In the months after Dallas' death, George sank into a world of bitterness and self-destruction. His once-clean-shaven face became hidden under a tangled, unruly beard, and his hair grew long and wild, casting shadows over his hardened, haunted eyes. His small home was littered with empty beer bottles and cigarette stubs, the air heavy with the stale smell of smoke and despair. Day after day, he slouched in his worn-out chair, a bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other, his gaze fixed somewhere far away.
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One evening, staring at the fading light through the window, he muttered to himself, his voice a raw whisper. "I prayed, God… I prayed for Mom and Dad… but you didn't listen. They're gone. And I prayed for my sister…" His hand tightened around the bottle, his knuckles white. "And she's gone too. Worse than them. So tell me, are you even real, God? Are you out there?" His laugh was bitter, almost hollow. "Because if you are… you sure don't care. This whole world's a mess—filled with people who take what they want, ruin what they touch, just for the thrill."
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He took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out slowly. "I tried to find peace… but there's none left for me. Not with her gone. Not with those bastards still out there, breathing easy. I always told myself I wouldn't kill, that I'd hold back, try to be good. But this… I can't let this go. I won't."
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With a shaky breath, George stood up, his resolve hardening. He took one last, long look around his broken-down home, then let the empty beer bottle drop to the floor. Walking to the mirror, he stared at the stranger staring back at him. His once-bright eyes were now cold, a steely gray that reflected only the emptiness inside him. In a surge of anger, he punched the mirror, watching as cracks spread, splintering his reflection into pieces.
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"What's left to lose?" he muttered, his bloodied knuckles trembling. "Nothing."
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In the following days, George trained with a ferocity that bordered on madness. Each morning, he'd stand before a tree outside, his knife glinting in the early dawn light. With a swift motion, he would drive the blade into the bark, over and over, honing his aim, each stab sinking deeper than the last. His arm grew stronger, his strikes faster, each one driven by the memory of his sister's face and the pain she'd endured.
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Hours passed, each thrust of his knife more precise, more deadly. He practiced moving silently through the brush, testing how closely he could approach without alerting the small animals he encountered. He learned the art of patience, crouching low, his breathing controlled, moving with a predator's ease, his eyes cold and focused.
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Days turned into weeks, and soon his hands bore the scars of his dedication—calluses from gripping the knife, bruises from his relentless drills. Yet the pain only fueled him further. This wasn't just practice; it was a transformation. He was no longer George, the protective brother. He was becoming something darker, something ruthless—a hunter.
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Meanwhile, miles away, Rylan sat alone in his tent, nursing a bottle of cheap beer, his mind restless. He gazed at the bottle, the memories of his past creeping in like an unwanted shadow. His thoughts drifted to his father, a hard, cold man who had spent his life drinking and lashing out, leaving scars that never quite healed. When he was only five, he'd watched his mother take the beatings, shielding him with her own bruised body. And when he was old enough, he had tried to shield her, too. But the pain… it just kept coming.
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Rylan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memories, but they came anyway—the image of his father's face, the wild, hateful look in his eyes, and the feeling of that bottle smashing against his skull, his father's shouts echoing in his ears. The night his mother died, he'd found her lying on the floor, her face peaceful, almost as if she'd finally escaped.
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And then, his mind drifted to the moment he'd snapped. The weight of the knife in his hand, the shock in his father's eyes as he felt the blade dig into his flesh, his gurgling cries as Rylan twisted the knife. The memory brought a twisted satisfaction, but it was fleeting. Now, here he was at nineteen, the leader of a ragtag gang, his life spinning in directions he never planned.
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He took a swig of beer, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he remembered Dallas. She'd been different from the others—bold, unafraid to stand up to him. He'd almost liked her, her fiery spirit. But she'd become a liability, a thorn in his side, and he couldn't afford that. Besides, he thought darkly, it wasn't like he had any room in his life for loyalty or love. He was beyond that,She wasn't as innocent as she let on. Sure, she'd had that fierce, stubborn spirit he admired, but she'd crossed him one too many times. The black eye—she'd lied about that to her brother, knowing George would come looking for a fight. She'd always had a way of twisting things, playing people off each other. Rylan had thought he'd seen the last of her games, but he'd been wrong. And now, her brother was out there, hunting for him.
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He ran his fingers over the edge of his knife, thinking back to the last time he'd seen her. She'd had that defiant look in her eye, her hand reaching for his pouch of coins without a hint of shame. "Come on, Rylan. You're flush with cash; what's a little extra for me?" she'd said, as if he wouldn't notice her quick fingers slipping into his pockets. But he'd noticed. He always noticed. He'd warned her to give it back, but she'd just laughed, saying he owed her for something he couldn't even remember.
