F-Infinity Saga Canto I

By James D.R. Smith

The promised day has come, when all of humanity seeks judgment for its greatest sin: existence.

But there are those who oppose the machinations of Fate, and choose to bare their teeth at what lay beyond. Heretics, damned souls -- the Ascended, they are called, cursed to wander the Earth lifetime after lifetime, vestigial, humanoid weapons once wielded by both angels... and demons in a proxy war that tore the world apart.

Hope lies with a single young man, blissfully unaware of the hidden world and secret war that rages around him: a first-generation Ascended with the unique power to shape and redefine the very laws of the universe.

Yet Seven Kharaos vaguely does know the extent of his own destiny, haunted by prophetic dreams of pure white wings. Terrified of such portents, he chose to run from his fate.
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For Seven Kharaos, inevitably, is the man who will destroy the world.

The F-Infinity Saga is an episodic series updated every few weeks! Please check back often to find more cantos, and learn the answer to the question: Who, exactly, is Seven Kharaos?

• Language: English
• Publisher: James D.R. Smith
• Release date: Jun 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301057078

James D.R. Smith

Growing up in the northern reaches of New Hampshire, I gained a deep appreciation for nature and our own, individual, tiny roles within it.​ I started writing when I was quite young -- alternate or extended endings to games like Final Fantasy, if I remember properly, and always maintained a deep fascination for the realms of fantasy. I dreamed of journeying out into the world, carving my own way -- I majored in writing at Plymouth State University and eventually I got the opportunity to study in Japan, and my experiences there deeply affect my writing. Upon graduation, I deepened my love affair with Asia by choosing to teach English in South Korea. I've been here off and on for many years, expanding my experience with the hopes it makes me a better writer. Years later, with support and encouragement from friends and family, I finished the first three cantos of the F-Infinity Saga and decided, at last, to share my unique perspective ensconced therein with the rest of the world. Please enjoy, and look forward to my offerings in the future as well! ​

Book preview

F-Infinity Saga, Canto I

James Smith

Copyright 2013 by James Smith

Smashwords Edition

Acknowledgements

To my friends, now scattered across the world like so many fallen stars: you have always been the light in my midnight sky. Thank you for everything you've done for me, to help me achieve this -- and other -- dreams.

To my readers: I'm truly grateful that you've chosen to give this series a read, please take your time and enjoy the journey. My personal hope with this series is to inspire curiosity and wonder, and your interest is what will drive me to even greater heights. More than anything, have fun with the read and thank you!

A special thank you, too, is due to Sabina Hernandez Gracia, who has always been a true friend and an amazingly talented artist who not only designed this book's cover, but whose insights helped define and shape the mysterious world you are about to explore!

Thank you again, and please enjoy the journey ahead!

-James D.R. Smith

Prologue: The Future is Now

Death did not find Seven Kharaos as it had so many others, alone and afraid. Instead the bastard wore a triumphant grin frozen to his face by the pain and the frigid cold. It was the smirk of a man who had cheated destiny; a man who had died a hero -- and the world itself, shuddering at its very core and resounding with the mechanical thrum of Fate could neither imagine nor abide such a fairy tale outcome.

No, Death did not find Seven Kharaos as it had so many others -- all others, in fact -- for the first time since mortality reached its inevitable conclusion and found It waiting at the end, the Death had come as a harbinger of life.

Nor did the fallen find death in the way one expects or hopes. Not in the sense of wishing to die comfortably in bed, slain by the scythe-like hands of time, nor in glory -- a martyr for some ultimately insignificant cause, eroded by the immutable winds of change. Such things had never held meaning to him.

Seven Kharaos had simply not expected the red-rimmed eyes of Death to so much resemble his own.

Chapter 1:4 Days

Two weeks before the world ended, a young man with pensive blue eyes looked upon his sweeping homeland for what he decided would be the last time. Mountain peaks grasped at the sky with fall's final fury, flames licking greedily at the very doorstep of Heaven. The lazy little town he had grown up in had barely changed for all the years he had been away -- from a distance, not at all. Though he had expected as much, the young man found himself both disappointed and relieved. His had been a life of chaos, and that minute constant disturbed him nearly as much as it offered comfort.

A capricious wind ruffled dark, curly hair as the man hesitated at the foot of the tall hill that swooped down into town. He used it as an excuse to fuddle in his pockets for a comb. Distracted fingers found three dollars, a pocket knife with a broken blade, two purple Japanese charm called omamori, two blue and white Turkish nazar boncugu, evil eyes, and various other trinkets from his journeys. When he grasped the comb at last, victorious, he pulled it along with a score of his other prizes out, spilling them onto the dirt-packed ground.

