Rune System: The Crimson Knight

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Hey, take a look at this guy.”

“Who on Earth is that?”

“Yo, check this guy out! He kinda looks like the Witcher.”

“Well, hello, handsome.”

“Why are his eyes like that?”

“Eww. He’s barefoot. Ew, ew, ew.”

By noon, Draàl had heard multiple remarks and comments from random strangers—ranging from bafflement to fascination to even disgust—as they wandered past him on the sidewalk. For his part, he ignored their ignorant observations, choosing to stand still as he scanned the buzzing ambience in the eastern end of the city.

Something felt… off.

He couldn’t explain it. From the towering skyscrapers glittering like oversized diamonds in the blistering sun, to the flashy vehicles cruising along the broad roads, even to the attire of pedestrians and passersby… everything seemed out of place. Like he was just waking up from a long slumber and watching the world pass him by.

“It is normal you should feel that way,” said Zha’irah, “because you’re not far away from the truth.”

Draàl didn’t seem pleased. “Just because you live in my head now doesn’t mean you have my permission to read my thoughts.”

“It is impossible not to. Especially when they are this confused and tumultuous.”

He scowled. “Save me the trouble, then. What do you mean I’m not far away from the truth? Why does everything feel like it’s from a different time?”

“That is because it is you who is from a different time,” Zha’irah answered. “It has been ten years since you drowned beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Ten years?” If Draàl was surprised, it didn’t show on his stern face. Regardless, he was taken aback by the information. “I was drifting in the Infernal Realm for ten years? But it barely even felt like an hour.”

“I told you—time passes differently there. As well as in other realms.”

Draàl turned to the window of a flower shop right next to him, peering at his face in the reflective glass. The difference in his appearance wasn’t lost on him, but he’d believed it was the effect of the power he was given. Now he knew he simply looked older because he was—ten years older to be exact.

“I would’ve been thirty-four years of age if I still lived,” he muttered absentmindedly.

“You do,” Zha’irah pointed out. “By the Queen’s grace, you still live. But not as the same man.”

Draàl’s eyes shifted focus and noticed an old woman—possibly the shopkeeper—standing behind the window, staring back at him with horror in her eyes. He kept his gaze steady for a moment longer, then started moving forward with his hands deep in his pockets.

“You’re right, Zha’irah,” he admitted, picking up the pace. “I’m not the same man, ‘cause Dominic Heathley died ten years ago.”

About fifteen minutes later, Draàl paused before a lofty building several meters above the ground. It stood significantly taller than the other skyscrapers around it, with navy-blue glass panes distributed all over its structure. At the very top, displayed on a giant, blue globe model, were the words: CRAIG TECH INDUSTRIES.

“This is the place,” Zha’irah told him. “The founder of this institution, Michael Craig, is the one you must seek out. With him, your quest begins.”

With deliberate steps, Draàl walked through the electronic front doors. The lobby was a large and elaborately decorated hall, occupied by only a handful of people who zipped back and forth from elevators like their jobs were on the line. With no one seemingly noticing his presence, Draàl made a beeline to his left, towards the receptionist’s desk, stopping before a man who was completely engrossed in the computer on the counter.

“I’d like a meeting with Michael Craig,” he stated plainly.

The receptionist, who appeared to be in his late thirties, adjusted his glasses as he ran irritated brown eyes over Draàl’s features. “And you are…?”

“An acquaintance,” Draàl replied promptly.

“And does this acquaintance have a scheduled meeting with Mr. Craig?”

Draàl, who was about to belt out a response, held his words back as his sensitive ears picked up a ruckus to his far right.

The receptionist—Ryan Martin by his name tag—took Draàl’s silence as an uncertain answer. With a grimace, he scanned his eyes over the pale stranger again, sounding less than hospitable when he spoke.

“I don’t know who you think you are, pal, but you don’t just show up from nowhere and ask to see Mr. Craig. Even family and friends need to schedule a meeting ahead of time, much less a strange, homeless guy like yourself.”

Draàl was barely listening. His attention had been stolen by the commotion in the middle of the lobby, which had gotten louder and clearer. Two security guards roughly pulled on the arms of a middle-aged woman—possibly a cleaning lady, due to the black-and-white uniform she wore—who was weeping profusely and screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Please! I didn’t do it, I swear! I found that checkbook, I didn’t steal it! Please don’t throw me out! I have nowhere to go!”

