Fate And Mystery

Secret of Simon Pharrell

"Yikes!" Lionel jumped in fright, like he had seen a ghost. His heart thrummed in a rhythm he had never felt,a frantic beat that echoed in his ears. He let go of the shoulders he had grabbed from behind, realizing too late that his "unsuspecting sneak attack" on Matthias had gone horribly wrong.

Too bad it wasn't Matthias.

Lionel had cornered Marcus Lovegood, a disciplinary Form 5 senior nicknamed "Bane" for his ferocious traits and unparalleled strength. To make matters worse, Marcus was currently occupied making out with his girlfriend at the Maria Fountain. The fountain was sacred ground; a place where only seniors and high-tier schoolers hung out, and where juniors were strictly prohibited under penalty of social death. Lionel knew he was in deep trouble as he backed away, laughing shakily, while his goons—those loyal friends who had been right behind him a second ago—materialized into the tall grass and vanished like smoke.

"Umm, hehehe, sorry about that. Thought you were someone else," Lionel said, his voice cracking as he retreated one agonizing step at a time.

"The guts! You pig! You think you can sweet-talk your way out of this, eh, junior?" Marcus’s eyes rolled back slightly before fixing on Lionel with a predatory glare. His voice was a low, stern rumble that promised pain.

The girl stood up too, adjusting her shirt and staring at Lionel with pure disbelief. "Barging into your seniors like that? Where are your manners?" she snapped, struggling to hook her bra through her shirt with trembling, angry fingers.

Marcus clenched his fist. He looked ready to serve Lionel a late-afternoon knuckle sandwich with a side of regret. Without a second thought, Lionel bolted, his tail figuratively between his legs.

"Get him, Marcus!" the girl screamed, her voice piercing the quiet afternoon air.

Marcus darted forward. Lionel knew that if those long hands closed around his neck, his high school career—and possibly his ability to chew solid food—would be over. Disgraced and embarrassed, Lionel couldn't believe that him of all people, the notorious Demolition man,would run for his dear life , but Marcus wasn't someone to be messed around with, not even by him. He ran as fast as he could, summoning the last ounce of strength his body could conjure, praying that the winding paths of Lakewood Memorial would swallow him whole before Bane did.

While Lionel was running for his life, the atmosphere in the school library was starkly different—hushed, heavy, and smelling of ancient paper.

Laila dragged Matthias deep into the darkest sector of the archives, far beyond the reaches of the flickering fluorescent lights, where the watchful eyes of the librarian wouldn't reach. Matthias squinted, his eyes struggling to adjust to the pitch-black void. The floorboards creaked under their weight, sounding like the groans of someone long forgotten. These paths looked as though no one had stepped through them for decades; cobwebs brushed against Matthias’s face like ghostly fingers.

"Slow down, Laila. Where are we going?" he asked, his voice a terrified whisper.

Laila finally halted. Matthias couldn't make out a single thing in the gloom, but he could perceive the scent of decaying leather, the metallic tang of old ink, and a strange, heavy oily scent that made the hair on his arms stand up. Laila let go of his hand and clicked on a torchlight she had pulled from her bag.

"Ah. We’re here. Matty?" Laila sniffed the air and exhaled deeply.

The beam of the light flashed upward, catching her face. Matthias gasped. Laila was wearing a black ceremonial veil, the lace casting intricate, skeletal shadows across her pale skin. Any lingering thoughts of a romantic library tryst fled from Matthias’s mind, replaced by a palpable, cold fear.

"We’re where exactly, Laila? And why are you wearing that?"

"Nevermind about that Matty, look up here." Laila pulled him closer, her grip firm and insistent. She flashed the torch on the wall in front of them.

A large, ornate frame hung there, housing the portrait of a man who looked dignified and scholarly. To Matthias, it looked like any other boring historical figure you’d find in a textbook. He saw nothing special about the image of the old man with the receding hairline and the stern gaze.

"See anything?" Laila asked.

Matthias shook his head, his face a mix of terror and cringe at the sheer weirdness of the situation. "What is going on, Laila? Why are we here gazing at some random stupid picture? Are you sure this is safe? We’re going to get suspended—or worse."

Laila chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "Watch."

She toggled a switch on the side of the torch, shifting the beam from a standard white light to a deep, violet UV setting. Matthias’s jaw dropped. As the ultraviolet light hit the canvas, the "boring" portrait transformed. The image of the old scholar didn't disappear, but a secondary layer of ink—invisible to the naked eye—began to glow with an ethereal, neon intensity.

"See that now?"

Matthias was too awed to answer. His hands instinctively sought out Laila’s, holding her tight as if she were the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. "My God... what... what are those?" he managed to choke out.

The UV light revealed a terrifying landscape behind the man. Ghostly figures with elongated limbs and hollow eyes seemed to be rising from the background. Geometric symbols, bleeding with hidden meaning, circled the man’s head like a crown of thorns.

"That, my friend, is the great Simon Pharrell, founder of the Templar Welfare," Laila answered, her voice dropping into a reverent tone.

"Simon the what?" Matthias asked sheepishly, his brain struggling to process the shift from "high school crush" to "occult investigator."