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He had felt something toward her, but whatever it was, it soured as she continued to pull her stunts. He recalled her attempt to frame him for punching her, painting him as a brute when he'd barely even touched her. She knew George would fall for it, knew it would bring her brother charging into town, fists ready to fly. And maybe, he mused bitterly, that had been her plan all along—a twisted way to watch the two of them tear each other apart.
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Outside the tent, he could hear his crew laughing and sharing stories around the fire. None of them knew how close they were to finding out just what Dallas had done, or the trouble she'd stirred up for all of them.
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George had tracked the group for months. Each whispered lead, each shadow in the night had kept him moving, even when his body screamed for rest. Tonight, though, the trail ended here, at a small campsite tucked deep in the woods. He crouched low behind a thick bush, gripping his knife so tightly his knuckles turned white. His breath was steady, his mind clear, a single purpose sharpening his focus.
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He took his time, studying the camp. Three men sat around a weak, crackling fire, talking in low tones, unaware of the predator lurking in the shadows. George slipped forward, silent as death itself, his eyes cold and expressionless. The first man didn't even see the knife until it was too late—George drove it swiftly into his neck, muffling the gurgling sounds of his last breaths. The second man rose, but George was on him in a flash, his hand over the man's mouth as the knife found its mark again. One by one, they fell, a look of terror frozen in their final moments.
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When he reached the third man, George allowed him to struggle just long enough to see who was killing him. The man stared up, wide-eyed, as George tightened his grip.
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"Where's the rest of your damn group?" George's voice was barely more than a growl, each word laced with a hatred that made the man flinch.
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"I… I don't know!" the man stammered, but George twisted the knife slightly, making him gasp.
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"Wrong answer," George muttered, leaning closer. "Try again."
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"They… they're in two other camps," the man choked out, terror finally breaking through. "North ridge and by the river."
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George looked down at him, his face an unreadable mask. "Thanks," he said coldly, before plunging the knife into the man's neck. Blood pooled on the forest floor as George wiped his blade, his face a portrait of cold indifference. There was no hesitation, no regret. Just purpose.
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He stayed the night in their camp, the silence only broken by the crackle of the dying fire and the distant hoot of an owl. As dawn broke, he moved to the next camp, just as his informant had directed. This camp held four men, still groggy from their sleep as he descended upon them with ruthless efficiency. This time, there was no hiding in the shadows. He was a whirlwind of rage and vengeance, every stab and slash meting out punishment he could no longer contain.
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One of the men, wounded and gasping, managed to back away, eyes wide with fear. "Who… who are you?" he stammered, trying to hold his blood-soaked side.
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George looked at him, a chilling calm in his eyes. "I'm the brother of the girl you murdered," he replied, his voice low and deadly. He didn't wait for a response. He ended it swiftly, and the man's head slumped forward.
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Afterward, George sat alone in the camp, wiping his blade meticulously, his hands steady. In the flickering firelight, his face looked haggard, transformed by weeks of hardship, grief, and relentless fury. His clothes were stained with dirt and blood, his hair and beard wild and unkempt, his eyes carrying the weight of a man who had nothing left but his hatred.
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That night, he prepared himself for the final camp. He was close now, so close he could almost feel the satisfaction that awaited him. The thought of facing Rylan himself and finally avenging Dallas stirred something bitterly triumphant within him.
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But beneath it all, an aching emptiness gnawed at him—a hollow space where once there had been hope, family, and faith. Now, there was only revenge, cold and consuming, driving him forward into the darkness once more.
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George finally made it to the main camp.he moved through the main camp with the precision and silence of a phantom, his knife gleaming under the cold moonlight. One by one, he took out each man in Rylan's group, slipping in and out of tents, leaving only silence in his wake. By the time he reached Rylan's tent, the camp was quiet, death blanketing it like a shroud. He slipped inside, knife ready, his breathing slow and controlled.
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Rylan lay sprawled across a cot, unaware. George leaned over, pressing the tip of his knife against Rylan's leg and twisting. The sudden, searing pain jolted Rylan awake, and he looked up, terror-stricken, meeting George's burning gaze.
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"Any last words, motherfucker?" George growled, his voice rough, edged with months of pain and anger.
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Rylan's eyes narrowed, even as he clenched his jaw against the pain. "Fuck you," he spat. "And fuck your sister. She deserved to die."
