onto the ground.

Mark hurried out to the field where he saw Uzziel now standing, his parachute on the ground behind him like a deflated balloon.

"Hurry, boy! Run faster!" Nicholas, standing beside Uzziel, screamed at him.

"Damn it, old man! I am not your slave!" Mark snapped back faintly, still running towards them.

"Haha! Intern, slave, it's the same thing to me. Now come meet your boss." Before Mark could say anything else, Uzziel butted in, his tone teasing and lighthearted.

"Be nice, Nicholas. We just got him. Wouldn't want him to run away yet," Uzziel said, taking off his helmet. Mark couldn't help but flinch a little as he looked at his face. Uzziel's features were strikingly angular and handsome, with short, curly brown hair framing his sharp jawline and piercing black eyes.

"Damn it, they weren't exaggerating," Mark grumbled to himself while hoping she might not value appearance as much as he hoped.

"Haha, don't worry, my boy. I'll make sure he can't" Nicholas said, still laughing as he playfully hit Uzziel's shoulder.

Uzziel laughed along, the sound warm and infectious. "Relax, kid. Nicholas is just giving you a hard time. You'll get used to it. Now give me the bottle" he said, holding his arm out.

"Here you go, boss," Mark replied with a faint smile. He couldn't trust himself to say anything more, so he kept it short.

Despite his internal . . . competition with Uzziel, he knew better than to annoy his boss; otherwise, he might not even get the chance to do what he had joined this team for.

"Thank you. It is going to take around two hours for them to walk down from the mountain. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my van." Uzziel took a sip from the bottle and walked away.

"You're smarter than you look, kid" Nicholas suddenly said to him. "I could have sworn you would say something stupid" he added, his face showing a hint of pity as if he seemed to regret missing out on some drama.

"Tch, I am 21. Quit calling me a kid, old man! And he is barely older than I am. Why don't you call him a kid?" Mark retorted, but Nicholas ignored him and pointed towards the parachute.

"Go pick it up, kid, and put it in the van."

"Not fair—"

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Uzziel's POV

Uzziel tuned out their bickering as he entered his van, still savouring the lingering sweetness on his tongue. The different contents danced across his taste buds, leaving a satisfying aftertaste and much-needed calories in his body.

He could tell that the newest member of their crew was defensive around him, and he could guess why.

"Well, as long as he doesn't mess up, I'll keep him around," he thought. Mark seemed to know his place already, so Uzziel would keep his word to Mark's father and let him stay as per their deal.

Settling down in a lotus position, Uzziel focused his mind on something more important. "I flew for seven minutes, and I only got that feeling for the first 35 seconds," he mused to himself. His mind recalled those precious seconds as he began to lose his grip on reality.

The tranquil lake in his mind seemed to stir with each passing moment, the still waters parting to reveal a ball of brilliant light.

The serene surface rippled and shifted, making way for the luminous sphere that emerged from the depths. It was as if the lake itself was a living entity, acknowledging the presence of this radiant core.

He let himself go, surrendering to the singular emotion he was more attuned to than any other. It wasn't just excitement; that was merely a small facet of the whole. No, the emotion was something far deeper, far more profound.

It was happiness.

In those brief moments of uncertainty, of discovery, Uzziel felt an unparalleled joy that no one else could comprehend. It was the purest form of happiness, a feeling that resonated through every fibre of his being.

As he meditated, the ball of brightness expanded, casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape of his mind. The stirring waters calmed, and he found solace in the radiant sphere, embracing the happiness that defined his very existence.

He did not know for how long he simply basked in this feeling, a sensation that seemed to want to sustain him for eternity. The bright ball of light filled his mind with warmth and contentment, casting away every shadow.

Until the bright ball seemed to deflate as if something was consuming it from within. The radiant sphere began to shrink, its luminous glow fading into the encroaching darkness, leaving tendrils of shadow creeping in to reclaim their territory.

The once tranquil lake in his mind grew turbulent, its surface darkening as the brilliance was siphoned away.

