NOVEL NEXT 115- Guzman's Past
Volume 03, Chapter 115
Guzman
When I was born, my mother died bringing me into this world.
My father never forgave me or, more precisely, he never forgave my magic attribute: "Plague." He blamed me for everything. But I was just a newborn, too weak to understand cause or guilt. He never stopped to consider that.
We were desperately poor. My father drank himself into oblivion. When he was awake, he lashed out, shouting, striking, and cursing my existence. No friends, no school, no kindness. Only the cold, grimy walls of our hovel and the shadow of a man who hated his son.
When I turned ten, my father died alone, drowned in bitterness and rot. My uncle appeared out of nowhere and took me in.
At first, I thought I was trading one tyrant for another. My uncle's face was always cold and unreadable, his voice flat, his eyes tired. The day we left my father's shack behind, he brought me straight to the red-light district in Aurelior.
I remember clutching my threadbare coat, my stomach twisting with dread as we walked streets lined with adults in revealing costumes, neon lights painting their faces.
We passed garish clubs and busy alleys, finally arriving at a building called Crimson Desire. On the outside, it looked like any love hotel. But my uncle led me not to a guest room, but down a narrow stairway into a lavish, hidden world beneath the city.
There, men and women in dark, immaculate suits greeted us. I remember marveling at the opulence, the chandeliers, the velvet, the way everyone seemed to know my uncle. For a child who'd never known comfort, it was another universe.
And then, something I'll never forget: my uncle, that emotionless man, knelt in front of me and said, "Welcome. You can stay here as long as you want."
No warmth in his voice, but no malice, either. In that moment, I realized he wasn't cruel, just distant, shaped by a different life. But for the first time, I felt safe.
Two years passed. My life improved. The people in suits, bodyguards, I later learned, were kind to me. My uncle began to train me in the art of Plague Magic, teaching me how to use my gift rather than fear it.
Yet, a question gnawed at me: Where did all this wealth come from?
Whenever I asked the staff, they dodged the question. When I asked my uncle, he only shrugged and called it a "family business." I didn't believe him.
Curiosity eventually got the better of me. I noticed that every Wednesday at 10 p.m., my uncle and several associates gathered in a room I was forbidden to enter. One night, I crept down the hall, heart pounding, and eased the door open to listen.
What I heard made my blood run cold.
"…The infrastructure in Eñeforte was successfully destroyed. Casualties are confirmed."
I nearly retched on the spot.
That was when I was caught, one of the men dragged me into the room, exposing me before them all.
My uncle sighed, then told me the truth: this building was the headquarters of La Peste Noire, a mafia group that had existed for over a century. Their primary client, a man named Belard, paid them handsomely to sabotage Eñeforte, destroying its roads, bridges, and, sometimes, its people.
The savings, the luxury, all of it built on generations of clandestine violence.
Then my uncle looked at me, his gaze as unreadable as ever. "I know this is a lot to take in," he said. "But if anything happens to me, would you want to inherit the organization?"
I was only twelve. I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
For the first time, my uncle smiled and ruffled my hair.
It was the first genuine affection I'd ever seen from him. In that moment, I decided I would inherit La Peste Noire, not just out of duty, but to repay his strange, silent kindness. I wanted to see him smile again. I wanted to matter to someone.
And so, I embraced the family business, shadows and all.
I studied hard and trained even harder, and by the time I turned fourteen, my uncle decided I was ready for my first mission. He paired me with two senior members, men who had been with La Peste Noire since before I arrived. Their faces were always calm, unreadable, the same way my uncle's was.
Our objective was simple: poison a small research facility specializing in lavender. It was, once again, in the Eñeforte territory, a request from Belard, who seemed to have an endless supply of Camillums to throw at our organization.
How rich is this Belard to fund so much destruction? I wondered, but shook the thought away. This was my initiation. I had to focus.
I arrived a day early, moving quietly through the facility after dark. I placed Poison Aether Cores in every critical room, offices, storerooms, and the laboratory itself, setting each one to detonate on my signal.
Night fell. My seniors gave me the thumbs up from the shadows. I drew in Mana, whispered the activation phrase, and a purple, poisonous gas erupted through the building, flooding it in moments.
