A hard choice
992 Words
Aurora woke with a sharp gasp, sweat coating her face as her breath came out ragged and uneven.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and reached for her phone on the bedside drawer. 7:00 a.m. already.
With a weary sigh, she forced herself out of bed and headed to the bathroom to freshen up.
She was done quickly. When she went downstairs, she found Mr. Richard seated at the dining table, a newspaper folded in his hands.
“Good morning,” she greeted, pulling out a chair opposite him.
He didn’t respond.
“Are you ready?” Richard finally asked, glancing up from the paper.
Aurora nodded.
“Good. Let’s get going,” he said, standing and grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter.
It was Sunday, so the library was almost empty.
Richard approached the front desk and spoke quietly to the librarian. She nodded and stepped aside, opening a concealed door behind the counter. From the way she treated them, it was obvious they weren’t ordinary visitors.
Once inside the vast hall filled with towering shelves of books and ancient scrolls, the librarian’s voice echoed.
“This is the library that houses most of the history of the werewolves,” she said. “All of it recorded by the Time Tower.”
“May we access the Time Tower?” Richard asked.
The librarian smiled strangely. “Of course. Take your time.”
She handed him a key and left the hall.
“This is it,” Richard said, passing the key to Aurora. “Once you’re inside, speak what you want to know. The tower will arrange the records for you.”
He walked off to find books of his own, leaving Aurora alone.
She stared at the keyhole, her throat tight. After a deep breath, she inserted the key.
The door creaked loudly as it opened, the sound echoing as though it hadn’t been disturbed in centuries.
Aurora stepped inside.
Immediately, the sharp clacking of typewriters filled the air.
Her heart raced. Panic surged through her chest, and she spun around to leave—only to find the door sealed shut.
A wooden sign hung where the exit had been.
Before one may leave the tower, one must defeat the Tower Boss.
Fear crawled up her spine.
“One thing at a time,” she muttered, forcing herself forward. She needed answers before worrying about survival.
“Cardholders,” she said clearly.
Her voice echoed—and the tower responded.
Papers burst from shelves across the hall, flying through the air before settling neatly on a dusty desk beneath a narrow window. A single lamp sat there, coated in age. Aurora ignored it and picked up the first page.
---
After the First War between the Asuras and the Werewolves a thousand years ago, the Werewolves emerged victorious and cast the Asuras into the Underworld. In doing so, they severed the Asuras’ source of sustenance—human fear, despair, and souls.
Driven by desperation, the Asuras devised a solution.
The Cardholders.
Humans were chosen and given lives beyond their wildest dreams—wealth, fame, power. In exchange, they were given a card to protect.
But the price was steep.
The despair caused by their rise, and the fear they endured, fed the Asuras.
Every three months, cardholders were summoned to Paradise Land, a twisted realm where they fought the shattered dreams of those whose opportunities they had stolen.
It was a horrific place. Many never returned.
Their souls were consumed.
There was only one way to avoid Paradise Land.
Kill another cardholder.
Doing so extended one’s time by three months.
Each card possessed unique attributes—most commonly fire or ice—allowing its holder to wield supernatural power.
Aurora was so absorbed in reading that she nearly forgot the danger awaiting her.
Then she noticed the typewriter beside the desk.
She leaned closer.
It was typing a name.
Harry Grey.
Her breath caught.
The page shifted, forming new words.
It looked like Harry was in the middle of a fight.
~~~~
Harry stepped closer, an ice-forged dagger glinting in his hand.
“It’s over, Greg.”
He crouched beside him. Greg lay crumpled on the floor, blood coating his lips and seeping from the corner of his mouth.
“Why… why did you do this?” Greg groaned, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harry tilted his head, cracking his neck slowly. “Isn’t it obvious? I don’t intend to step foot in Paradise Land.”
Greg coughed, blood spilling onto the floor. “You’re… heartless.”
“I planned too much for this to end any other way,” Harry replied calmly, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “In this world, the strong survive. The weak die.”
Greg let out a weak laugh. “You talk big for someone who’s never faced an opponent your own level. Why not fight someone who could actually kill you?”
The words struck a nerve.
Harry’s expression darkened. In a flash, he raised the dagger and drove it straight into Greg’s chest.
The sound was dull. Final.
“Pathetic,” Harry muttered.
He kicked the lifeless body aside and reached for Greg’s card. It was black, cold to the touch, engraved with the image of a dragon breathing fire.
“Well done.”
A voice whispered behind him.
Harry stiffened as a hand rested on his shoulder.
“You’ve earned an extra three months,” the voice continued softly. “Hand over the card.”
Harry turned.
The figure standing there wore Greg’s face—expression empty, eyes hollow.
Without hesitation, Harry handed over the card.
The figure vanished into thin air.
Harry stared at the spot where Greg’s body had been moments earlier. He knew Greg’s soul was gone—devoured.
He felt nothing.
Survival was all that mattered.
Without another glance, Harry turned and walked out of the hotel room.
- Writer