With a huffed sigh at his characteristic klutziness, he retrieved them one by one. He winced sharply at the new crack running through the tiny lapis lazuli moai statue -- the second in its relatively short tenure with him. The final item he gathered was his passport; the ID page had flipped open and he chuckled at the open and innocent stare that beamed at him. When his eyes at last slipped from the photo to the rest of the information, though, his smile soured. The letters pronounced it boldly, a scathing condemnation. Seven Kharaos. In many years, he had been many people. He had been who he had to be, and who he could be, but never what he wished to be. Now, things had come full circle, no further than when he had left. Only now he had less time. Much less. The why, though, escaped him in its entirety.

The dreams still haunted him as they always had, veiled whispers that tugged at the back corners of his mind -- promises, revelations... threats. Even now, if he pressed his eyes shut tight against the empty cerulean canvas of the near-winter sky, he could see the silhouette of pristine wings, cast by the afterglow of fiery and terrible destruction. Such things had never come to pass, of course, and his logic railed against the very possibility. As such, he had chosen, at last, to come home.

Determined now, his feet once again met the road, long strides closing the distance to his destination with increasing speed. He began to run, a battle cry caught in his throat, backpack bouncing behind him. A few idle cars passed, the drivers following him with eyes that wondered who the stranger in their midst was, and what had brought him to Nowhere, USA. He met the gazes evenly and fiercely until they were gone, carried on their way by the sweeping tides of time.

On cresting the top, to the thin plateau on which perched the few scattered houses that represented the town's more antisocial residents, Seven allowed himself the slightest of breaths. Yet unable to focus properly ahead, he instead broke his promise and turned back to look down over the village once more. Green hills rolled languidly, emerald waves lapping at the outskirts of civilization. A single, crinkled road meandered drunkenly onward, a dull grey snake scaled with distant low-rising buildings and dotted with the occasional car. No future existed in that direction. None ever had.

Teeth grit, and twenty-seven years of pain weighing down on his soul, the prodigal son turned back to where home lay. At the end of the road, the head of the metaphorical snake, the dingy white house reared up to its less-than-impressive height of roughly two and a half floors. Two paned windows stared down at him, slightly illuminated from the inside like the eyes of a disgruntled dragon. One had once been his room, and the other belonged to his sister. The light meant she was home. Seven shuddered and wondered if he should make his grand return another, safer time. In his life, he had never run away. Tactical retreats were another matter altogether.

A mere minute: an infinity measured by tempered fear, his hand lingered on the brass knob, pondering his final chance to escape. He turned the miserable thing open and stepped inside.

Little had changed there as well. The door opened on a kitchen punctuated by half a dozen different scents -- the strongest of which, cinnamon, hung in the air like whispered promises of apple pies underscored by the stale scent of ancient tobacco, long spent. A half-burnt candle, also cinnamon, teetered in the corner above the stove, and the maple table stood as it had for years; a silent sentinel welcoming guests merely with its polished visage. One plate with a crust of burnt bread and the remnants of runny egg squared off against a bowl of soggy cereal and an untouched glass of orange juice. An unfamiliar bit of country pop bastardization played low on the radio; a rousing tribute to the wonders of alcohol and a third-grade education at a fourth-rate school. Though no one listened, it added a flavor to the essence of the home -- a subtle vibe that resonated within the wooden floorboards and white-plaster walls spattered with powder blue.

Just in case, Seven called out, I'm home! with all the enthusiasm of a cowardly hunter intruding on a sleeping bear's private den. Ashamed, he found his voice the second time, and yelled louder. Still no answer. His shoulders sagged, though whether with relief or disappointment, he doubted even they knew and he breathed out a long breath that stuck in his throat at a familiar, throaty voice.

Hi brother, a young woman said behind him. Electricity crept through every fiber of his being as icy fingers played haunting melodies along the keys of his spine. From where and how his sister had come would be an answer he could never quite understand. She managed to slip in and out of shadows, ghostlike, and for as long as he had known her -- often appearing where least expected -- and wanted. Like on dates. When he had been pinned down under insurgent fire in the deserts of Afghanistan, the land flat and wide for a hundred miles in every direction and the hated sun of that cursed land purging any semblance of shadow save the blasted and pitiful makeshift barrier he crouched behind he had almost expected to hear those words, Hi brother, and to turn and see her next