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George's eyes flashed with rage. Without a word, he plunged the knife deeper into Rylan's leg. Rylan let out a strangled yell, gritting his teeth as George leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "You piece of shit. She loved you. And you beat her. And then…you killed her like she was nothing. Like she was trash."
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Rylan met George's gaze with a twisted grin, blood trickling from his mouth. "You think she was innocent?" he sneered. "You don't know her at all. That little 'sister' of yours? She was as messed up as the rest of us. She wanted power, George. Power over anyone who looked at her wrong."
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George tightened his grip on the knife, but Rylan's words hit him harder than he expected. He tried to push down the flicker of doubt, but it gnawed at him.
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"She tried to rob me, George. Rob me blind and then framed me for punching her when I stood up for myself. Made me look like the villain. She told me that I was nothing. That I was weak." Rylan's voice was low, his words oozing with bitterness. "So I showed her what weak looked like."
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George stared at him, his pulse pounding. "You're lying. She wouldn't have done that," he whispered, but his voice was wavering.
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"Oh, wouldn't she?" Rylan scoffed. "You think you're the only one who's lost? You think she was some angel? She didn't care about anyone, not even you." He smirked, watching George's reaction. "She had us all robbing people, George. She wanted us to rob this old man, to take everything he had. Said it'd make her feel powerful. She was ready to ruin people's lives for a thrill, George. And she loved every second of it."
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George's grip on the knife loosened for a second. A memory surfaced—Dallas, distant, guarded, a side of her he'd ignored, excused. She'd been angry, filled with a bitterness he never fully understood. He'd tried to bring her back from the edge, but maybe he hadn't tried hard enough.
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Rylan's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. "And you? You think you're different? Look at you, covered in blood. You think you're some kind of hero? You're just like us. A killer. Hunting me down, picking us off one by one. What makes you any better?"
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George's jaw clenched, but Rylan's words echoed in his mind. Months of vengeance had hollowed him out, turned him into a reflection of the very people he despised. What would his parents think if they saw him now? Would Dallas, even with all her flaws, have wanted this?
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"You're wrong," George muttered, though the conviction in his voice was slipping. "I'm not like you. I did this for her…to make it right."
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"To make it right?" Rylan laughed, a cruel, hollow sound. "You think this is justice? Look at yourself. You're as broken as the rest of us. Killing me isn't going to change what happened. You'll just be left with nothing, just like I was. And then what? You're gonna keep killing, keep hunting down anyone who ever wronged you?"
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George stared at Rylan, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. He was so sure, so certain that killing Rylan would give him peace. But now, standing over him, he felt nothing but emptiness—a dark, yawning void that revenge couldn't fill.
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"I… I don't know," George admitted, his voice barely a whisper. He felt the weight of his actions pressing down on him, the reality of what he'd become creeping in.
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Rylan looked up at him, almost pitying. "You wanted to believe you were better. But you're not. You're a killer, George. Just like me. Just like her."
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A bitter silence filled the tent as George stood there, knife in hand, staring down at Rylan. For a moment, he considered ending it, silencing the voice that had shaken him to his core. But instead, he stepped back, his hand loosening on the knife.
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George turned, stepping out of the tent, his mind clouded, haunted by the truth he couldn't escape. He had come for revenge, but now, all he felt was the weight of the choices he'd made, dragging him down into the same darkness he thought he'd risen above.
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The chapter ends with George walking into the night, leaving Rylan's camp behind, unsure of who he was anymore or what lay ahead. The vengeance that had once driven him now felt like an anchor, pulling him deeper in
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to a place he feared he'd never escape.
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Day later
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George trudged back to the town where he'd once been ambushed, his steps heavy. Days had stretched into lonely nights, and his soul had grown hollow, carved out by anger, regret, and a crushing emptiness. Around him, the town bustled with life—families passing, siblings talking in hushed voices, couples laughing. Shadows of a life he'd lost.
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He barely noticed when a voice, soft but clear, called out, "Excuse me, young man."
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George blinked and turned. Standing before him was an old Chinese man, a familiar face he recognized from that brutal night—the old man Rylan and his gang had harassed. The man's face softened as he met George's gaze, a look of gratitude flickering in his eyes, yet tempered by understanding.
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The man took a step closer, his eyes studying George with a gentleness that felt almost too honest. "It's you," he said, his tone low and kind. "You're the one who protected me that night. You risked your life for a stranger."
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George shifted uncomfortably, glancing away. "Did what I had to," he muttered. His voice was empty, devoid of warmth, like the words were just ashes in his mouth.
