Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER XXXVII: The Vigilante’s Domain

As night fell, Noumenon decided it was time to seek out Cross again. She recalled the brief tour Dr. Dunong had given her when she first arrived at the residence. During the tour, she noticed a hallway that led to a secluded wing of the house. He had mentioned, almost in passing, that this was where Cross stayed; that’s why it’s off limits.

Armed with this knowledge, she made her way down the quiet hallway, the sound of her footsteps muted by the plush carpet. The air seemed heavier here, charged with an almost palpable tension. Noumenon felt a shiver run down her spine, but she pressed on, determined to find the enigmatic vigilante.

She reached the door she believed to be Cross's room and paused. The door was closed, and as she approached, she noticed it was locked. Just as she contemplated her next move, a faint, muffled sound reached her ears. It was the sound of someone struggling. Her heart raced, and she instinctively stepped back, her mind racing with possibilities.

Was Cross in danger? Or was he merely dealing with something—or someone—in his own peculiar way? She gulped, torn between curiosity and caution. Whatever he was doing inside, she realized it was none of her business. What mattered most was her need to speak with him.

She decided not to knock on the door, not wanting to disturb him. Instead, she sat down on the floor, her back against the wall beside the door. She would wait for him to come out and discover her presence.

The hallway was dimly lit, casting long shadows that danced with the flickering light from a single wall sconce. Time seemed to stretch on, and the only sound was the faint noise from behind the door and her own steady breathing. Noumenon let her thoughts drift, contemplating the path she had chosen and the strength she would need to carry it through.

Her mind wandered to memories of her mothers, both biological and adoptive. She drew strength from their love and guidance, finding solace in the thought that they would understand her choices, even if they conflicted with her previous life of devotion and peace.

As the minutes turned to hours, the faint sounds from behind the door eventually ceased. The house was silent, save for the distant rumble of thunder from an approaching storm. Exhausted from her contemplation, Noumenon eventually drifted off to sleep, her body slumped against the wall.

When she woke, it was already dawn. The first light of the morning filtered through the small windows at the end of the hallway. She stretched, feeling the stiffness in her muscles from sleeping on the hard floor. Just then, the door creaked open, and Cross emerged in a dark gray sweater. He stopped short when he saw her, his expression unreadable. His blue eyes bore fiercely on hers. For a moment, she almost forgot to compose her words; however, she couldn’t help but notice the bags under them.

"What are you doing here?" he said, his voice low and gruff.

She stood up, meeting his gaze. "I-I’m sorry for being here, I just wanted to talk about something important."

“It better be, since I don’t have any time to spare for you.”

She fidgeted. “Uhm, right! Yes, it is important.”

“….”

“Please teach me how to do Kali.”

For a second, Cross’ eyes seemed to flicker. After all, it was interesting of her to bring that up. It seemed ironic to someone who looked too soft.

Noumenon had spent a considerable amount of time in the library, reading about various martial arts and self-defense techniques. During her research, she had come across Kali—also known as Arnis or Eskrima. She was captivated by its emphasis on using sticks, knives, and other bladed weapons, as well as its practicality and efficiency in real-world combat situations. But what truly caught her attention was how much the movements described in the books mirrored the way Cross moved during their encounters. The fluidity and precision with which he fought were hallmarks of Kali.

“I’ve been reading about it in the library,” she explained, “and I think I may be able to somehow know some about it.”

"I doubt you’d even be a little good at it."

Noumenon insisted earnestly. "I know that, but I should at least know how to attack."

Without a word, Cross moved with a swiftness that took Noumenon by surprise. One moment he stood before her, seemingly indifferent to her request, and the next, a blade was gleaming at her throat. The cold steel pressed lightly against her skin, not enough to cut but enough to make her acutely aware of its presence.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked into his eyes, now sharp and calculating. The transition from his previous demeanor to this was startling, like a predator revealing its true nature. It was a stark reminder of the lethal precision he commanded.

"You want to learn how to attack?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then you need to understand the gravity of what you're asking.”

He held the knife steady. The intimidation between them was real, every muscle in her body screaming to react, to defend herself, yet she held still, meeting his gaze with a mix of fear and resolve.

“Give me a day to show you what I can be capable of. Any-anyway, don’t expec—”

"You’re prepared to kill someone now?" he continued, his tone measured.

Hesitant, she nodded.

"Don’t disappoint me."

