“In the event of a global crisis, the poets will take advantage of the widespread chaos.”

A young man and woman were dragged out into the busy streets of Manhattan, surrounded by military soldiers. ‘Poet’ was written on the forehead of the man with black marker and ‘Poet Sympathizer’ on the woman's.

“With the sudden influx of alien invaders, that global crisis has come true.”

Everybody in the area stopped in their tracks from the cries for mercy coming from the two people. One of the soldiers pulled out their pistol and pointed it at the back of the woman’s head. Another solider, the tallest of the five of them, wearing a plain white mask, without openings for the nose, mouth or eyes, slammed his open hand onto the soldier’s chest and shook his head. The mask had nothing but a single eye painted at the center of the forehead. The soldier put away his pistol.

“Nobody must know about the aliens. We will be in communication with other country leaders and handle them ourselves. I just want you to do what you do best, Gilgamesh.”

The masked soldier, Gilgamesh, drew his broadsword.

“I want you to begin the final campaign to exterminate every single poet in the world.”

Gilgamesh decapitated both of them in a single swing.

“I want you to strike fear into the hearts of so many people, that they will be turning poets in faster than we could find them ourselves.” Those were the last words spoken to him earlier that day, from the head of the CIA, Connor Murren, briefing him on his mission. Gilgamesh had been a military weapon for the American military for almost ten years and was often used on missions dedicated to instilling fear on a population of people. His greatest power was simply that nobody knew what his power actually was. 

Autopsies of many of his victims demonstrate that their brains simply exploded. He would often cause an entire area of people to simultaneously fall to the floor in pain, without laying a hand on them. Nobody knows his real name or where he’s from. One of the few things known about him is that he hates poets more than anything for ruining his life and his face.

Gilgamesh wiped his sword clean with a piece of cloth before sheathing it and facing the shocked civilians surrounding the streets. “If you’ve been harboring a poet, we are no longer tolerating it!” he declared, his voice surprisingly loud despite the mask completely covering his mouth. “Even if you’re not harboring a poet, but know someone who is and decide not to turn them in, you will also be considered a criminal and be put to death!” He kicked one of the heads into a crowd of people.

“No more hiding!”

---

Ken groaned as the morning alarm assaulted his ears. He turned it off quickly and proceeded with his morning routine before heading over to his master’s place to train, as he usually did. Although almost every day was the same, it never found himself getting bored with it. He lived for challenging himself and the only way to do that anymore was training with Iraltiphos.

As he made his way to his master’s place, he noticed that he couldn’t detect his presence. He vaguely remembered something similar happening just the day before and thought that his master was probably suppressing his energy again. Ken immediately went to the back yard where he found him the last time it happened, but didn’t see him there. He then walked through the front door and could see him lying down in the middle of the training area. As he got closer to him, he expected him to get up, but he just kept lying there as if he were sleeping. I’d be able to detect him if he were sleeping though, Ken thought.

“I’m here,” he said, standing over his master. There was no answer. Now he was convinced he was screwing with him. “C’mon, you tell me every day that you’re the strongest guy on the planet. How do you expect to get away with playing dead?” As he spoke, he got a closer look at one of his arms and saw bruises on his knuckles and forearm, indicating that he had been fighting. “Oh shit,” he said under his breath as he quickly moved Iraltiphos’ body so that he was lying on his back. He checked his pulse. Nothing. There were bruises around his throat and neck. He had been strangled to death.

Impossible, Ken thought, his heart racing. He immediately looked around, half expecting the murderer to still be there. He would’ve believed it if there was a gunshot wound or slash marks or anything indicating that the murderer knew magic and had the upper-hand. But for him to have been beaten—to have been killed in hand-to-hand combat? “Impossible!” Ken exclaimed, punching the wooden floor. Tears rolled down his cheeks and as he punched the floor again.

And again and again.