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The old man seemed to sense the weight in his words, his gaze lingering on George's face. "Did you? Or is it that you wanted to? Not for me, perhaps, but for something… or someone else?"
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George clenched his jaw, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "Does it even matter?" he replied, his voice brittle. "She's gone, they're gone. I've got nothin' left now."
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The old man studied him, tilting his head. "No family?" he asked softly.
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George's throat tightened, and he shook his head. "Not anymore," he choked out, the admission ripping from him like a confession. He forced a bitter smile. "Whole damn world feels like it's against me. And maybe… maybe it's right to be."
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The old man's gaze turned inward, as if weighing something in silence. After a pause, he sighed. "It pains me to see someone so young, yet so… worn," he said, his tone layered with sorrow. "There's a word, you know, for the peace you seem to search for. Ataraxia."
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George's brows furrowed, his expression skeptical. "Ataraxia?"
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"A kind of true peace," the old man explained. "To live without fear, pain, or worry. A state where you have found something beyond just survival. Beyond revenge."
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George scoffed, bitterness lining his voice. "Yeah, and how am I supposed to find that? With what's left of me?"
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The old man's gaze sharpened, but his voice remained gentle. "By learning to let go," he replied. "You're holding onto memories like chains. Anger. Regret. Fear. But if you can release them… there is strength in that."
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A flash of anger crossed George's face, and he looked away, fists clenched. "You don't know what you're askin' me to do. To let go of the only things that kept me goin'…"
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"Is it truly keeping you going?" the old man asked quietly, his eyes filled with compassion. "Or is it merely keeping you… here? Bound to a past that cannot change?"
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George's expression wavered, the weight of his pain fighting against the man's words. "If I let go… then what am I supposed to hold onto?" he whispered, voice trembling.
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Old man gaze softened further. "You hold onto yourself," he replied. "Your own strength, your own spirit. The things that made you care enough to protect others, even when you felt lost. That is who you are."
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George looked at him, truly looked, his eyes clouded with raw vulnerability. "I… I don't know who I am anymore," he admitted, the words barely audible. "Just feels like there's… nothin' left."
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The old man hand reached out, resting on George's shoulder, warm and steady. "That feeling of emptiness… it is not the end. It's only the beginning. A chance to become someone new. To find peace within yourself."
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The old man's words lingered in the air like an unspoken promise, settling over George like a gentle weight. He swallowed, feeling something deep inside him shift, as if a door had cracked open, just a sliver. The pain was still there, but somehow, it didn't feel quite so suffocating.
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"Thank you," George murmured, his voice rough but sincere. "I… I don't know if I'll ever find that peace you're talkin' about, but… I appreciate it. Really."
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The old man nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. "Remember, young man, peace does not come all at once. It's a journey. And the first step… is always the hardest."
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George met his gaze, his own eyes carrying a newfound spark of determination, no matter how faint. "What's your name, old man?" he asked quietly.
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The old man gave a slight bow. "An Na. And may your journey bring you the peace you seek."
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George held his gaze for a moment longer before giving a slow, almost reverent nod. "Maybe it will," he whispered, more to himself than to An Na. He watched as the old man blended back into the crowd, leaving him alone once more—but not quite as empty.
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For the past five years, George had kept mostly to himself, going through the rhythms of his days in the quiet of his childhood home. He was used to the silence now—the hum of solitude had settled into his bones like an old song he'd long forgotten the words to but could still hum along to. An Na had moved to Japan, leaving him with only letters, each time more distant. But he'd adjusted to being alone, or at least he thought he had, until the knock came.
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It was late evening when it happened, just as the last light of day began to fade, draping shadows across the walls. George glanced up, frowning slightly. He hadn't been expecting anyone, and it was rare for visitors to stop by these days. He stood up, feeling an inexplicable chill run down his spine as he approached the door.
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When he opened it, an old man stood there, cloaked in layers of weathered fabric and mystery. The man's face was lined with time, eyes pale but intense, like they saw far more than the present. George's instincts told him to slam the door, but the stranger raised a hand, forestalling him.
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"Are you George?" the man's voice was gravelly, almost reverent.
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George hesitated. "Who's asking?"
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The man offered a faint, knowing smile, as if they both knew more than they were letting on. "Someone who has something important to tell you."
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There was a pause, thick and uncertain. George's fingers lingered on the doorknob, but curiosity kept him rooted.
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"Alright… come in." He stepped back, ushering the man inside, though he kept his guard up.
