Chapter 1: A Thomas Kinkade Painting

Key for this chapter:


*Rinzen's Thoughts*

//Anyone Else's Thoughts//

'Old dialogues memories, spoken out loud thoughts, the past in general...'



""Not an Actual Speech or Thought""


Warning: Alternative POVs


Date: 31-03-2113

Time: 11:40 pm


The Witching Hour.

Well almost, it was twenty minutes to midnight, and Rinzen was restless—probably not the best word to describe his current state, but he was for a lack of a better term, restless.

At eighteen years old, built with a lean-lithe muscular stature, and having trained in several forms of martial arts since he was ten, he sat cross-legged on his bed desperately trying to meditate and failing miserably.

Amber-honey eyes focused on the wall opposite him, he exhaled, bit his lower lip, chewed on it reflexively, and then tried again. Closing his eyes he tried the ancient form of Vipassana as opposed to the traditional form of meditation, no matter what his favorite Sensei tried to prescribe, patience was not something he had.

Counting in reverse from ten to one, he tried to envision the rule of insight into the true nature of reality. Inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling—


Rinzen's eyes snapped open, his attention directed to where one of his books, fell straight off of the bookshelf to the floor, cursing he flopped onto his back dramatically;

"That's it, I give up", he grumbled throwing his hands up in the air, dramatically.

Not that there was anyone to hear about it, unlike most eighteen years old he, was stuck at home, on a Friday night currently staring at his ceiling, counting down the minutes for the next day to begin.

Being an outcast had its disadvantages.


Most people awakened to their type of magic when they turned sixteen.

MAGIC, capital letters, and everything;

After the final world war which lasted ten years, the world had shifted on its axis, Mother Nature had given up on trying to dissuade society from destroying her reserves and her bounty and decdied to step in, some people referred it to "Gaia's Rage".

A blast strong enough to knock mountains to dust had been the first warning, which predictably many ignored.

The second had been a wave, that couldn't really be classified as tsunami, or a whirlpool or anything similar, it started in every sea across the globe going insane and washing away their coastlines off the map, and that too humanity ignored.

The third had been animals losing their minds, attacking everything and everyone, creatures as docile as hamsters became chaotic demons.

That's when humans suddenly realized if animals became like this, humans weren't far off of the map, to losing their minds.

Bunkers, and ships, and certain areas that were rich in history and spiritualism were warded to hell and back, gates and walls were constructed, cities recreated to house ethnicity from all over the world. 'The end of the world' propaganda started spewing new religions and even more—individual cities such as Boston Quincy, Cambridge and Lowell merged into one large sanctuary and protected people from more attacks.

The real change began fifty years ago, six months after The Big War finally ended in 2032, magical beings that were only ever read about in books, and stories or seen on the film began to appear, many creatures forced out of hiding. Half by nature half by mercenaries—instigating their own form of a hate crime, no one knew how to tackle.

Yet no one would have guessed that crime as heinous as subjugation attempts of an entire sect of people would be compared to something as simple as a shoplifter stealing candy from a baby, after a few years had passed, of course.

It wasn't written in the record books, but it was unanimously acknowledged that humanity had never in the history of the universe ever been accepting of the extraordinary.

""Humans always took the approach to attack what they could not comprehend or understand"".

So, when the first incident of something out-worldly had occurred, the reaction wasn't much of a surprise, it was more of an expectation, that could not be stopped, the cat was out of the bag, convalescence had already begun.

The supernatural being exposed had shattered the illusion that 'being human' wasn't all there was. It's the 'How', that changed the world;

A werewolf cub had been captured, by fanatics calling themselves The Supernatural Police: Venerers, they were later re-named as.

Originally a hunter class comprising of men and women that were biased and fundamentally factions of hate crime suspects. These hunters had released a live telecast of a public execution attempt on a five-year-old, after torturing him, to pull out his unique gift to turn into a wolf.

The video had first been considered a hoax, propaganda of attention-seeking. The media, news, people who took a chance to say anything and did, stood divided. Some had dismissed the story outright, and some had spread it further, the latter of which led to digging into obscure stories on yetis, abominable snowmen, bigfoot, and more. Stories that were dissected re-published, thrown out, and turned into fodder for other criminals.

Stories, that became hunting weapons, which flushed out the supernatural, stories that unleashed a war that lasted longer than all the three World Wars combined and then some.

Gaia's rage had changed the world, and The Big War had crumbled what was left of it.

Supernatural disasters struck, humanity's weapon contested, both sides fought valiantly. Both sides' lost loved ones' the financial market collapsed in on itself, turns out hiding was expensive—take away their money, and you're left with the value of money dropping significantly, the job market, the economy everything went 'Kaboom'.

