Chapter 23: Newcomer

  “Are you Mr Alexander Higashino?!”

  Dante Alexander Higashino stared blankly at the woman who barged into the staff room. He set down his spoonful of egg-covered rice that he was going to consume. “I am Victor Tan’s mother, Mrs Tan!” Mrs Tan introduced herself angrily. “You are his tutor, right?”

  Dante looked at the door, which was thrown wide open. The receptionists did not even attempt to stop her. A small boy was peeking into the room, but quickly ducked away when he was seen. Before Dante could open his mouth to speak, Mrs Tan produced a stack of papers and shook it vigorously. She said with a fake, pish-posh accent, “My child has been spending too much time writing these nonsensical things. You tell me, school where got test?”

  Dante glanced at the written content on the papers when Mrs Tan threw them on the table. The first word told him all he needed to know. It was a series of short stories that Victor had written about a little kitten in a big city, which deviated from the prompt of writing a story about a boy’s lost pet. “Is this what the syllabus looks like to you?” she continued, not once letting him speak. “They are meant to write a composition based on what is given, not whatever this is! I can’t believe you gave such high marks when it’s not in line with the question!”

  Once more, Dante parted his lips to attempt to defend himself, but a pair of hands rested on his shoulders – a weight that barred him from speaking. He looked up and was greeted by his boss, Charles Ong. Charles was the founder of the tuition centre, which specialised in English Language for all levels of education.

  The short and stout man spoke with poise and a voice that puberty did not touch. “Mrs Tan, how may I help you?” he asked.

  Mrs Tan restarted her rant, and Dante took the opportunity to put a lid over his half-eaten lunch. “I see,” Charles said, nodding his head. “I see, Mrs Tan.”

  Dante looked up at his boss, who picked up a red pen and wrote something on the paper. “I hope you are satisfied with this grading?” Charles asked. “Mr Higashino? Mrs Tan?”

  Charles had struck out the initial grade Dante had awarded.

  In its place was a failing grade: 13.5/40.

  “I like your honesty, Mr Ong. My son doesn’t do well in school but does well here, so I decided to check his work and saw this. Unbelievable!” Mrs Tan shook her head and reached out for the papers. Dante quickly snatched it right out of Charles’s hands before she could get them.

  Dante attempted to erase the mark, but every time he applied white-out ink over the damning grade, the red ink bled through it. Charles’s demeanour darkened. The motto that he often espoused during staff meetings spilt from his thick sausage lips. “Just fail them in their assignments and they’ll come back for more classes…”

  The correction pen ripped through the delicate paper as Dante scratched out the grade forcefully. He was about to march out of the staff room to hand the papers back to Victor, but the floor beneath him shuddered. The staff room morphed into blocks of apartment buildings. When he regained his bearings, he turned towards the apartment block Victor lived in. For some reason, he looked up and saw the boy climbing out of the window.

  “Thank you, Mr H.” Victor’s whisper reached Dante’s ears even though he was thirteen storeys above him.

  Dante broke into a run and leapt up with his arms outstretched, trying to break Victor’s fall.

  But the rope around Victor’s neck was quicker than he was.

  ***

  Dante jolted awake. Next to him, his alarm clock next to his bed was ringing incessantly. It was eleven-something at night. The glowing numbers spun when Dante looked at them. He massaged his temples, trying to get blood to circulate. When he took a second look, the clock face was covered with a black paw.

  Dante groaned into his pillow, too tired to stop the inevitable. There was a loud clatter, and the room fell silent once more. Craving a bit more sleep, he reached out for his bolster and hugged it tightly. He tried to breathe deeply through his nose to inhale its scent, but sucked in a glob of mucus instead. He let out a loud cough, which earned him an irritated meow.

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  Norovirus, on top of the mother of all flus, had thrown a wrench in his daily routine. His head grew light as he sat up. He unclenched and clenched his gloved left hand, breathing in deeply to ground himself. To distract himself, he wore a black ring on his index finger, its carved markings glowing with an iridescent red shimmer.

  Dante then touched his face. His chin was stubbled, his sideburns longer than usual. Putting one foot in front of the other, he made his way to the bathroom. Without glancing at his hands, he began to peel off the glove. The ring stirred and shifted partway into its other self: a whip.

