Chapter 1

Occulte stared into the eyes of his enemy. Their gazes did not waver from one another. Occulte drew in a steadying breath, driving his nervousness from his mind. He let all emotion dissipate from his being. He had figured out long ago that the only way to win every battle was to go into it with nothing but cold calculation on his side, with no expectations except that he would do his best. Anger would only serve to cloud his judgment, so he allowed himself no satisfying rage. Fear would make him timid and weak, easy prey for his competitor. So not an inkling of the pitiful emotion was allowed near his mind.

He brought his thin, light blade up near his face in a battle ready pose. He could feel the cold of the unforgiving metal close to his skin. He could see the sharp edge, which he knew could cut through any armor with no problem. He could sense the sword's spirit... it was not a weapon, nor was it a tool. It was an extension of his body, a part of him. He would use it as he would use any of his limbs; accurately, precisely, and with deadly efficiency.

Occulte's enemy made the first move. He came in with a powerful, melodramatic overhead slash, a snarl leaping up from his throat. Occulte sighed. It would most likely not be a long battle. He brought his own sword up, throwing off the momentum of his enemy's blow by rolling onto his back, his legs extending upwards with a power and precision born of thousands of hours of intensive training. The enemy's breath exploded out of him as Occulte's legs impacted his solar plexus. His inertia carried him far over Occulte, to collapse spectacularly with the hard stone floor five meters away. Occulte brushed a few imagined specks of dust off his black trenchcoat as he stood.

"Do we really have to continue this pointless battle?" Occulte asked in his cold voice that chilled most people's blood. "I do not wish to have to humiliate you further."

His enemy merely growled with rage in response as he stood. Occulte's dark, mirthless eyes penetrated through his enemy's pupils into his soul as their gazes locked once again. He sensed fear. Like any predator that had that true hunting instinct, Occulte knew exactly when to strike. He took his opportunity, flying in with what appeared to be a wild side strike.

The enemy threw off the poorly executed blow with ease- but Occulte had never intended the strike to deal any damage. While his enemy's concentration was centered on the blades, Occulte had brought his thumb to collide incredibly hard with a nerve cluster on the man's neck. Besides serving to damage the tendon located next to the nerve cluster, it caused the man incredible pain, bringing him to one knee in surprise. The battle's remaining length was numbered in seconds at that point. Occulte's open palms slammed against the man's ears, causing him to drop his sword as he collapsed against the ground. With one last kick to the man's temple as he fell, his opponent was unconscious.

Occulte threw down his sword, yawning. This morning's wake-up battle had been particularly pathetic, so as usual, he had high hopes that his instructors had matched him up with a superior opponent for his after-supper battle. Not that it really mattered; Occulte never lost. In the last three years of his training, he had fought more than two thousand battles, against the same number of opponents. Not one had ever managed to best him.

Thus he no longer expected much from these pointless little spars. At least chess still held some minor challenge for him.

He headed off from the combat room, towards the eating hall as usual. He could still remember when it had been a lively place, with more than three hundred adolescent Possibles filling it. Now there were less than thirty... ninety percent of the original group had been dismissed as not being worthy of the title of Possible. The thirty left were varied in race, ranging from Caucasian to African American to Japanese and Russian. Fifteen years prior, virtually every child born under the criteria of the Prophecy had been kidnapped, adopted, bought... whatever the Fulfiller had decided was necessary to acquire them was done.

The Prophecy was a source of great debate amongst the Possibles; largely because everyone tried to interpret it so that it meant that only they could be the Chosen it referred to. Occulte glanced up at the main wall of the eating hall, where the Prophecy was etched into the stone. No one even knew who had delivered it to the Fulfiller; and anyone who asked disappeared for a while, to re-appear much less inquisitive. The Prophecy was short, and all of the Possibles had long ago memorized it.