Chapter 1
Wizards existed on the periphery of society, concealed within its metaphorical footnotes. Some of them melted the ice during winter, while others deliberately killed humans, certain that nothing in the world could stop the spells that burst from their wands. Thus, luminous jets lit up the darkness when the world was covered by nothing more than filthy villages and outdated technologies.
Crimes involving magic were interpreted as punishment from the gods, and the perennial rivers that appeared in the middle of the Egyptian desert were understood by humans as a grace granted by mythological powers above the clouds.
But things began to change when Prometheus stole the bristlecone pine seed from Demeter’s garden and delivered it to humanity—an act of benevolence no god had ever performed before. They were far too busy seeking mortals for a night of pleasure. There was no room in their routines to worry about real problems, the kind that repeated endlessly across infinite dimensions.
Saving humans from the chains of magic seemed like the last act of kindness a god could perform, but Prometheus had enough humility to act in the name of good.
The plant, with its twisted stem and hideous appearance, grew slowly and tediously near the house of a bitter widower, who had no idea that it was possible to make a difference in the world even on the brink of death.
Mr. Bowery, a scrawny and lazy man, lived not far from a village, in a place bathed by the memories of his late wife. One morning, he felt a gust of cold air touch his skin, signaling that a wicked winter night was approaching.
Fearing the biting cold, Mr. Bowery walked for thirteen minutes in search of a specific type of wood he had recently used to make new clogs—Prometheus wood. A voice in the back of that tormented man’s mind told him that this peculiar wood would burn longer than the others, being the right weapon against the encroaching cold.
“I will have fire all night,” he thought.
Returning home, the old man was surprised by a beam of blue light that cut through the darkness of the night like a free-falling lightning bolt.
Before Mr. Bowery stood a gray-haired man holding a twig between his fingers.
“Spawn of Hades!” Mr. Bowery exclaimed, throwing Prometheus’s wood to the ground.
The vicious spell dissipated on the wind, unable to freeze its target. Thousands of particles sparkled in the night, forming zodiac constellations before the widower’s eyes.
Mr. Bowery did not hesitate and ran toward his enemy, armed only with divine wrath and a slightly too round stone.
“This can’t be! How is this possible?” the wizard asked himself, trying to find any plausible explanation for this profane situation.
Thirteen beams of light were shot at the enraged Mr. Bowery, but all were carried away by the wind, unable to freeze or burn this human to death.
It wasn’t long before the widower found himself sitting on the wizard’s chest, raising the stone high above his head.
“Please, don’t do this!”
“You have evil inside you, spawn of Hades,” Mr. Bowery said, without a trace of remorse in his voice.
The wizard’s skull resisted the first blows with perseverance, but it didn’t take long for his face to become nothing more than a pulp of blood.
Red drops tried to run down the widower’s wooden clogs as the wizard’s brain used the little energy left to form one last question.
“How did a mere human defeat me?”
Mr. Bowery stood up to examine with greater precision all the red between his fingers and couldn’t help but notice the wizard’s blood levitating above the surface of the wooden clogs. It was as if Prometheus’s gift was incapable of savoring the cinnamon-and-iron taste of that man’s magical blood.
Behind the widower was nothing but a stretch of rural road and the pile of wood left on the ground, like an abandoned treasure.
“The bristlecone pine was sent by Zeus!” Mr. Bowery stated, a glint sparkling in his eyes.
The lifeless body before the widower drew his attention once again.
“The Children of Hades are real… creatures of the underworld are walking among us,” he said, somewhat shocked to realize that he had placed his faith in something that truly existed.
The widower’s voice echoed through the trees, and soon rumors traveled through the village via folk songs and damp sheets.
The euphoria necessary for the formation of a cult took shape without Mr. Bowery’s knowledge. But it wasn’t long before a flaming light cut through the night, removing the widower from a dream filled with a lavender haze. His wife’s face was all Mr. Bowery could see as his eyelids were forced open to the lonely reality of that place.
He looked through the window with drowsy eyes and saw nothing but torches on the horizon.
Whispers of delirium struck Mr. Bowery’s ears, warning him that those lost souls needed a bit of guidance.
The scrawny man stepped hard on the stairs and ran to the front porch.
The night wind carried a lavender scent that was a bit too sweet for such a bitter situation.
Leaving footprints in the sand, Mr. Bowery followed the inviting glow on the horizon, ignoring the delicate purple flowers growing around his house, all planted by Mrs. Bowery.
As he approached the bristlecone pine, he could see a crowd of peasants gathered around the horrifying tree.
Some held torches, while others fought to climb an unreliable ladder.
Desperate faces wanted a piece of the divine wood to defend themselves against the Children of Hades, who were now feared by all more than ever.
Mr. Bowery noticed the machete he had used days ago to break the branches of that tree.
Abandoned on the ground along with common sense.
