The Wielder of Death Magic

“HELP ME!” cried a younger lady, “-HELP ME!” a lady in high heels sprinted, Igna paid little to no attention, “-you have to help me!” she yelled, armed men, leaped from the side alleys on bikes, and tore the neighborhood with insults and ugly engine roars.

“I got you,” she gasped and dropped her head, “-please, help!”

The irresponsible expression begot a longing feeling of despair. Igna casually took her hands and turned, “-who are you, and what do you want,” their eyes met. ‘I remember that face,’ he narrowed, ‘-short curly hair, big rounded glasses, and a tight-fitting top ending in running shorts and shoes. I know this girl,’ he glanced at the attackers, a crowd gathered.

“Better let the lady go,” came a hard-hitting accent, “-we’re from the Frontlei Gang. Don’t mess wi’ us, sir,” riders unsaddled their diseased ridden steeds, “-hand the gal over,” the leader, a man of demi-human feature, cocked his pistol and pressed his lips. The lady looked at Igna enviously, her fate rested in the hand of a stranger. So she thought, her stare widened, “-young master!” he pressed her mouth quick as could be.

“So you know each other?” inferred the leader waving his gun around, “-two for the price of one, boss,” came a distant comment. An unimpressed look swept the leader, he nonchalantly pointed the gun.

“-Ay, you fuckin’ idiot. Don’t talk when the boss talks,” came another, though, the reaction was more reserved from the boss at said time.

.....

“Poor ol’ sod. Take him’ home.”

*Bang,* the street rattled. Boss man’s head exploded – brain matter splattered, and he dropped. Blood pooled and broke off to the drainage; windows slammed, observers ran and the street emptied. The pursuer watched in horror, “-ay, what the fuck?”

“Don’t,” said Igna’s murderous gaze, “-I’ll be taking the girl with me. Tell the Frontlei Gang’s boss to meet with me at Shaker’s cottage later. I’ll pay for his and her life, understand?”

Another man strongly waved his arm, “-Where do you get off?” *Bang,* another dropped. The lady covered her face, and two people dropped in the space of a few seconds. “-Anyone else wants to join the party?” he offered graciously. Riders straddled the oil-ridden bikes; scavengers took the weapons and dropped the bodies into yet another alley. Silence settled.

“Young master.”

“Stephanie from Antom news, why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” she trembled, “-I’ve seen my share of deaths in the war... it’s not like here.”

“Head home,” he narrowed, “-I say this for your own interest. Lest thee becomes one of the elites, the slums are where people like us return.”

She attentively watched, “-have you changed?”

Igna simply smiled, “-have I?” came an ominous projection; Staxius’ murderous intent swallowed Igna’s face, the expression intermingled. “Heed my words, there is no story to be followed. Even if there are, it will come at a great cost. Two lives had to be sacrificed,” he gestured at the alley, “-what will it be, Stephanie.”

“I will stay,” she gritted, “-I have to show the world the truth, I have to make the world see the light.”

“Arrogant,” he focused forward, “-take this,” a talisman materialized, “-wear it at all times. Bath, shits, I don’t care, wear it. Such the only condition I impose.”

She reluctantly tied the necklace, raising her head to nothing, “-the young master’s gone?” her head dropped at the distant gunfire, ‘-where’s my contact,’ she scurried.

The vexing slopes steepened. The church’s bell tower clanged the melody of midday. A couple of meters from the church, firmed into the upper side of the town stood the police station. Bored guards stood over gates, some fixed on wooden benches, and played cards. Tall walls surrounded the compounds, including, fire-station and coroner’s office. A grave could be seen from the station, and figures in black prayed the salvation of yet another death.

“Identification and purpose of visit.”

“Lyoko Igna. I was asked by the officers to visit the coroner’s office.”

“I see,” the watchman rose an understanding look, “-you’re the unlucky fellow who lost his wife and daughter. Man, I tell you,” he went through the motions and stamped his card, “-I see more and more people lost their families. It stings man,” he sighed and complied visit related paperwork, “-youngin’ lost their lives early. I can’t bear the sight of another crying mother, a traumatized sister or an abused brother. Istra is not a good place,” he handed over a pass, “-well, just the worry of an old man. Head on sonny, I hope your family has a peaceful afterlife.”

“Thank you,” he took one step, “-old man,” and tapped his shoulder. The inner compound was big and tall. Modern offices and stuffy officers sweated their brows in the heat.

“Corner’s office is over there,” said a returning visitor.

“Thank you,” returned Igna. He walked, the intense shadow eased, and the midday sun snuffed at the side of the massive police station. The coroner’s office was humble and square, trees lined the front yard and gave shade to mortician-branded vans. An older-looking woman waited at the reception. She pulled out her teeth and revealed yellow and chipped, “-what is the purpose of your visit sir?” came a strained high-pitch. It was as if she had done so for many years, forcing an inviting tone that pierced the eardrums.

“Lyoko Igna.”