A third guard stormed into the lobby, holding a teenager by the scruff of the neck. Unlike the woman, the boy kicked and fought back, although it all proved futile against the stocky guard.

“Let her go!” the boy yelled, still defiant. “Don’t you dare hurt her! She didn’t do anything wrong! Let my mother go!”

Draàl’s jaw tightened as he watched the spectacle unfold, with familiar memories plaguing his mind. When Ryan snapped his fingers at him in an attempt to draw his attention back, Draàl turned to the plump, round man with a glowing, menacing glare.

“Don’t go poking your nose in other people’s business, big guy. You’ve got problems of your own, ‘cause I’m about to call security to haul your ass out of here if you don’t… Holy shit,” Ryan added with surprise when he finally noticed Draàl’s red-hot eyes.

“If you want to keep your hands and face intact,” Draàl warned calmly, “then stay quietly behind your desk and shut up.”

Then he advanced towards the middle of the lobby.

The guards had stopped moving, mostly because the woman had begun to fiercely resist. Despite her smallish, fragile frame, she nearly dragged the men holding onto her to the ground, with her hair dangling messily before her face as she cried and tried to break free.

“Leave him alone!” she shrieked. “Leave my son alone! Don’t touch him!”

The reason for her rebellion was obvious.

The third guard had thrown the boy to the ground, after he’d successfully sunk his teeth into the man’s exposed lower arm. Madly infuriated, the guard’s response was a back-handed slap to the boy’s right cheek, followed by a vicious kick to the ribs after he’d fallen.

“You diseased runt!” the guard shouted angrily. “You want to act like a dog? Then you’ll get treated like one!”

He took out a baton from the pouch on his vest and swung it towards the boy’s head.

But it never landed.

At first, the guard thought his arm had frozen in mid-air. Then he noticed the iron grip on his wrist that kept him from landing the blow. His bewildered eyes followed the pale hand up to black sleeves, and finally settled on startling red eyes that glared back at him.

“You enjoy subjecting the weak and helpless to cruel punishment, right?” Draàl asked, quietly but intimidatingly. “I wonder what happens when you face someone your size.”

Without warning, he broke the guard’s wrist with a quick twist. Before the man had the chance to scream out in pain, he snatched the baton from his fingers and swung outward brutally, connecting with the guard’s jawbone so forcefully that he could hear it break.

As the guard went down, howling in raw agony, Draàl turned to the other guards with the same threatening expression. They’d finally unhanded the woman, standing behind her with batons in their hands as well, though they didn’t look eager to attack. Draàl, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate.

With unexpected, blinding speed, he lunged at the nearest guard to his right, grabbing him by the neck and lifting him off the ground. By the time the second guard decided to charge, Draàl slammed him firmly with the one in his grip. As the two men squirmed on the polished marble floor, groaning and cussing, Draàl began to conjure fire in his palms for the finishing move.

“Sweet heavens!” Ryan exclaimed from his desk. He grabbed the receiver next to the computer and pushed a single digit on the dial. “Security, we have a violent homeless invader in the lobby. Send in reinforcements immediately!”

Almost instantly, more than half a dozen uniformed men dashed into the hall from multiple corners. Forming a semi-circle, they faced their opponent wielding different weapons, ranging from batons to tasers. Draàl placed himself between the guards and the woman, sizing each of his assailants up.

“Fine, then,” he growled as he took a stance. “The more, the merrier.”

“What on Earth is going on here?”

The baritone caused Draàl to pause his beatdown plans, prompting him to turn around slowly. A few feet from the entrance, a man stood with a confused gaze, flanked by a security detail comprised of several men in black suits and dark shades.

“Well?” the newcomer demanded, his tone becoming irate. “Isn’t anyone going to say anything?” He faced Draàl after staring at the pummeled guards and the woman, who cradled her son closely. “And who the hell are—?”

In that moment, Draàl spotted what seemed like recognition in the man’s dark eyes. His brown skin gleamed like caramel glaze as he moved forward gradually, with his short, wavy, black hair blending seamlessly into his well-trimmed beard through visible sideburns.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered as he stopped just before Draàl, looking keenly into his eyes. “You’re him. The Crimson Knight has returned.”