Beginning
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are purely imaginary or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. Reader discretion is advised.
Ezren Vale was a man carved from pride and arrogance, his ego as hard and cold as the small stone chamber he called home. His demeanor was harsh and disrespectful toward nearly everyone—except his elder sister, the only soul who dared care for him. To her, his bitter words were nothing but whispers lost to the wind.
One fateful day, as Ezren strode through the bustling streets with a scowl etched deep across his face, a vegetable vendor—clumsy and distracted—accidentally flung a handful of rotten produce in his path. Without hesitation, Ezren’s sharp tongue lashed out.
“Have you no shame, you brat?” he sneered, the words lik
e daggers thrown carelessly. The crowd that witnessed the scene murmured their disgust, some even sneering in agreement.
Suddenly, a burly man stepped forward, voice stern yet calm. “Enough of your insults. Help the man instead of tearing him down.”
Ezren’s fury ignited. His muscular frame tensed, and without warning, he lunged at the man, fists flying with brutal force. The clash was swift and merciless, Ezren overpowering his opponent until the man crumpled, wounded.
In a flash, Ezren drew a gleaming knife from his belt, intending to punish the man for daring to defy him. But before he could strike, a heavyset figure—a fat man—burst through the crowd, accompanied by a band of rough boys. They swarmed Ezren, beating him down relentlessly, their blows fueled by the resentment sparked by his constant cruelty and disdain.
The streets echoed with the chaos, as the proud Ezren Vale was humbled by the very people he had scorned.
Bruised, bloodied, and burning with rage, Ezren staggered back to his stone-walled dwelling. Each step echoed with curses spat under his breath, venom aimed at the “moronic filth” who dared lay hands on him.
“They’ll rot,” he muttered, slamming the door shut behind him. His body ached, but his pride ached more. He paced the cramped room like a caged beast, fists clenched, eyes wild with disgust.
“To strike me... me!” he growled, as if the walls would understand. The humiliation gnawed at him worse than any wound. He hadn’t lost a fight—he’d been dragged down by insects.
He spat on the floor. “One day, they’ll kneel.”
But outside, no one cared. The town moved on. And Ezren Vale sat alone, in silence.
A sudden knock jolted Ezren from his spiral.
“Who is it, sit?” he barked, his voice rough.
“Ezren… breakfast,” came his sister’s soft voice through the wooden door.
“Huh. Put it on the table and move back,” he snapped, refusing to let her see the bruises darkening his arms, or the shame that crept quietly behind his anger.
The door creaked open. She stepped in with the tray, placed it gently on the table, but her eyes lingered on him—studying.
Ezren looked away.
“What now? Go away,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze.
She didn’t move. “Some men came by. Complained about the fight. Said they gave you a ‘lesson.’” Her tone was neutral, but something in it stung. “They also said… they apologized.”
Ezren’s head snapped toward her, eyes flaring. “They apologized, my ass. I’ll kill half of them.”
His sister didn’t reply. She simply turned, walked out without a word—quiet footsteps, quiet judgment.
And for a moment, Ezren sat there, fists clenched, food untouched… and a silence louder than any bruise.
The next morning, Ezren tucked a knife into his belt, rage still simmering from the day before. With heavy steps and darker thoughts, he made his way to the streets—eyes sharp, mouth bitter.
An old man shuffled slowly ahead of him.
“Take a side, you old fool,” Ezren growled.
But before the insult could even echo, something… shifted. A force, cold and invisible, wrapped around him like iron chains. His body locked. His legs moved—not by his will—but by something deeper, darker.
“What the hell—” he tried to speak, but no words came. He walked behind the old man, helpless, like a puppet dragged by invisible strings. Panic surged, but he could only think—his body was not his own.
I’m not Ezren… I’m just watching from inside. Only his thoughts remained free.
The old man, calm and unbothered, entered a small stone house tucked between weathered buildings. Ezren followed, still mute, and sat down on one of the two dusty sofas, as if guided by command.
The room smelled of wood and forgotten pages—old books stacked neatly on shelves, a worn table between them. A kettle hissed faintly in the background.
The old man took his place across from Ezren, lifting a teacup with wrinkled hands. He studied him over the rim, then finally spoke:
“Speak. Within limits.”
Ezren’s throat unlocked—barely. He growled, every word trembling with rage.
“What… who are you?”
The old man sipped his tea slowly, then set the cup down.
“You may call me a mirror… or a curse. But today, I am your beginning.”
The old man set his cup down with eerie calm, eyes fixed on Ezren’s struggling form.
“Everyone seeks power,” he said quietly. “But a human... a human can’t even bear the pinch of a nerve. That, Ezren, is your limit.”
Ezren’s jaw clenched. He forced words past the invisible grip still weighing down his body. “Are you a... a prophet? Who are you? You’re—”
“I am human,” the man interrupted, voice soft but sharp as steel. “I will die someday. I feel pain. I have emotions. But unlike you... I’ve made a commitment—with reality itself.”
Ezren’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of commitment? No human can control me like this. This isn’t normal. This isn’t even possible!”
The old man leaned forward, his gaze like a blade.