"Simon Pharrell, Matty," Laila repeated. "The UV light reveals the original content of this portrait. To the uninitiated, in visible light, this appears to be a portrait of Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit, the great scientist. It was a perfect cover. This technique was one of the many ways the Templars concealed sensitive texts and secret messages from the public."

Matthias pointed a trembling finger at a particularly tall, shadowy figure standing just behind Simon Pharrell in the hidden layer of the painting. "And that... that ghost-looking thing? What is that?"

"That’s Lord Ozamah," Laila answered, her eyes reflecting the purple glow of the torch. "The entity that gifted Simon Pharrell with unparalleled knowledge."

Matthias pulled back, looking at her in utter amazement. "Okay, I’ve heard enough of your folktales, Laila. What is all this? First the 'Templar Feint' , now secret hideouts and ghosts? Are you trying to get me to audition for a school play? You know I hate drama."

Laila squeezed his hand—hard. Matthias gave a little squeak of pain.

"I’m serious here, Matty. Listen to me. This has everything to do with me and you. Our families shared the same secret. Lakewood Memorial was built on the very ground where the Templar Welfare’s headquarters once stood. Most of the artifacts have been destroyed, auctioned off, or hidden in museums, but some... some remain here, in hiding. Like this portrait."

Matthias still looked skeptical. He had spent the last week dreaming about this date, imagining they’d be sharing a soda or perhaps a first kissbpr a warm cuddle. Instead, he was in a basement looking at a picture of an occultist and a demon. Laila saw the doubt in his eyes and sighed in frustration. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound volume.

"Matty, take a look at this."

She handed him the ledger. As Matthias took it, a chill ran up his spine. The weight, the texture, the smell... it was unmistakable. "Goodness... it’s exactly like my mom’s journal. Where did you get this?"

He ran his fingers over the cover, inspecting the craftsmanship. It was an exact replica of the book his mother kept locked in her vanity.

"That’s the Journal of Old Shadows, Matty," Laila replied. "Every high-ranking member of the Welfare has one. It’s a guide to the organization and the secrets Lord Ozamah laid out to Simon Pharrell."

"But my mom’s copy had a comic book cover pasted over it," Matthias countered, flipping through the pages. "It didn't have this eerie hardcover that looks like... is this tanned human flesh? And the contents weren't written in these odd symbols."

Laila snatched the ledger back and stuffed it into her bag. "That’s because your mother was smart. She concealed the real contents by applying the secret techniques. She made it look ordinary so no one would suspect her. You have to understand, Matty: the members of the Order are being hunted. We are being eliminated. We have to do anything possible to hide our identity."

"Why are you being hunted?" Matthias asked, his curiosity finally outweighing his fear. "If the Templar was a legitimate Order, it should be public. Why the secrecy?"

Laila beckoned him to sit on an old, dust-covered wooden desk. She reached under the table and flipped a hidden switch. A faint, amber light flickered on, barely illuminating the small chamber. Matthias realized they were in a restricted, dead zone of the library—a place the school administration had likely walled off years ago. Strange, veiled figures and portraits of people with unnaturally long fingers lined the walls.

Laila cleared her throat, pulling Matthias’s wandering gaze back to her.

"Okay, time for Templar 101. The truth is, the Templar isn't the occultic nuisance the public painted it to be . Simon Pharrell lived about four or five centuries ago. He was a scholar of philosophy who began studying demonology and the mystic arts after observing the unseen darkness in the world around him. In his time, witches and voodoo practitioners were rampant, and the dark arts were common. 'Witch Week' and the 'Sabbath of the Dead' was a common thing. But soon, the 'gifted' were being persecuted. They were being burned at the stake and tortured by the Church, which threw the supernatural society into chaos."

She paused, her expression growing somber. "That was when Lord Ozamah intervened. Through dreams and visions, Ozamah—a primordial being from the realm of spirits —showed Simon the secrets of mystical arts and dark sorcery. Not to cause harm, but to protect the supernatural society from extinction. That was when the resistance began."

Matthias listened, leaning in. The humor of Lionel’s chase and the awkwardness of the afternoon had vanished, replaced by the weight of a history he was apparently born into.

"Simon Pharrell began a movement against the persecution of the gifted," Laila continued. "He convinced parts of society that those with exceptional abilities weren't 'dark performers' or 'evil doers', it was a common misconception.He gained followers, and the movement grew. But Simon didn't stop at just talking. He recruited warriors, intellects, and psychics to fight the evil that camouflaged itself as justice ,and the forces that predated on the weak. That’s how the ranking system started. The Templar Welfare became an organization that protected the weak and instilled peace in San Pedro and beyond. For a century, there was balance."

Laila took a ragged breath, her eyes shimmering with a mix of pride and sorrow. Matthias was now totally engrossed, hanging on every word like a child hearing a forbidden fairy tale for the first time.

"But," Laila’s voice dropped to a whisper, "within the Templar, a different kind of darkness began to lurk. The Order began to rot from the inside out. Power attracts the corruptible, Matty. And all of this—the downfall, the hunting of our families, the reason we have to hide —was caused by one person. One man from within the Order who decided that protection wasn't enough. He wanted the world."

Matthias felt a cold draft sweep through the room, though there were no windows. "Who was he?"

Laila opened her mouth to answer, but a loud thud from the library's main floor echoed through the vents, followed by the sound of heavy boots. The mystery was deep, but the present was catching up to them.