Uzziel felt the shift keenly, his connection to the world and his instincts becoming clearer with each passing second as the light slowly waned.

The ball of brightness continued to shrink, its edges fraying and dissolving into nothingness. As it disappeared, the serene landscape of his mind returned to its previous state—still and calm, yet tinged with an underlying coldness.

He sighed. "I still don't truly know what it does to the ball or how it does it," he murmured to himself. "Is my happiness an energy source? Or a sacrifice in order for me to use this ability?"

The questions lingered in his mind, unanswered and the only person he knew being able to give him answers could not. 

All he knew was that every action that brought him happiness would produce a thin strand of ethereal gas that would condense into a small ball in his mind.

This ball would then grow by absorbing subsequent strands until it transformed into a full-sized sphere, large enough to emerge from the water on its own, and then it would feed on it.

The only problem was that there weren't many things that brought him happiness substantial enough to qualify to turn into a strand. Although he could still sense a small ball underneath the water, big enough to sustain his body for about 3 more weeks.

He shook does thoughts away.

In the end, it did not matter because he knew it would never hurt him. And if his happiness was the sacrifice it required, he would give it willingly. The joy he felt in those fleeting moments of light was not worth the price if it meant he could not strengthen his instinct, the price it would cost would not be worth the short sense of fulfilment it gave him.

And, it was the only lead he had to save himself from his fate.

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"They're coming, go and help 'em, kid," Nicholas suddenly said, pointing into the distance. Mark followed his gaze and focused on the approaching group. His eyes immediately locked onto one particular member who was carrying two heavy boxes, and he couldn't help but hold his breath.

Mitra, with her diamond-shaped face and dark golden eyes, was a vision of elegance. The sight of her was mesmerizing, almost surreal. It was as if the world around her dimmed, and she was the only source of light that left him awestruck.

Mark felt his heart skip a beat. She moved with such grace and confidence, an alluring presence that made everything else fade into the background. He was completely captivated, unable to tear his gaze away. He noticed the boxes she was carrying and immediately ran to help her.

"Haha, never seen you run so fast," Nicholas laughed, but Mark ignored him, determined to reach Mitra.

"Mitra! Shame on them for making a lady carry those. Let me help you!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying a mix of condescension towards the men and eagerness toward her.

She stopped and looked at him with an unreadable expression, and Mark felt his heart race as her golden eyes seemed to pierce right through him, and he stiffened under its scrutiny before she finally seemed to smile. "Alright, here you go," she said, handing one of the boxes to him with one hand.

"Haha, no worries, happy to help!" Mark replied, stretching his arms to catch the box. He missed the look of amusement the others who were observing them had, and before he knew it,-

THOTH

"Ack!"

-the weight of the box overwhelmed him. He fell face-first to the ground, the box landing with a heavy thud.

Mitra chuckled her voice teasing. "Hahaha, good luck, kid. And don't be too late. Griff will tell us where we're having our party later," she said, walking away and leaving Mark in the dirt.

Mark groaned, lifting his head and he could have sworn that he saw Nicholas in the distance laughing at him. He could feel the sting of embarrassment but also a strange sense of exhilaration. As he got back on his feet, he couldn't help but watch Mitra's retreating figure, her presence lingering in his mind.

"I was just caught off guard. Come on, Mark, you can do this!" he muttered to himself. Determined, he tried to lift the box again. For a few minutes, he struggled, grunting and straining, but it was no use. Defeated, he switched to dragging it across the ground.

After what felt like an eternity, he suddenly felt the box being lifted. "Let me help you," a voice said.

Mark looked up and blurted out without thinking, "Damn, you are tall."

Steve just smiled at him. "Let's go," he said, grabbing the other handle of the box.

They walked in silence for a while, the only sound being their footsteps. Steve turned to him. "So, you have an interest in Mitra," he stated more than asked.

Mark looked down, feeling a flush of embarrassment. Steve sighed. "Just know what you're getting yourself into and don't let her appearance blind you."