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The old man settled into the worn armchair near the fireplace, his gaze drifting around the room as if he were cataloging every corner of it. George waited, unease prickling at him, but finally, the man spoke.
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"There's a crystal," he began, his tone solemn. "An artifact, powerful and ancient. It was shattered a long time ago, its pieces scattered across the world. Fifteen shards, to be exact. Legends say that whoever brings them together will be granted a single wish—anything their heart desires."
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George stared, feeling an absurd urge to laugh. It sounded like something out of a myth. But he didn't laugh. The man's expression was too grave, too steady, for this to be a joke.
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"A wish?" George asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He could hardly believe he was entertaining this.
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The man nodded. "Yes. But it is no small task to find them. Even with one piece, there is great responsibility. Power like this… it can shape lives, or end them."
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"Why are you telling me this?" George's eyes narrowed. "Why me?"
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The man looked away, almost as if he were ashamed. "Because I know where one of those pieces lies." He pulled out an ancient-looking, crumpled map and handed it to George. "One is here, nearby. And another… south, across the border, in Mexico."
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George took the map, his hands shaking. He glanced down at it, seeing an old, faded marking, an 'X' drawn just a few miles from where they stood.
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"Why don't you get it yourself?" George asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.
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The man met his gaze, and for a moment, George saw a flash of weariness, as if the burden of years had suddenly fallen on his shoulders. "I'm not the one destined to gather them. That task falls to those… still tethered to the world." The old man's voice grew soft. "But there's one last thing you should know. Once you begin, you will not be able to walk away. This crystal—its energy will call to you, draw you in. You must see it through, or it will consume you."
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As the man's words sank in, he felt a strange, inexplicable energy radiating from the ground, seeping through the floorboards as if it was answering the old man's statement. He shivered, unable to tell if it was excitement or fear.
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"I… understand," George said slowly. He didn't fully, but something told him he would, soon enough.
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The old man nodded, a satisfied look in his eye, and then, just as mysteriously as he'd appeared, he turned and faded into the night.
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George was left standing alone, the map clutched in his hands. He felt… lighter. Stronger. The silence around him no longer felt like a burden, but a promise.
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Unable to shake the feeling, he stepped outside. He couldn't explain it, but he knew where to go. As if drawn by some unseen force, he walked, his pace picking up until he found himself on his knees, digging at the earth, the dirt cold and gritty beneath his fingers.
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He dug faster, his breaths coming hard and fast. And then—he felt it. Smooth, cool against his fingertips. He pulled it from the ground, a crystal shard the size of his palm, faintly glowing with a holy aura that pulsed with energy.
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"This… is it," he murmured, the glow reflecting in his wide eyes. He felt a surge of power coursing into him, vibrant and fierce. The crystal seemed to pulse, and his heart thudded in sync with it.
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A sudden, searing pain ripped through his right arm. He gasped, clutching it, watching in horror as thin, precise cuts began to etch themselves into his skin, forming strange, intricate symbols that glowed faintly in the dim light.
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"Wh-what…?" He couldn't finish the sentence. The pain subsided, leaving only a strange, tingling sensation, and then—a voice, echoing inside his mind.
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"You have been granted dominion over creatures that dwell beneath. Summon them, and they shall serve."
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George swallowed, his mouth dry. He didn't know if he was terrified or exhilarated.
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Testing it, he extended his hand toward the ground. Slowly, tentatively, he whispered, "Come to me."
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The earth shifted, and before his eyes, a swarm of ants emerged, crawling up from the soil, moving in perfect unison toward his outstretched hand. They formed a line, orderly, obedient, awaiting his command. An idea formed in his mind—a test.
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"Bring me that stick." He pointed to a broken branch a few feet away. The ants moved as one, lifting the stick, carrying it over to him as if it weighed nothing.
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He felt the energy inside him stir, understanding dawning. The cuts on his arm, they were more than symbols. They were instructions, abilities he hadn't known he possessed. The whisper returned, this time clearer, sharper.
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"These creatures shall be an extension of your will. You may fuse them to objects, merge them with skin, make nightmares from their forms."
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George felt his breath hitch. The implications of such power… they were terrifying.
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Yet, as he stared down at the crystal in his hand, he couldn't deny the exhilaration simmering beneath the fear. For the first time in years, he felt like he was no longer a mere observer in his own life. He was part of something greater, something ancient and powerful.
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His grip tightened on the crystal, a spark of determination lighting in his eyes.
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"Alright," he whispered to himself, a new resolve hardening within him. "If this is how it begins… then so be it."
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