lookism: Apostle

—-------

The sun hung low on the horizon, its last rays staining the world in hues of amber and crimson. The clouds above churned ominously, heavy with rain that threatened to spill. On the ground, chaos reigned—bodies lay scattered, lifeless or crumbled beyond recognition, blood pooling in jagged cracks that marred the earth. The scene was a battlefield, broken and scarred. Concrete and dirt mixed with shards of shattered glass and splintered wood, the remnants of a once-bustling area now reduced to ruin.

In the center of this devastation stood a lone figure—**Eugene**, a teenager wearing a pristine white coat that seemed out of place amid the carnage. His glasses glinted faintly in the dim light, reflecting the destruction before him. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp eyes hinted at calculations and schemes running through his mind.

Eugene muttered under his breath, his voice low but resolute, *"Well, we failed... but not entirely. We can still take the hostel under our control and make them ours."*

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sleek phone and dialed a number. The conversation was brief, his words cold and precise. As he hung up, the faint wail of sirens grew louder, and soon ambulances began pulling up one by one.

Medics in white uniforms spilled out, their faces grim as they assessed the scene. Blood soaked their gloves as they worked to gather the injured, their hurried footsteps echoing against the silence left in the wake of battle. **Eli** and **Warren**, barely clinging to consciousness, were loaded into stretchers and placed in the vehicles. Yet other hostel members, like Sally,and the uncles were left behind without a second glance, deemed unworthy of underling. The indifference was palpable, a testament to the harsh reality of their world.

Eugene stood silently, watching as the ambulances drove off. He turned on his heel, stepping over debris and bloodied remains, and entered a sleek black car waiting nearby. The vehicle sped away, leaving the desolation behind.

---

Gun and Michael

The scene shifted to a dimly lit road where **Gun** drove his car at a steady pace. The tires hummed against the asphalt as he navigated toward **Charles Choi's** residence. In the backseat, **Michael** lay unconscious, his body slumped awkwardly. Gun glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation.

Arriving at the grand estate, Gun parked the car and stepped out. The imposing mansion loomed above, its gothic architecture casting long shadows in the fading light. Gun carried Michael inside, his boots clicking against the marble floors. The interior of the house was lavish, adorned with intricate chandeliers, velvet drapes, and polished wood furnishings.

He ascended a winding staircase and placed Michael in a guest room. The space was elegant but impersonal, its neutral tones devoid of warmth. The soft bed seemed almost at odds with Michael's battered state, but it would suffice. Gun lingered for a moment, then left the room, shutting the door behind him.

---

Several hours later

The faint sound of rain tapping against the window roused Michael from his unconscious state. He groaned, clutching his head as pain pulsed through his temples. The room around him was unfamiliar—tastefully decorated but alien. He scanned his surroundings: a large window with heavy curtains drawn back slightly, a bedside table with a glass of water, and walls lined with muted art.

Michael glanced down, realizing his shirt was missing, and his body was bandaged in several places. Memories of the recent battle came rushing back. His breath quickened. *The hostel!*

Throwing off the blanket, he tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed against his chest, holding him in place.

Startled, Michael's instincts flared. *How didn't I sense them?! Who—*

He turned and exhaled in relief upon seeing **Crystal**, her expression a mixture of worry and annoyance.

"You're not going anywhere," she said, her voice stern.

"I need to go," Michael said urgently. "My family is in danger."

Crystal's eyes narrowed. "And what use will you be to them half-dead? Get yourself healed before rushing off to play the hero."

"I'm fine," Michael argued. "I'll be back in few hours, I promise."

Crystal crossed her arms, her anger evident, but before she could respond, the door swung open. **Charles Choi** stepped in, his imposing figure filling the doorway.

"Sorry, son-in-law, but you're not leaving yet," he said, his tone calm but firm. "Someone wants to meet you."

Michael's confusion deepened as **Peter** entered the room.

"Brother," Peter greeted with a nod. "Father has summoned you. It's time to return to **Honor Church**."

Michael hesitated. "What about my friends?"

Peter's expression darkened slightly. "I've spoken with them. They've chosen to work for **Workers**, for the sake of their families."

Michael's fists clenched. "That doesn't make sense. They wouldn't—"

"They did," Peter interrupted. "And it's not up for debate. As for little **Eli**, he's coming with us. Father has plans for his future."