Mark looked up, puzzled by the comment. Steve continued, "She's not what she seems."

Before Mark could ask any questions, Griff's voice rang out. "Now let's get to partying!"

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"What sort of party starts in a bathhouse?" Mark grumbled as he felt the oppressive heat. The steam was so thick it seemed to cling to his skin, making every breath feel heavy and laborious. The heat was making him lightheaded. "I am going to faint!"

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," someone quipped nearby.

Mark turned to see Eric, who was looking entirely too comfortable in the sweltering environment. "Besides, it's a tradition at this point," Eric said as he prepared to pre-wash. Mark looked towards the corner where Uzziel was doing the same.

"He has some scars. Guess the 'Immortal' nickname is also a bust," Mark laughed to himself as he stared at Uzziel's back. The scars were few and incredibly faint.

"Didn't know you swung that way," Eric mused.

"What?! Of course not!" Mark immediately exclaimed.

"Hmm, sure," Eric looked at him, unimpressed.

"No, listen, I was ju—"

"UZZIEL!"

Both of them turned toward the loud feminine voice as Mitra burst through the door. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she ran with surprising speed and wrapped her arms around Uzziel's back.

"Are you ready for a pounding?" she whispered in his ear, her voice dripping with playful innuendo.

"What?! P-p-pound me?" Mark stammered, his face turning beet red. The combination of Mitra's words and the oppressive heat was too much for him. His eyes rolled back, and he wobbled unsteadily before collapsing on the hard floor.

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Mark woke up with a headache. "Come on, Uzziel, hurry up," he heard Mitra's voice. Turning towards the sound, he saw her leaning on Uzziel's shoulder, both of them in the bath. Uzziel did not look amused.

Mark couldn't hold himself back. "Mitra! What are you doing here?"

Mitra turned towards him and stood up with a raised eyebrow. He couldn't help but stare at her; the towel did little to conceal her shapely silhouette, accentuating her hourglass figure in a way that was hard to miss.

"What do you mean, Mark?" she asked, feigning confusion.

He snapped out of it, his face flushed. "This is the men's bath!"

She laughed, her voice filled with mischievousness. "I know, I had to."

"Then!?" he asked, still confused.

"Ah, yeah, I was a man," she said with a smile.

"M-m-man!?" Mark's eyes widened, his brain trying to process the information. Overwhelmed, he wobbled on his feet, he toppled over like a fainting goat, landing with a soft thud on the bathhouse floor.

"Again really?"

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"Get up already, otherwise you might miss it." Mark heard a familiar voice, his head pounding even more than before.

"Ugh, I need some medicine," he complained, rubbing his temples.

"Hmm, ask Abby. She can help you," Steve advised, just getting out of the bath. Mark looked around and was relieved that Mitra wasn't there anymore. "Or he?" his thoughts were conflicted.

"I thought you knew," Steve said while walking towards the exit.

"So do I still call Mitra 'she'?" Mark asked, his face filled with confusion.

Steve turned towards him. "Hmm, if you have any care for her, you would. Now come on, you don't want to miss this," Steve urged, his tone insistent.

"Wait, I can take advantage of this!" Mark's face gradually turned resolute as he processed Steve's words. He quickly got up and ran after Steve, determined to catch up.

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"So why are we hurrying?" Mark asked. Steve just quickened his pace without responding.

They walked through the hotel's polished marble hallway, adorned with elegant chandeliers and ornate wallpaper. Reaching a large conference room, they stepped outside onto the manicured lawn where the group was gathered.

In the centre of the lawn, Uzziel and Mitra faced each other. Uzziel's face was unreadable, a mask of calm focus, while Mitra's was filled with excitement, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"What are they going to do?" Mark asked, bewildered.

Steve finally responded, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"This is why I said we should hurry.

You wouldn't want to miss this," he said, a grin spreading across his face.

"They're about to fight."

"What?" Mark's voice rose in surprise.