“Husband,” she flicked through her notes, “-take this and head to the waiting room. The coroner will meet you shortly.”

A closed office of brown held three individuals, “-he’s here,” added the coroner Tile.

“I apologize on Janth’s behalf.”

“No use worrying,” inferred the inspector Jack, “-I’m surprised you’re here after yesterday.”

“A voice deep inside said to follow the investigation. I have to know who killed them, I must know their reason and who was able of such brutality.”

“I suggest you stay here, Paul.”

“I agree with Tile. Three’s a crowd. We don’t want the husband to feel pressured,” they headed out, “-I have confirmation from Frontlei. None of their hitmen was responsible for the murders. None one knows who killed them... the murderers gained infamous in Istra’s underworld. Some organizations might think of hiring the lunatic to further their agenda.”

“Jack, the police department is corrupt. So is mine. We brush most incidents under the rug. There won’t be much left even if we try to act in authority. Besides, I doubt the murder will continue.”

“No, I have a hunch. The husband knows something we don’t. He has the secret and if we break him, we might find ourselves the killer.”

Freezing cold whispers echoed down the morgue floor. Many bodies lined a single room. The autopsy table yet held blood. Masks were assigned, “-Lyoko Igna, is that you?”

“Yeah,” he answered calmly.

“Sorry to say,” they stood over two bodies, “-there was nothing we could have done. The explosion destroyed much of their body – I managed to rescue your daughter’s face.” He looked at them with deepening woe.

“It was only yesterday... we had dinner, we had dinner, we had plans,” he shook his head, “-I come from Hidros,” he explained, “-I was born into nobility and earnt most of my money from clever business ventures. I came here to see the market... I told my wife and daughter, and I warned them, but they never listened. We had the means to afford a great estate and stay in the affluent district. We had the means... what happened, the godforsaken town turned its back. Reality’s a hard pill to swallow,” a grave look of woe-faced Tile and Jack, Igna gripped their hearts with his words. The white mist of the cold must have hidden the black ooze coming off Igna. The Dark-Arts of manipulation, fake words, fake expression, fake sentiment – Tile and Jack accepted his word as fact. “Excuse me,” Igna interjected, “-might I have a minute alone?”

“...” they exited the morgue in utter shock.

“Did you suspect him?”

“Yeah, I thought he was the one who killed the trio. You know, like a sick sense of vengeance?”

“I don’t think it’s him. Did you see the expression, he was sorry but kept composed. I admire his strength,” Tile dropped onto a nearby bench, “-if only we had a sliver of his composure. I tell you; the world would be a better place.”

Jack meandered his thoughts, but no clever idea came. Just as the suffocating pressure of bafflement gripped his throat, a radio call broke their entire foundation.

“Lyoko Igna, please speak to my secretary, she’ll take your wish as to how your family will be sent off. Incineration is a popular practice,” a police car waited with Paul at the helm. Igna watched as the clueless investigators left the premises. ‘Go, little lamb, go. I hold the pieces to this game of chess. The devil’s taken hold of Istra, I will ooze death till Engratse or the church yields. Gophy, Engratse, my foolish step-brother, this war will start here and end in Draebala, I’ve seen the truth, all shall be clear. Just wait and see,’ the secretary approached with paperwork, ‘-I will have my way, and I’ll make damn sure it’s entertaining,’ a translucent shadow seamlessly jumped into his body.

“Did you say something?”

“No,” he replied, “-nothing at all.”

Yellow tape blocked a familiar alley. White clothes haphazardly covered the victims. “Report?” Jack met one of the officers.

“Two young men were reported dead. Witness speaks of a lady running from the sight of the crime. They were shot in the head and disembowel. The world, ‘-liar,’ was carved on their stomachs.’ Tile and Jack approached for a better look. Camera flashes hissed; another gruesome murder plagued the street.

“Identification?”

“No,” the officers shrugged.

“No way we’ll know who they are,” Tile held his chin, “-fingerprints were burnt, the body’s virtually skinned, and the faces’ beyond repair. We don’t have the necessary technology to hunt down their identities.”

“We could always call the higher-ups, right?”

“Ask the professors to come down,” firmed Tile. Another phone call rang. Jack excused himself to the shadows, “-Detective Jack speaking.”

“Jack, I call from the frontier. Do not pursue the matter. It has been resolved,” the enigmatic call ended. Jack brought a look of disdain.

“What?”

“Can’t touch them,” he exhaled.

“The underworld,” Tile pinched his forehead, “-should have expected as much.”

“It’s not a gang-killing... the word liar.”

“AHHHHH!” a photographer fell, the duo rushed, “-what’s the matter?”

“Look,” he trembled, “-Dear boss wrote in calligraphy.” The investigators shuddered, “-it’s him,” they gulped, “-the killer from yesterday... does that mean he’s a member of the underworld?”

“We can’t say for sure,” they pained, “-Istra has a serial killer on the loose,” the comment was overheard by a nearby reporter, “-DEAR BOSS STRIKES AGAIN!”