Book of the Seven Celestials: The Third Prophecy

Chapter 5. When Everything Truly Began

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As they returned to El's room, the man quietly closed the door behind him.

"Stay close to me, boy," he said solemnly while placing the candle back on the table.

"Okay…" El replied briefly, sensing the tension emanating from him.

The man then turned the wooden cork of the vial and pulled it open. Pouring a few drops of the unrecognizable fluid into one of his palms, he clenched his hand tightly and swiftly handed the vial and cork to El, who stood beside him.

"Close it tightly, boy!" the man instructed, and El quickly complied, handling it with care.

The man brought his hands together, cupping them. Closing his eyes, he brought his palms close to his mouth, creating a small opening between his thumbs. He began to utter something into his hands, words that El could not understand, even though they were in the same familiar language.

The meaning behind the words inexplicably eluded El's mind, slipping through his ability to comprehend like water slithering through his fingers.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, the man began to speak. At the same time, a chill raced down El's spine, raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck, as if the very air around him had thickened with an unseen presence.

In the books El had once read in the village, witches typically performed incantations to activate their spells. He wondered if what the man was doing was similar to what he had read about.

"Mortis umbrae, guide my hand,

Conceal mine actions, as grains of sand.

In this space, let none perceive,

What I do, let them not believe."

The man continued chanting the incantation.

And El felt the ambiance in the room grow darker, as if a shade even blacker than the night itself had descended. His night vision, usually reliable, was diminished to a significant extent. This was the first time he struggled to see in the dark. He wondered if this was what normal people experienced when they tried to see at night without any light.

"As thou dost speak, so shall it be,

Hidden from sight, eternally free.

By the power of darkness, I beseech thee,

Let my deeds be lost, like whispers at sea."

A gentle wind blew aimlessly in the room, originating from an unknown dimension, caressing El's skin with its cold, harrowing touch. El swore he could feel a pair of eyes observing him quietly from the darkness, or perhaps from the shadows themselves.

They seemed to come from many directions, yet he was certain they belonged to the same gaze. A chill of death accompanied those stares, as if something unknown—representing the end of Fate itself—desired to claim his breath, much like the times he had teetered between life and death during the drought that plagued his village. With nothing to drink, he had ended up unconscious from it, yet somehow still alive. That experience was deeply etched into his memory.

Now, El's back was once again drenched in sweat as he shivered in place.

The man's clasped hands abruptly released an inky black smoke between his fingers. It drifted upward, forming a spiral in its path.

At last, the man said, "A blood to thee, O Lord of Darkness and Secrecy. For a veil is all I entreat."

{Veil of Shadows}

After uttering those final words, everything went still.

The inky black smoke in the air formed a straight line that receded back to the man's hand until there was nothing left.

For those normal people who couldn't see in this darkness, there was nothing else to perceive. However, El, who currently could barely see in the dark, noticed that the shadows in the room seemed to change into something else, as if they were alive and sentient, wiggling unnaturally in their place.

"Alright, all's done and well executed. It's been a long time since I last used it. Not really sure if it was going to be a success. But it is I who have done the deed, so everything will, of course, be fine…" The man delivered these lines in a swanking, nonchalant manner, gazing at El with a delighted smile. El could only return the look in a daze.

'You mean you've done all those things that made me shiver here without knowing if you'd succeed or not?' El thought, feeling weird and uneasy about what the man had done. He couldn't quite fathom his feelings—whether to label it as cool and fascinating or downright eerie and unsettling. This time, he decided to keep his mouth shut, lest the man attempt something else that seemed dangerous.

El handed back the sealed vial, and the man raised it to his eyes, only to carelessly shake it a few times. Afterward, he shoved it into El's hand.

"I'll teach you later how to use it when I'm back. And be careful with it…"

"Alright."

'You're the one who's not careful with it…' El added silently in his mind.

"So, let's go with the secret code this time. You need to ask first when someone knocks on the front door, or maybe they've already arrived," the man instructed.

"Okay. What do I ask?" El replied.

"You ask, 'Chicken???'"

"Chicken? Why chicken??"

"No reason. Just feel like it."

"… Okay then. I ask, 'Chicken???'"

"Yes. Then I'll answer, 'It wasn't your time to crow yet, mister,'" the man said, a smirk formed under the candle lamp.

"… Okay. So that's the answer then," El flatly replied.

"... You are no fun at all, kid," the man reacted, clearly dissatisfied as he expected El to laugh at the joke.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" El asked, genuinely curious.

"No, scratch that. Okay, back to the secret code. You ask again at the door, 'Is there any sauce for the chicken, sir?' and my answer will be, 'It's velouté sauce, sir. Made of butter, flour, and chicken stock. It'll be even better if you add a splash of dry white wine. The consistency needs to be just right, and don't forget the black pepper,'" the man stated with such passion that El couldn't hold back a question rising in his throat.

"So, what's this all about with chicken and the sauce?"

"Ah, I've just been craving it for some time now. I didn't order it at the restaurant before because I already had it last week. Anyway, when I'm back, we're going there again, alright? I'll show you and explain everything about the restaurant itself. There's a reason why it's the most famous place here, yet only the locals know about it. It's an epic tale, kid, I tell you…"

He said, a smile lingering on his lips.

"Okay then. I'll wait for you here."

"Do you remember the last code, though? If it's different, don't open the door. We need to stick to the intricacies and finesse, kid. Should I write it down?"

"No, I remember it. Don't worry."

"Ah, you're right? You are smart after all…"

He said, as if he were certain of what he was saying, making El curious about the memories he had lost.

"Sir, I want to ask: how long do you think I've lost my memories? We had calendars in the village, but they were way outdated. I don't know my birthday either, so how old do you think I am?" El asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. There was a hint of well-hidden pain behind his question.

He didn't even know his name, his date of birth, or whether he had any family at all. He didn't know if his parents had abandoned him by choice or if they had been lost to the cruel hands of Fate before leaving him behind. Or perhaps, more optimistically, they were still searching for him, desperately hoping to reunite with the child they lost.

But he would never know and would remain oblivious to it all. The ache of not knowing was a heavy burden he carried to this day. Yet deep down, he hoped his parents cared about him and still did. For some reason, he had been left in that barren land, where death was a shadow that clung closely to anyone living there. He imagined them scouring the desolate terrain, their hearts filled with determination, never giving up on finding the child they lost.

But he knew part of the truth. The last children, other than him, who had died at the end of it all, had parents who were killed in the attack by the invaders. Everyone in that village had a history. Records could be traced in a dusty library, where birth certificates were hidden in a concealed compartment.

But not him. No record whatsoever. He was an enigma, a ghost without a past. It was as if he had materialized from thin air, a baby left on the doorstep of a weary and starved couple he called uncle and aunt, growing up under their care, only for them to die trying to keep him alive, until he was taken by the two elders, known throughout the village as people who fancied human meat.

He had overheard others speaking in hushed tones about the old couple when he was nearby, perhaps out of pity for him.

So now he had come to this point. At the very least, he wished to know through the man how old he was at that moment.

'That is not much of a wish, is it?'

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