Only I Can Weild A Forgotten Shadow Magic

By the time I got back to my apartment, my legs felt like they were made of lead. Every muscle ached, and my hoodie was drenched in sweat.

I locked the door behind me, double-checked it, and then dragged a chair up against the knob for good measure. If another enforcer decided to drop by, I wanted at least a five-second warning before they turned me into a pile of ashes.

Flopping onto the mattress, I pulled out the crumpled piece of paper I'd found at the warehouse. The coordinates were scrawled across it, along with dates. Some of them were a week old; others were upcoming, like a hit list waiting to be completed.

I tapped the paper with my thumb.

"System, this feels important. Can you, like, cross-reference these locations or something?"

[Host's request requires external tools. A basic mapping device will suffice.]

"Mapping device? You mean, like, my phone?"

[Correct.]

Of course. I pulled up a maps app, grumbling under my breath, and started plugging in the coordinates. One by one, they appeared on the map, forming a jagged line that stretched across the city.

I zoomed out, trying to make sense of it. The locations weren't random. They all clustered around certain areas—abandoned buildings, industrial zones, places no one would look twice at.

"What's the pattern?"

[Energy signatures suggest these sites are attuned to high concentrations of latent magic. They may serve as casting zones for large-scale spells or rituals.]

"So, enforcers are setting up shop in these places?"

[Unlikely. These sites are reactive, not origin points. The enforcers are likely responding to activity triggered by unstable or rogue magic users.]

I paused, the pieces clicking into place.

"They're hunting people like me."

[Correct. These coordinates suggest a deliberate effort to isolate and neutralize unregistered Gifted individuals.]

Neutralize. Such a polite way to say "eliminate."

I leaned back, staring at the map on my phone. If the enforcers were using these sites to track down rogue magic users, then maybe… just maybe… I could use the sites to track them.

Or bait them.

The thought made my stomach twist. I wasn't exactly eager to throw myself into another fight, but sitting around and waiting to get ambushed wasn't much better.

"Okay," I said, sitting up. "What's my next move?"

[Host must consolidate power. Continue training to improve shadow manipulation. Additionally, establishing allies would increase survival probability.]

"Allies? What, you think I can just post an ad on Craigslist? 'Looking for magical misfits to join me in fighting death squads'?"

[Allies may include rogue Gifted individuals or mundane operatives with relevant skills.]

I stared at the System's words, letting them sink in. It wasn't the worst idea. If the enforcers were targeting rogue Gifted, then there had to be others like me out there—people on the run, people desperate enough to fight back.

But where the hell was I supposed to find them?

---

The first stop on my incredibly reckless plan was a place called The Hollow—a dive bar tucked away in the rougher part of the city. I'd only been there once before, back when my old roommate dragged me out to "experience some culture," which apparently meant watching drunk people argue about conspiracy theories.

But The Hollow had one thing going for it: it was neutral ground. A place where mundanes and Gifted could rub shoulders without anyone pulling knives or fireballs.

When I walked in, the smell of stale beer and sweat hit me like a brick. The place was dimly lit, with mismatched furniture and a jukebox that looked older than me. A handful of patrons sat scattered around the room, most of them keeping to themselves.

I headed for the bar, where a bored-looking bartender with a nose ring was wiping down a glass.

"What'll it be?" she asked, not even looking up.

"Uh… just water, thanks."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. As she filled a glass from the tap, I glanced around, trying to get a read on the room. Most of the people here looked mundane—tired construction workers, a guy in a delivery uniform, a woman hunched over a laptop. But in the far corner, a guy with a shock of white hair was nursing a drink and occasionally flicking sparks between his fingers.

Gifted.

Bingo.

The bartender set the glass of water in front of me, and I slid a couple of crumpled bills across the counter.

"Hey," I said, keeping my voice low. "You ever hear about rogue Gifted disappearing? Like, getting hunted?"

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, sharp and calculating. For a moment, I thought she was going to tell me to get lost. But then she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"You asking for yourself or someone else?"

"Let's just say I've got a personal interest."

She studied me for a long moment, then nodded toward the guy with the white hair. "Talk to Sparky over there. He's got a big mouth and no sense of self-preservation. If anyone's got a lead, it's him."

"Thanks."

I grabbed my water and made my way across the room, my heart pounding. The guy—Sparky, apparently—looked up as I approached, his pale blue eyes narrowing.

"You lost, kid?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Nope," I said, sliding into the seat across from him. "I hear you know things. Specifically, things about people who've been disappearing."

He snorted. "And who told you that?"

"The bartender."

Sparky glanced toward the bar, then back at me.

"Figures. She's got a real talent for throwing people under the bus."

"So, do you know anything or not?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"Yeah, I've heard some things. People going missing, enforcers sniffing around places they shouldn't. A couple of my buddies got caught up in it—one minute they're laying low, next minute they're gone."

"Gone where?"

"Hell if I know. Dead, probably. Or worse."

"Worse?"

Sparky shrugged. "The Council's got all kinds of nasty tricks up their sleeve. They don't just kill people—they make examples. Send a message, you know?"

I swallowed hard, the shadows inside me stirring uneasily. "So, what do we do about it?"

"We?" Sparky raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm interested in sticking my neck out for a stranger?"

"Because," I said, leaning forward, "if we don't fight back, they're just going to keep picking us off. One by one. You want to end up on their hit list?"

He didn't answer right away. His fingers flicked another spark across the table, his expression unreadable.

"Alright, kid. You've got my attention. But if we're gonna do this, we're gonna need more than just you and me."

"I know. We'll find others."

For the first time, Sparky grinned.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that. Stupid guts, but guts all the same."