The blade glowed a yellowish shine that begged to be painted red.
He walked stiffly, still undecided about what he was going to do.
Cold sweat formed on Mr. Bowery’s forehead as he grabbed the sharp object, because the crime he was about to commit made no sense against humans.
A man with bluish shiny hair punched and kicked another man away, climbing the rustic ladder. Lightning reflected greed in his eyes as the iron pierced his heart.
The noisy crowd fell into dead silence, as if the vacuum of space had swallowed everyone present.
Mr. Bowery, with persuasive eyes, stared at the lost souls and said:
“My brothers and sisters. I see you all already know about the existence of the Children of Hades. I suppose trees really do have eyes and ears,” he said, imagining someone might find it funny, but no one had enough energy even for a fake smile.
“This power was granted to us by the one who lives on Mount Olympus. It is our duty to preserve this gift and to work on behalf of the one who was benevolent enough to care for creatures as simple as we are.”
The body impaled on the machete fell to the ground like an autumn apple, subtle and static, at the exact moment a thunderclap shook the sky.
“So it’s true? A child of Hades attacked you?” a bald man asked.
“They are walking among us?” a woman asked, holding a baby in her arms.
Those questions showed that humans seemed to be the only creatures capable of following an idea without full certainty of its truth.
“Yes, my siblings. Hades sent one of his minions to end me, because he knows I am a disciple of the one he fears.”
Whispers traveled through the crowd again. The name of Zeus bounced from ear to ear.
“I speak the truth, so listen when I say… You must follow my orders and help ensure that this power, sprouted in my land, fulfills its purpose.”
“And what would that purpose be?” a red-haired woman asked.
“Is it not obvious, my dear? We need to eliminate those corrupted by evil. They are similar to our image, but they belong to the underworld, where they can be eaten and vomited by Cerberus. No evil power can flourish in the land of Zeus, and this tree is the salvation we were waiting for.”
“We will be able to protect ourselves,” a woman said, praising the clouds for this gift.
“It’s not about protection, my brothers and sisters. It’s about annihilation,” Mr. Bowery said, looking at the tree.
“Annihilation?”
“We need to sterilize the surface of the Earth,” Mr. Bowery said.
A fuss formed around the ancient tree. Screams and applause declared Mr. Bowery as someone worthy of being followed.
A true leader.
“From this day forward we will call ourselves The Order of the Bristlecone and let no Child of Hades stand in our way.”
The fire of the torches reflected off the blood sliding over Mr. Bowery’s feet—distorting his face just enough to transform the widower into a monster—or a true wizard hunter.
“Kneel before the lightning and accept the path of virtue and salvation being offered to all of you.”
The peasants did as they were told, admitting to the eyes above the clouds that they were nothing but purposeless ghosts, obsessed with filling existential emptiness.
“Blood will be spilled,” Mr. Bowery whispered.
The crowd thundered in unison, “Blood will be spilled!”
“Because the Children of Zeus cannot be destroyed.”
“BECAUSE THE CHILDREN OF ZEUS CANNOT BE DESTROYED.”
Not even Prometheus could predict the sick reign about to flourish on that foggy soil. It was both exciting and terrifying, capturing the attention of some gods on Mount Olympus.
“Finally, things are going to get interesting down there,” Ares said, hating himself for not having thought of it sooner.
In a lapse of madness, the small village quickly became a military city. Years passed, and houses were replaced by buildings, wagons by cars, and dogs by robots.
The new world grew in arrogance and authoritarianism. The Order of the Bristlecone spread across the land like fungus on grass, forcing wizards to take refuge in distant mountains.
Abandoned castles became a haven—even for children who hadn’t asked to be born with magic in their veins.
Decades passed, leaving a contemporary world without Mr. Bowery’s body, but somehow it was possible to feel his presence in the smoke of wizards’ bodies burning on the outskirts of cities. Concentration camps sprouted across the country as a constant warning that humans should be feared.
Screams echoed above the clouds as another handful of bodies was incinerated on the horizon.
“Hold on a bit longer, Florence. We’re almost at the castle,” Edward said, as his wife cried in pain.
The desperate couple was cutting through the night sky on a straw broom, hiding in gray clouds to avoid being seen by patrolling ships.
Faded Planet of the Apes posters were stuck to the streets below, signaling that human civilization had left behind the hippie years and adopted nightclubs as true homes.
The 70s had the same characteristics seen in other dimensions, but in that particular world, advanced technology moved through the streets, like ladder-height robots and ships made of bristlecone pine.
A type of technology available only to those who monopolized power—The Order of the Bristlecone.
“I feel weak. Something’s wrong,” Florence said, looking at the blood on her legs.
Disco music had begun to hit the streets when tears of pain formed in Florence’s eyes, warning that a child destined to carry nothing more and nothing less than retaliation was about to arrive in the world.