Michael's shoulders slumped in resignation. He followed Peter to a waiting car, casting one last glance at the mansion. From a window, Crystal watched them leave, her expression unreadable.

"Where is he going dad?" she asked Charles, who stood behind her.

"Somewhere safer," Charles replied. "For now. You'll hear from him again, but it may take time."

---

Honor Church

After hours on the road, they arrived at **Honor Church**, its grand spires reaching toward the heavens. The atmosphere was heavy, a palpable weight of history and authority. Michael entered the vast halls alone, nodding to his brothers as he passed. Their expressions ranged from indifferent to mildly curious.

He stopped before the heavy oak doors of **Father Gabriel's** study. Taking a deep breath, he pushed them open.

The room was dim, lit by a single chandelier and the glow of a roaring fireplace. Gabriel sat behind a massive desk, surrounded by shelves overflowing with ancient texts. He closed the book he was reading and turned his piercing gaze on Michael.

"You've disappointed me," Gabriel said, his voice cold as ice. "I can forgive many mistakes, but losing control is not one of them. Do you remember what happened three years ago?"

Michael froze, memories flooding back.

---

Flashback

Michael was on the ground, his breaths labored and shallow, blood pooling beneath him from the deep gashes left by Simon's sword. His body ached, but the sting of Simon's words cut deeper than any wound.

Simon stood over him, his expression cold and filled with disappointment. "Kid, you'll never get my recognition if you keep fighting like this," he said, his voice sharp and unforgiving. "You don't deserve to be called a brother by us."

With that, Simon turned away, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. The sound of the blade locking into place echoed, leaving Michael alone with his failures.

Michael's face remained down, his bloodied hands trembling against the dirt. His thoughts were a storm of despair and self-loathing. *Damn it. Why can't I even fight back? After so much training, why am I still this weak? Am I truly pathetic? Can I ever protect anyone?*

His breathing hitched, the questions clawing at his mind. *Do I even deserve to have people close to me if I can't protect them? Will I always be alone?*

As the weight of his despair grew unbearable, a voice suddenly cut through the silence.

"Take my hand, and I'll give you power."

Startled, Michael lifted his gaze and froze. Standing before him was a figure that looked exactly like him, but with one chilling difference—its eyes burned crimson, void of emotion but brimming with an unsettling intensity.

The air around him grew colder, a sharp, biting chill that sent shivers down his spine. The figure's expression twisted into a vicious smile, and its presence felt both alien and familiar.

Michael swallowed hard, his throat dry. His voice was barely above a whisper. "W-who are you?"

The figure tilted its head, the smile widening as it stepped closer. "I'm someone who can give you what you desire: power beyond anyone in this world. You've felt it before."

Michael's brow furrowed in confusion and unease. "Felt it before? What do you mean?"

The figure chuckled darkly. "The day you saw that boy die. You tapped into just a tiny fraction of my power. Surely you remember the feeling."

Michael's heart raced as the memory resurfaced. His eyes widened in disbelief. *That was only a fraction? What is this thing...*

The figure extended a hand toward him, its crimson eyes glowing brighter. "Take my hand, Michael. Accept me, and you'll never feel weak again. Together, we can overthrow this world."

Michael stared at the outstretched hand, his mind spinning.

Before he could respond, the figure's smile faded, and it suddenly vanished into the air. Darkness enveloped the surroundings, an oppressive void pressing in from all sides.

"What's happening?" Michael muttered, panic setting in.

The silence was shattered by a sudden, searing pain in his head. The agony was overwhelming, forcing him to clutch his head and scream. His body convulsed as the darkness consumed him, and his vision turned red.

Then, with a blinding flash, he was engulfed in an intense crimson light.

Reality

Simon was nearing the edge of the training grounds, his mind replaying Michael's pitiful attempts to fight back. His disappointment lingered until a sudden, overwhelming bloodlust pierced through the air.

Simon froze mid-step. His instincts screamed danger, a level of bloodlust he had never felt before—far beyond anything even his brothers could conjure. The surrounding air turned frigid, and the wind howled, sending a chill down his spine.