“What I’m capable of isn’t easy. It was earned. Through silence. Through suffering. Through surrender.” He paused, then added coldly, “I can control you. I can become you. I can even... consume you.”
Before Ezren could blink, the old man’s features shimmered—his hair darkened, his jaw sharpened. For a fleeting moment... Ezren was looking at himself.
Same face. Same fury. Same eyes.
Then, just as suddenly, the old man returned to his original form—aged, calm, and sipping tea once more.
Ezren froze, breath caught in his throat, a look of horror carving itself into his face.
This wasn’t just sorcery. It was something older. Something far more terrifying.
Aban let out a soft chuckle, the kind that sent chills crawling up Ezren’s spine. “It would be so good,” he said, voice like a whisper in stone, “to control one’s enemy—to leave him frozen, voiceless, unable to even twitch a finger without my command. To punish him without resistance. You really are invincible, Aban.” He smiled at himself, almost mockingly.
Ezren blinked. “Aban… that’s your name?”
“Yes.”
“Please, Aban,” Ezren whispered, his voice suddenly smaller. “Tell me how to be strong. Powerful. Like you. But first… free me. My body—it hurts.”
Aban nodded slowly. “I would. But the knife in your pocket suggests… you’re not ready to be trusted.”
Ezren’s eyes widened. A strange sensation surged through him—freedom. His limbs unlocked, breath returned fully, and he stood up at once, slightly trembling. “How… how did you know about the knife?”
Aban raised a brow. “Your thoughts, Ezren. You were imagining using it on the fat man from the street. That was enough.”
Ezren stared in disbelief. “You can read my mind?”
Silently, he stepped toward Aban and dropped to his knees, placing his hands gently on the old man’s. “Please… I’ll do anything. If I had your powers, I’d be... untouchable.”
Aban’s expression remained unreadable, only his tea steaming gently between them.
“I didn’t bring you here to gift you power,” he said. “I brought you here to keep you from spilling more blood in the street.”
Ezren’s voice cracked. “I’ll struggle through anything—train, bleed, starve. Just tell me.”
Aban looked at him, eyes heavy with ancient tiredness. Ezren’s mind raced: To control others… to rule… to be feared. I could become a king.
Aban heard it all, of course. He sighed quietly in his mind.
Young lads... always drunk on ego and the illusion of control. So eager to become kings. So unaware of what it costs.
“Alright,” Aban said, his tone suddenly firmer. “Stand.”
Ezren obeyed without question, a strange flicker of respect settling in his chest. He lowered himself onto the stone floor, legs crossed, eyes focused like never before.
Aban stared into the dim air between them. “I, foolish Aban,” he began slowly, “once made a commitment... with God.”
Ezren leaned in slightly, his attention caught. Aban’s voice was heavy—not dramatic, just worn.
“A commitment I’d only read about in books. So many before us made it. So many... failed. It lasts seven years.”
Ezren blinked. “Seven years? Will you punish me? Hurt me? Will I suffer some... pain in my heart?”
Aban shook his head. “Reality doesn’t ask for one kind of suffering. It doesn’t strike in ways you expect. The real pain—you’ll see it yourself.”
He paused.
“Soon, the year will end. If you truly mean it, then all you must do is intend—from the depths of your heart—that you are making a commitment with God. For seven years... you must treat everyone with gentleness.”
Ezren scoffed slightly, the word catching on his tongue. “Gently? A person like me… I don’t even know how.”
Aban looked at him with a faint, almost sad smile. “That’s why I said... you can’t.”
Ezren’s jaw clenched. “No. No, we just have to mean it. The deal has to be real—pure intention, right?”
Aban nodded slowly. “That’s my boy. But know this: if you break it—even once in seven years—your commitment will shatter. No second chances.”
Ezren took a deep breath, shoulders stiff, heart pounding.
“Thank you, Aban... but how will I know it’s begun?”
“You’ll feel it,” Aban said. “Something inside you will settle. In those years, you must pray. Give charity. Make ablution. Live in peace. You will change.”
He stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “You’ve understood... now go.”
Ezren didn’t move at first. Instead, he crawled forward again, resting his face on Aban’s hands, gripping the old man’s knees like a lost child.
“Aban,” he whispered, voice cracking, “please... let me return. I want to come back to you. The peace I’ve felt today—I’ve never known it before. I’ve always been at war… with myself.”
Aban closed his eyes. And for the first time, he gently placed a hand on Ezren’s head.
“Then may this be the start of your silence.”
Ezren looked up one last time. “Aban… if I fail even once, can I not make the commitment again? Start another seven years?”
Aban nodded gently. “You can make it as many times as your heart allows.”
Then his voice turned sharp, like a father’s stern love. “Now go. Perform ablution. Pray. And if you see anyone—ignore them. Silence is your first battle.”
Ezren stood, hands trembling not from fear, but something… new. “Thank you. I’ll come again, Ya Sayyidi.”
Aban raised a hand. “Stop that. I was once a sinner too. My own commitment ended. I’ve fallen again… I am no saint. Don’t place me where I don’t belong.”
Ezren smiled faintly. “The one who rejects respect… deserves it the most.”
