Judge snapped his finger like he had reversed this same exact script fifteen times in front of the mirror today.
There appeared an unconscious white male body of a poor assassin matched up with a phoenix when all odds where against him, bless his poor soul. Isadora stared at Noel’s unconscious body like she could really use a blowtorch right know.
Subject 01167— a text passed through her mind, Subject 01166 had perished due to constant and consecutive experiments, Subject 01167 was placed under the guardianship of Master Noel Rivet.
Isadora could not take it anymore, she took a silver long knife she always hed since her training days and drove it through Noel Rivet’s heart. Aiming to kill him instantly as a finally act of mercy for rescuing her when she was a child.
Noel didn’t have much time to register his fate. One moment he was busy trying to wake up, and the next, an unseen force—perhaps fate itself—decided to end his story.
A soft shimmer of ether surrounded him, subtle but unnervingly deliberate. Judge tilted his head ever so slightly, his grin frozen in place but the gleam in his eye betraying a flicker of anticipation.
The air twisted. A sharp, slicing sound filled the room, Noel tried to speak, but was abruptly cut off. His body stiffened as if struck by lightning, his expression frozen in mild confusion. Then, with a soft smile, he crumpled to the floor, his gaze fixed in Isadora’s eyes. Experience tales at freewebnovel
Silence.
Judge stepped forward, his boots clicking sharply against the cold, unforgiving floor. His expression, for once, softened into something resembling solemnity, though the smile etched into his mask betrayed the truth: this was all part of his grand plan.
Isadora stared at Noel’s lifeless form, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Whatever fury she had carried moments ago had dissipated, replaced by a hollow ache that swallowed her whole.
"He’s...he’s gone," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Judge crouched beside Noel’s body, resting a hand lightly on the man’s shoulder. "Yes," he said simply, almost kindly. "His chapter has ended." He paused, turning to look at Isadora. "But your story...it isn’t finished yet. You were being used, and now you are free."
Her gaze snapped to him, her eyes were filled with unshed tears. "What are you talking about? This was all I had left. He was all I had left, even after—" Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. "—after everything... I have nothing now. Nothing."
Judge straightened, brushing off his coat as if shaking off her despair. "Nothing, you say?" he mused. "No ties, no purpose, no place to belong. And yet..." He gestured vaguely around them, as though indicating something far larger than the room they stood in. "The world keeps turning, doesn’t it? Stories unfold, lives intertwine, and somewhere out there, someone will need to know this one."
Her brows furrowed, confusion momentarily breaking through her grief. "What are you getting at?"
Judge stepped closer, his presence looming yet oddly comforting. "You’ve lost everything," he said, his tone soft but deliberate. "But that doesn’t mean you’re finished. You’ve seen what happens when people’s stories are left untold—when legacies are lost to time and memory. But what if you could change that?"
"Change it?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes." His eyes gleamed behind the mask. "We serve a master, Isadora, me and Lucifer both. A gathering of those who understand the weight of stories—the importance of recording them, of preserving them for all eternity. We are called the Recorders, and our task is simple yet profound: to ensure that no story, no matter how small or fleeting, if it catches our eyes, it is never forgotten."
She stared at him, her emotions warring behind her tired eyes. "And what do you want from me?"
"I want you to join us," Judge said plainly, extending a hand. "Become a Recorder. Let your pain, your loss, fuel something greater than yourself. Record the stories of this world, Isadora. Make sure Noel’s story, your story, isn’t lost."
Lucifer, who had been leaning nonchalantly against a wall, finally stepped forward, his presence carrying the quiet authority of someone who knew far too much and enjoyed it. "Judge speaks the truth, Isadora," he said, his tone surprisingly gentle.
"Your pain, your loss—they’ve shaped you. But they don’t have to define you. Join us. Become part of something greater. Maybe, just maybe, we can give you a purpose to live on. Death is not always the ending one might be looking forward to."
Her gaze dropped to Judge’s outstretched hand, then to Noel’s body, and back to him. "And what happens to me?"
"You will belong," he replied, his voice low and steady. "You will have purpose. And perhaps, in time, you will find peace."