We watched from outside. My seniors clapped me on the shoulder, congratulating me with brief nods and hard smiles.
Then, something unexpected.
A figure staggered out of the smoke, collapsed to his knees just beyond the entrance, clutching at his throat as he struggled for breath.
I stared at him, frozen. He's just a researcher… I didn't mean to kill anyone. The mission was to poison the facility, not the people inside.
For reasons I couldn't explain, I felt a pang of something unfamiliar, guilt, maybe, or just pity. I wanted to help him. To save him, even after what I'd done.
But my seniors drew closer, their voices low and persuasive.
"Finish it," one of them urged. "You did well, but this is part of the job. Don't leave witnesses. It'll make your uncle proud."
The words cut through me. Make my uncle proud. That was all I'd ever wanted. That smile he'd shown me, once, just once, I wanted to see it again.
My hands trembled as I approached the struggling man. He looked up at me, eyes wide with confusion and terror. I reached out, channeling a slow, poisonous spell. The gas thickened around him as I stood there, heart pounding.
He choked, his movements growing weaker with every second.
I watched it all. I made myself watch because my seniors were watching me.
By the time it was over, my stomach churned with nausea. My hands felt cold and hollow.
At that moment, I was still naïve. I didn't fully understand death or what it meant to take a life. Growing up locked away, starved for affection, I had never learned the difference between approval and love. I thought, if I just did what they asked, if I just made my uncle happy, then everything I'd suffered would finally be worth it.
But that night, the lines blurred.
That night, I took my first step into the shadows, not out of cruelty or ambition, but out of a desperate, childish hope for belonging.
After that first mission, my uncle looked at me with pride, a rare, genuine smile lighting up his usually impassive face. I clung to that approval. It became my fuel, the thing I chased in every shadow, with every risk.
So, I took on more missions. Every job completed earned me a nod, a clap on the back, sometimes even a fleeting grin. But the more I accomplished, the emptier I felt inside. Each success was paid for in blood, guilt, and the slow erosion of whatever innocence I had left. Killing. Sabotage. The secret, silent horrors that built our wealth.
When I turned nineteen, everything changed.
My uncle, the man who had shaped my life, fell critically ill.
The diagnosis was sudden; one day, he was directing operations, the next, he was bedridden, feverish, and pale. The entire mafia felt the shift, like a foundation stone had cracked beneath us.
I was devastated. The only family I'd ever known was slipping away, and for the first time since childhood, I felt truly alone.
I remember sitting at his bedside, the room heavy with the scent of medicine and old regrets. He reached out, his hand thin and cold, and took mine. His expression was softer than I'd ever seen it.
"Guzman…" he whispered, his voice rough with pain. "The biggest regret I have is involving you in La Peste Noire. I wanted you to have a normal life… that's why I always forbade you from entering that room, from learning the truth too soon."
For a moment, I was stunned, unable to process his words.
Why say this now? Why, after everything I've done, after everything I've become for him, would he tell me this was all a mistake? I'd worked so hard, sacrificed so much, just to make him proud. To see that rare smile, to feel that I was needed, wanted, not just cursed.
Wasn't this what he wanted? Wasn't I supposed to inherit his legacy? If not this, then what was all that pain for?
A torrent of emotions rose: anger, confusion, a deep ache for the life I'd never been allowed to live. My chest tightened as I realized the only man I'd ever called family wished, after all, that I'd never followed in his footsteps.
But it's too late, Uncle. I'm already one of them. I can't go back.
I squeezed his hand, fighting the burn of tears in my eyes. If he regretted making me his heir, I couldn't show it. If I fell apart, I'd lose the only purpose I had left.
Even if it was never what he wanted, I had made my choice,
I would inherit La Peste Noire. I would carry on his legacy, for his sake and mine. If nothing else, I could keep his memory alive. If I could just do that… maybe I could still find meaning in the path he opened for me.
So, I steeled myself and carried forward. Even as the hollow feeling inside me grew, I kept walking deeper into the darkness, because I had nothing left but the legacy he left behind.