With his heart racing, Simon instinctively unsheathed his sword and spun around, ready to confront the threat. His blade collided with something—or rather, someone. The shock came when his sword stopped dead in its path, caught by a single hand.

Simon's eyes widened. The blade had barely left a scratch on the hand that held it. His gaze traveled up to meet the attacker, and his blood ran cold. Standing before him, with glowing crimson eyes and a sinister grin, was Michael.

Simon stumbled back, creating distance between them. His voice trembled as he called out, "Kid, what are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

But Michael didn't respond. He stood silently, gripping the sparring sword he had been using earlier. In a flash, he vanished, reappearing several meters ahead of Simon.

Simon blinked in confusion, only to feel a sharp pain across his chest. He looked down and saw a deep slash cutting through his clothes and skin. Blood seeped out, and Simon's voice cracked with desperation.

"Stop this, Michael! Are you trying to kill me? It was just training! C'mon, have mercy on your big brother!"

But Michael's grin only widened, his crimson eyes gleaming with malice. He disappeared again, his movements too fast for Simon to track, and reappeared, colliding with Simon head-on. The sheer force of Michael's strike rattled Simon to his core.

The sound of their swords clashing echoed through the air, but the fight was one-sided. Michael's attacks were relentless, precise, and terrifyingly powerful—far beyond anything Simon could comprehend. Each strike left Simon further battered and traumatized, his strength dwindling with every blow.

As Simon teetered on the brink of defeat, Peter entered the training area for his lesson. What greeted him was a sight he would never forget.

Michael stood over Simon, his sparring sword poised for the final strike. Simon lay motionless beneath him, bloodied and broken, his breaths shallow.

"Michael, stop!" Peter shouted, sprinting toward them. In a desperate move, he managed to pull Michael back before the killing blow landed.

However, saving Simon meant Peter became Michael's new target.

Michael, sensing a stronger opponent, arrogantly discarded his sword. His crimson eyes flashed as he smirked, clenching his fists. With a sudden burst of speed, he disappeared, reappearing in mid-air with his fist drawn back, ready to strike.

Peter's instincts screamed danger. He dodged just in time, and Michael's punch slammed into the ground, leaving behind a massive three-meter-wide crater.

Peter's breath hitched as he stared at the destruction. *How can a kid's body produce such power?*

Dodging Michael's relentless punches, Peter fired a flare gun into the sky, summoning the other apostles. He knew he couldn't subdue Michael alone without resorting to lethal force.

Moments later, the other apostles arrived, surrounding Michael.

Michael stopped his assault momentarily, tilting his head as if assessing the situation. His body swayed unnaturally from side to side, his arms dangling limply. The apostles remained tense, their grips tightening on their weapons.

Then, without warning, Michael vanished.

One by one, the apostles were struck down by his ferocious attacks, but their strength and resilience allowed them to hold their ground. For two grueling days and nights, they fought, the battle ravaging the landscape.

Finally, after an exhausting struggle, Michael collapsed, unconscious.

The events of that day left scars not only on the apostles' bodies but also on their minds. For years to come, the memory of Michael's crimson eyes would haunt their nightmares.

---

Present Day

The flashback ended, and Michael stood before Father Gabriel, his head bowed in shame.

"Yes, Father," Michael murmured, his voice heavy with guilt. "I don't want to repeat that incident again. Please... help me." He bowed deeply, his sincerity clear in his trembling voice.

Gabriel regarded him silently, his icy gaze unyielding. After a moment, he nodded. "I've already decided what must be done to help you control the demon within you."

He gestured for an attendant to summon Peter.

---

Farewell

A few minutes later, Peter entered the room, bowing respectfully to Gabriel before turning to Michael.

"Let's go, Michael," Peter said firmly. "We'll be heading far from here."

Michael nodded solemnly, turning back to Father Gabriel. "Thank you, Father."

Gabriel didn't respond, merely watching as Michael and Peter left the room.

As they walked through the halls, Michael glanced back one last time, silently bidding farewell to the place he had called home.

As Michael and Peter disappeared into the horizon, the journey to confront the darkness within him began.

---

**To Be Continued...**

So I hope you like this chapter, and there is a slight problem. I think there will be no update for 2 or 3 weeks due to damn pre-boards coming ahead. Maybe I will write chapters in my free time but it will be very late.

Cya in the next chapter.