She hesitated, her hand hovering just above his. "And who are you really? What gives you the right to do this?"
Judge’s grin widened, his tone suddenly lighter, almost playful. "I’m just the humble attendant of a god," he said with a flourish. "A simple storyteller, weaving the threads of fate and guiding those willing to listen. Nothing more, nothing less."
Lucifer suddenly turned to look at Judge, but turned back to Isadora as if telling him that they would have a personal talk later.
"What was the organization’s name again?" Her tone suggested that her mind was at conflict at whether to accept and try to live even though she does not want to. But only the sharpest of listeners could tell whether she was in conflict. Which, unfortunately for her, was all three of the people present in the room.
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Judge’s grin widened. "The Recorders," he announced with a dramatic flourish. "A gathering of storytellers, chroniclers of the world’s greatest tales. We serve the Observer, the master of stories and the attendant of the god who weaves fate itself."
At the mention of the Observer, even Lucifer’s usual smugness seemed to fade, replaced by a reverent nod.
Saphiel, sitting quietly in the corner as though she were a mere spectator to a play she’d seen a hundred times, finally stirred. Her expression was unreadable, her silence as heavy as the scene unfolding before her.
"But didn’t you just say you are the attendant of god?" She was trying to make sure there are no loose ends, the assassin’s betrayal taught her well.
"AH! I am indeed an attendant, but my rank is beneath that of the observer." He explained, "So I say that I serve him even though I am also an attendant of god."
Lucifer looked at him again, but this time it was that they won’t have any personal talk later.
For a long moment, Isadora remained still, her grief and anger warring with the faint spark of hope he had ignited.
Judge turned back to Isadora after staring at Lucifer, his tone softening. "You’ve lost much, Isadora. But there’s a way forward. A purpose. Take this." He produced a mask from his coat, identical to the one she already carried—plain white with a smiling face—but somehow radiating an air of finality, as though it symbolized a step from one world into another.
"But… I already have one," she said hesitantly, pulling her mask from her belt and holding it up.
"Yes," Judge acknowledged, "but that one was simply a symbol of your potential. This," he held out the new mask, "is an invitation. Accept it, and you’ll no longer be a wandering soul without a place to belong. You’ll be Barachiel, the Virtue of Patience, a Recorder of the Observer."
Isadora stared at the mask, her fingers hovering over it like she was afraid it might burn her. "And if I accept?"
"Then you’ll officially become one of us," Judge said, his tone warm yet insidious. "And all your pain, your doubts… they’ll become fuel for something far greater."
Lucifer nodded approvingly. "It’s what the Observer desires. Your potential is undeniable."
Still, Isadora hesitated. The weight of her decision hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
"Fine," Finally, she said quietly. "I’ll join your Recorders. But if you’re lying—"
She reached out, her fingers brushing against the mask. As she took it, Judge’s grin seemed to grow, the faintest glimmer of triumph flickering in his eyes.
"Welcome to the Recorders, Barachiel," he said, his voice as smooth as honey and twice as sticky.
"Oh, my dear Barachiel," Judge interrupted, his voice a mix of amusement and sincerity, "you’ll find that truth, like stories, is often stranger than fiction. Welcome aboard."
Isadora lifted the mask, her hands trembling, and placed it over her tear-streaked face. As it settled into place, the line between her mask and her face disappeared, her posture straightened, and a strange calm seemed to wash over her.
Lucifer smiled behind his mask, "Welcome aboard, Barachiel, I’m not sure how to say this— but I’m truly delighted to have you."
Saphiel remained silent, her gaze fixed on the newly anointed Barachiel. Whatever she thought of the situation, she kept it to herself.
Suddenly, Judge felt a warm pain in his hand. He removed his glove to look at what was going on— there, on the back of his hand a rune glowed.
Two spirals were drawn inside an ellipse, one clockwise and the other the opposite. there were two wide arcs that connected the center of each, making another ellipse inside.
This was the rune for teleportation, if he touched it, he would go to his home— but his mother would know his location.
"Teacher!" He called out to Saphiel, who understood what he meant, "I will come with you." He sighed.