With a fluid motion, he withdrew the knife, spinning it deftly in his hand before slipping it back into a hidden sheath. The entire sequence had taken only a few seconds, but the impact on Noumenon was profound. She felt a mix of relief and a newfound respect for the deadly efficiency he embodied.

“Meet me at the basement after you eat. You need food to get through today.”

She stood there for a moment, her heart still racing from the encounter. The realization of what she had asked for settled in, and she knew there was no turning back. Preparing herself for the act of killing someone, even if it was her father, weighed heavily on her conscience. The teachings she had once embraced at the convent conflicted with the path she was now on. But she reminded herself of the brutality her mothers had faced and the need for justice.

Noumenon made her way to the dining area and ate a light breakfast, her thoughts consumed with the training ahead. The food tasted bland; her mind too preoccupied to enjoy it. She knew she needed it, though, and forced herself to finish.

After her meal, she headed towards the basement. The entrance was at the far end of the hallway, a heavy wooden door leading to a set of narrow stairs. As she descended, the air grew cooler, and the scent of aged stone filled her nostrils. The basement was dimly lit, with a single flickering bulb casting long shadows on the rough walls.

The room itself was spacious, with concrete floors and high ceilings supported by sturdy pillars. A few training mats were scattered across the floor, and various weapons hung on the walls—wooden sticks, knives, and other tools of combat. It was a stark and utilitarian space, devoid of any comfort or distraction.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she took a deep breath, steadying herself for what was to come. Her thoughts drifted to the act of killing, something she had never imagined herself doing. The idea of taking a life, even in the name of doing her own sense of justice, was daunting. Yet, she knew it was a necessary step in confronting her father and avenging her mothers.

She reminded herself of the lessons from the convent, the principles of love and forgiveness. But she also understood that there were times when justice required action, even if it meant crossing a line she had once vowed never to cross. The strength of the weak, she realized, lay in their ability to adapt, to endure, and to rise above their circumstances.

Cross was already waiting for her, standing in the center of the room.

Her perspective of him was complex, a mingling of awe and trepidation. From the moment she had first encountered him, she had been struck by his otherworldly appearance. Cross was not just an ordinary man; his albinism gave him a hauntingly ethereal look. His skin was pale, almost translucent under certain lights, making his sharp features stand out even more starkly. His blue eyes were piercing, with a depth that seemed to harbor countless secrets and an intensity that could freeze her in place.

His physical presence was commanding—tall, lean, and exuding an air of controlled danger. The way he moved, fluid and precise, reminded her of a predatory animal, always ready to strike. Every step he took, every glance he cast, was calculated, a testament to his deadly efficiency. It was clear that he was a man who had honed his skills to perfection, and the ease with which he handled his weapons was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

In his presence, she felt a potent mixture of fear and astonishment. Fear, because she knew that he was capable of immense violence and had no qualms about taking a life. The cold, emotionless way he had put a knife to her throat had been a stark reminder of the lethal power he wielded. It was a sobering realization that at any moment, if he deemed it necessary, he could end her life without hesitation.

Yet, alongside this fear was a deep sense of astonishment. She couldn't help but marvel at his skills and the discipline he embodied. He was a living enigma, a man who had mastered the art of combat and God-given abilities that made him invincible. How he was able to manipulate the motion of things was beyond normalcy. He is like an angel of God—no, he could be the angel of death.

He handed her a pair of training sticks, their weight and balance familiar from her research. "Kali is all about fluidity and precision. Every movement must be purposeful and efficient.”

Without warning, Cross moved with the deadly grace that had always astounded her. One moment he was handing her the training sticks, and the next, he struck with blinding speed.

Thwack! The first strike landed on her left shoulder, sending a shockwave of pain through her body.

Thwack! The second hit her right thigh, causing her leg to buckle.

Thwack! The third blow was to her ribs, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

Before she could even react, he followed up with a powerful kick to her chest. The force of the impact sent her flying backwards, crashing into one of the sturdy pillars. The world spun around her, and she fought to stay conscious, the pain searing through every fiber of her being.

Gasping for breath, Noumenon looked up to see him standing over her, his expression as cold and emotionless as ever. He showed no sign of remorse or hesitation, his eyes devoid of any hint of sympathy. It was a stark reminder of the brutal reality she was now a part of.

"Why..." she managed to gasp, her voice barely audible.

"Because you need to understand the reality of combat. There won't be any warnings or second chances in a real fight. Your enemies won't hold back, and neither should you," he said, his voice icy.

He knelt down, his face inches from hers, his blue eyes piercing into her soul.