With that, he stepped out of the little house, the stone floor cold beneath his feet, but his chest oddly warm.
Inside, Aban sat frozen. He blinked. And a single tear slid down his cheek.
This boy… maybe he wasn’t such a foolish choice. May God protect you, old lad… I’ll be watching.
Ezren returned home quietly, without rage, without curses. He washed his face and arms in silence, letting the cold water bite him awake. Then, barefoot and calm, he walked to the divine place of worship, bowed his head… and prayed. Not for power. Not for revenge. Just… peace.
That night, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall that once heard only angry muttering, Ezren whispered:
“I can. I will try.”
And for the first time in years… he meant it.
But Ezren… he wasn’t fully changed. Sitting alone after prayer, his fist tightened.
“Once I get power… I’ll punish each one of them. I swear.”
Just then—knock knock.
“Who is it?” Ezren snapped.
A soft voice replied, “It’s Kinda. Dinner.”
He rolled his eyes. “Come in. Put it on the table.”
Kinda stepped inside, holding the tray. She paused. Stared at him longer than needed.
“How are you feeling now?”
“None of your concern.”
A small silence. Then her voice cooled. “Is it so? Alright then, I’ll be going.”
She turned, but Ezren suddenly said, “Kinda.”
She stopped. “Hm? What is it?”
“…Nothing.”
She didn’t press him. “Feel free to ask… when you’re ready.” And she walked out.
Days passed. The new year began. Ezren prayed at dawn, clenched his heart, and swore: Today… I won’t hurt anyone. No matter what.
He walked into the streets—buzzing, chaotic, full of faces.
Then a voice piped up. “Hey, old man!”
Ezren twitched. Old man?! But he breathed deep, and turned. “Yeah? What is it, little boy?”
The kid pointed to a fragile lady nearby. “My grandma… she’s carrying something heavy. Her shoulder’s weak. Can you help her?”
Ezren hesitated. Jaw clenched.
Great. Everyone’ll think that fat man taught me a lesson and now I’m playing saint.
“…Okay, little boy.”
He walked to the woman. “Ma’am… let me help.”
She looked at him. Not with kindness. With disgust. Like she’d smelled something rotten.
He felt it. All of it.
He lifted the bundle anyway and walked silently beside her.
Around them, whispers slithered.
“Hah… guess he got humbled.” “Now he’s pretending to be a good guy.” “Shameless brat…”
Ezren’s knuckles whitened on the bag’s strap.
But he said nothing.
They reached her destination.
The old woman turned, softened. “Thank you, young lad. May God bless you.”
Ezren blinked. First time… anyone in the streets had ever said that to him.
Ezren was walking back, streets still echoing with whispers, when a rough voice called out—
“Well well… check out our saint boy.”
He stopped. Turned.
Three men stepped out from an alley. Grinning. Filthy looks.
One of them slapped his shoulder. “So... you turned holy now? Doing charity n’ stuff?”
Another grabbed his arm. Tight. “You ain’t passin’ without a lil’ talk.”
Ezren’s voice stayed low. “Let me go. I don’t want to pick any fight.”
The third one laughed, pushing him against a wall. “But we do. What’s wrong? You afraid?”
Ezren looked down. His fists trembled… A war rising in him.
He whispered, “No. I’m not afraid. I’m trying not to become what I once was.”
They laughed harder.
One spit near his shoe. “That ain’t gonna work here, preacher boy.”
Ezren growled, voice shaking— “I said let me go!”
But one of the thugs just laughed, drawing a dull-edged knife. “You think a few weeks of playing nice erases the past? We’re here to punish you for those years.”
People gathered. Whispers. Eyes. But no one helped.
A spit hit his cheek.
The blade scratched down his face, drawing a line of blood.
Ezren gasped—but didn’t move.
Just then, that old fat man appeared again. His voice calm but firm, “Hey! Why disturb someone who’s not even fighting back?”
Ezren looked at him—fury boiling. That man again... acting like some noble hero. His heart raged. “I don’t care about your fake kindness.”
The old man’s people stepped in and shoved the gang away.
But Ezren… was shattered.
He stormed home. Slammed the door. Screamed— “How did they dare! How did they...!!”
Pacing like a madman, eyes burning.
“They spat on me... scarred me... and I did NOTHING! WHY?!”
The room shook with his rage.
His mind echoed: “Once I get power... not just them— I will rule this city. I will bring them ALL to their knees.”
The next morning, Ezren slipped a knife into his cloak— not thinking why, just... rage. Hot. Burning. Endless.
“I’m ashamed, God... why this long test?” He muttered as he wandered the streets.
He sat alone on a stone bench, lost in his storm, when— his eyes locked on them. The three men.
Laughter erupted from them the moment they spotted him. Pointing. Mocking.
“Look who’s back—Saint Ezren!”
His fists clenched. Heart pounded. The knife’s weight grew heavier. I could end them now…
But no. He turned. Marched home. Each step—fire. Each breath—blades.
He slammed the door so hard the walls trembled.
Kinda, from the hallway, just smiled to herself.
“I did good...” she whispered. “You’re cool, Aban.”