The world had changed, and people had changed.

Thankfully not all hope was lost, for all that humanity could be the greatest villain, there were always those hidden in pandora's box, that carried the value of faith.

As the mark of the twentieth year passed when the war seemed endless, a young human had rushed forward to protect a young witch, a child barely in control of her powers, standing frozen in a field of white flowers, watching several members of her family being killed, powerful and yet utterly powerless to try and help or stop the men from torturing and then killing everyone she loved, their blood staining those flowers permanently.

The girl had looked out desperately, spotted him hiding behind a tree, keeping a few of his own, away from the clearly drunk on power hunters, and screamed;


After a startled pause, she continued;

"Please Help?!"

It could have been the desperation, the hopelessness, the knowledge that she was about to die, or it could have been the unending hope, that not all humans were bad, whatever it was, it had sparked something in the young man, and he'd run out, scooped up the little girl and run away.

He didn't have the power to save the rest of her family, but he'd saved her, witnesses had seen, and people spread the word.

Eventually, after another ten years, mostly owed to the young girl, who grew up into a beautiful sixteen-year-old with the help of the young man's son, united the neighboring towns and small villages and created TOIVO DEN, the first of many that would soon follow.

Toivo Den—a separate island that once used to be San Francisco and San Mateo and Santa Cruz all merged as one and now rested as an independent island in the Pacific Ocean. Marking the first bond between a human and a magical person, and The Higher Covenant that protected magical creatures raised it's 'voice' and declared that a partnership formed with the purest bond between a Normal Human and a Magical person, was to be honored above all other covenants.

And as trust was a two-way street, it took many more years till everyone on earth realized discretion was the better part of valor.

The gift of peace wasn't just for the supernatural, humans could be bound by the Laws of The Covenant as well, which often to led really bizarre and sometimes extremely stupid bonds being cast, but well, digression, the story is simple, once a The High Council of Supernaturals were cast, and a

Shamanic Council of High Priestess has appointed the bonds, were recorded on an offshore platform warded to hell and back.

The High Council of Supernaturals consisted of every Elder Leader Human, and Supernatural Counselor, to be appointed from every City/Town/County/etc., that would then report to their State Leaders. These pairs of each state in a country would meet their Country Leaders and carry forward the reports accordingly; it was a very beehive-like formation, creating The Council of MAGIC.

The Council of MAGIC, abbreviated as: Mythical Assembly of Governing Influence's Congregations. They really did take their abbreviations seriously, if he stopped to think about it.

It took several discussions, many arguments, two small unnecessary battles, a series of pointless cold wars' before it was agreed that to declare a bond, a symbol needed to be appointed, something that could wordlessly showcase one's objective.

This symbol was identified by a significant color, and a natural object sealed with a drop of a person's blood.

Because Blood Magic was and is one of the oldest and strongest magicks available, tying the contract to the person invoking it, in a bond for eternity or until death. It helped that the color had its own set of significant details; red, the color of fire, blood, and fertility was also associated with energy, war, danger, strength, power, determination, passion, desire, and love. Red, emotionally the most intense color, enhanced human metabolism, increased respiration rate and raised blood pressure.

The symbol worked in favor of adrenaline hooked desperation that sparked most bonds in a time of crisis.

So if anyone bonded to another, they would be marked with a red-inked magical tattoo.

Not that it made much of a difference; ten years after everything had finally been sorted bonded mates were rare, like spotting a dragon rare. A possibility but never yet seen. The magical blood had practically diluted mundane's from the gene pool.

Most magical children awoke to their powers at sixteen, after which they were classified.

There were three groups of Magicks;

Borne: Those born of magic, at least a descendant of parents who had magic, a bloodline of magical beings born into the world, their magical core was recorded as they usually were brought into the world in a shower of sparks and glowing lights.

Awakened: Magical creatures who had magical birthrights thrust upon them, rare but not unfounded. In rare circumstances, when someone with magic knew they were going to die, mostly in gruesome ways, they transferred their magic to the nearest person, the magic itself would find the most compatible host—the process was excruciating, or so he'd heard.

Opsimaths: Borne magicks that, unfortunately, hadn't awoken to their magic yet, so far most late bloomers awoke to their magic at eighteen or a few months after seventeen.


Rinzen sighed, "Now all I have to do is wonder what I'm going to awaken into, a warlock like everyone else, or forever stay a mundane", he muttered internally shuddering he huffed;

*Grams is gonna have a conniption*