  Regalias, or Living Weapons, were sacred instruments that had existed for thousands of years. According to legend, they were crafted by an unnamed weaponsmith. There were twelve in total: eight currently in the hands of the Chinese, and the other four in circulation. They used to belong to the Twelve Greats – the most powerful first-generation sorcerers – who passed their Regalia down to their descendants. However, as time passed, certain families could no longer continue their bloodline, and they released the Regalia to those they deemed worthy.

  However, some died before they could pass down their Regalias. The Regalias would be bound by a spell that was unbreakable until certain conditions were met. No one could ever touch them unless they recognised them as their masters.

  He was unlucky enough to get this particular Regalia, Obscure Scarlet. He called it Scarlet. It was a mouthful to say its full name every time he needed it to do things for him. Of the three forms Scarlet could take, he appreciated none of them.

  Scarlet, which had darted onto this right arm, coiled around it and squeezed it gently. Dante clicked his tongue in annoyance at its gesture. It looped the tip around his ring finger before reverting into its original form.

  Dante stared at himself in the mirror, his peripheral vision blurring until he could only see his reflection. He set his hand heavily on a marker, which he always left on the sides of the sink. The scissors and buzzers joined the picture, cutting off locks of hair. His hair – floppy in some parts, stiff in others – was flattened with steaming hot water. He stood in the shower like a statue while Scarlet coiled around his body.

  Since he was stuck with it, he might as well use it as an automated body scrubber.

  As usual, it was gentle on his back. It got into all the nooks and crannies with the loofa. It washed it thrice, as usual. Before the finishing touch, it nudged Dante and held up a small enema bottle.

  Dante’s soul drifted away for a while. All these years, it still remembered to clean him inside and out. Regalias indeed held memories with a vice-like grip.

  Dante only snapped out of his daze when Scarlet slipped on his glove. He went on to blow his hair dry while brushing his teeth simultaneously. He then squeezed a dollop of gel on his comb and parted his still-cooling hair. The metal comb grazed against his undercut as he tidied up his handiwork, stopping only when he could hardly care less about how it looked.

  Good enough. It was the standard these days.

  For his outfit, Dante opted for a black blazer, a sleeveless maroon turtleneck and a pair of black trousers from a wardrobe full of identical clothing items. He stiffly stuck his legs through the trousers, hopping on the spot to pull them up. With one hand doing the button, he took his medication with the other. With a gulp, he swallowed them dry.

  The debilitating illness that had knocked him out for a good week was finally showing signs of going away. He had not visited the crematorium and columbarium complex that week. They were at the top of his list before the schools.

  Sword… Dante pursed his lips but paused. He strode to the cat tree in the living room and crouched down to stare at one of the hollowed cubes intently. With a sigh, he retrieved a packet of treats from the small table next to the tree. He stuck a morsel into the darkness, giving it a wiggle. A pink tongue materialised, licking his fingers for a bit before eating the tidbit. It lifted its body for long enough for Dante to stick his hand under it.

  As it turned out, Hollow Sparrow was being sat on like how hens incubate their eggs. How his cat managed to get the sword from its usual place on the wall into its favourite spot eluded him. It jumped out from the cube and latched onto his jacket. Its claws hooked deep as it climbed up to perch on his shoulder. Dante hardly flinched. He was used to the pain.

  “Nova.” It was the first word he had uttered all week. He paused, hardly recognising his voice. “I cannot bring you.”

  There was this thing about Nova: it was quite adamant that 'No' was its nickname. It could never be dissuaded with a simple 'No'. Instead, it would choose to sit pretty with dilated pupils for a moment before continuing with its antics.

  Nova meowed in Dante’s ear before hopping off. It followed him to the kitchen, where he prepared its food – tuna and chicken mix. That cat was a black hole when it came to food. He had to push its head away gently multiple times so that he could finish pouring the food into its dish.

  When Nova started demolishing its food, Dante made himself some tea, or tried to. For some reason, while he was trying to scoop some sugar into his tea, his left hand started to tremble uncontrollably. White crystals were scattered across the countertop. He pressed the back of the spoon down against the granite to still his hand.

  When Dante finally lifted the spoon, he had made yet another hole in the countertop.

  The freshly brewed tea went straight down the sink along with the spilt sugar.