Elion Hayes Book One: The Beast Rings

Elion Hayes was one second away from getting his face ripped off.

No exaggeration. No dramatic overstatement. Just a cold, horrifying reality.

A seven-foot-tall ape-like creature loomed over him, showing its sharp teeth and bringing its claws down toward his head. Its glowing yellow eyes focused on his throat, and it smelled like a mix of rotten animals and smoke.

Elion barely had time to think, let alone scream.

To his right, Jordan Walker—his best friend and partner in terrible life choices—was swinging a glowing metal pipe like his life depended on it. Which, fun fact, it did.

To his left, Ronan Cross—the cowboy they had just met, who, apparently claimed to be a Beast Slayer—was calmly reloading his revolver one-handed, as if this kind of chaos was just another day for him.

And because regular bullets apparently weren't enough, he was using mana-infused rounds—magic bullets. Why settle for an ordinary gun when you could have one powered by magic?

"Ronan!" Elion yelled, desperately backpedaling.

The cowboy snapped the chamber shut, spun the revolver, and fired in one clean motion.

BANG.

The bullet struck the ape-man's shoulder, right at the joint.

The impact was brutal—not just because of the sheer force, but because of the precision and of course, magic. The shot sent a violent shockwave through its upper body, twisting its momentum mid-swing. Its head snapped back from the force, a choked snarl escaping its lips as its balance completely broke.

The creature's massive arms, which had been raised to strike, went limp. Its entire body staggered back, its injured arm now useless. Then—with a heavy THUD—it collapsed onto one knee, barely keeping itself from toppling over.

Elion sucked in a sharp breath, his heart still hammering. If Ronan had aimed just a little differently, that thing would have been dead.

Instead, it was stopped. Wounded. But still breathing.

He turned toward Ronan, who holstered his revolver like he had just flicked a piece of dust off his sleeve.

Elion ran a hand down his face. "Little close, don't you think?"

Ronan barely spared him a glance. "If I wanted it dead, it'd be dead."

He then added, "But, this is your training."

Elion let out a breath. "Yeah. Training where if you wanted me dead, I'd be dead."

Ronan didn't have time to argue because two more ape-men were already charging.

They were too human to be animals, too monstrous to be men.

They moved wrong—too fast, too smooth like their bones weren't connected right. Their heads twitched unnaturally, sniffing the air, their too-wide grins stretching like they knew something Elion didn't.

Bodies hunched like apes, fur rippling over twisted muscles. Their fingers ended in black claws sharp enough to carve through concrete. And their faces—Sun Wukong's nightmare cousins—were frozen in eerie, too-wide grins.

Elion had exactly one second to remember everything Ronan had taught them just now.

Rule One: Don't let them touch you. Poison claws. Bad.

Rule Two: Their reflexes are insane. Swing too early, you miss. Swing too late, you die.

Rule Three: If all else fails—pray.

Because right now?

Everything else was failing. Elion wondered how did his life take such a turn.

Six hours ago, he was just a guy trying to survive another boring shift. No life-or-death chases, no beast attacks, no cowboy-slayer dragging him into interdimensional problems.

Six hours ago, his life was perfectly normal.

***

Rewind six hours.

New Orleans was never quiet.

At night, the city feels alive. Cars honk, neon lights buzz, and street performers sing jazz for tourists. The tourists pretend to enjoy the music before moving on to the next bar.

But, Elion Hayes barely noticed any of it.

He walked out of Good Books—a bookstore and pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt. The air smelled like rain and fried shrimp, heavy with humidity that stuck to his skin. His backpack hung over one shoulder and felt too light for the weight he was carrying.

Above the Mississippi, the sky threw its usual overdramatic tantrum—gold bleeding into purple, clouds streaked like someone had taken a paintbrush to the horizon.

People always said sunsets in New Orleans were magic.

But, Elion didn't even glance at it.

People also said that sunsets were like life—beautiful for some, constantly slipping away for others.

And for him? Life felt like an endless game of catch-up.

Elion fixed his bag strap and blended into the crowd on the sidewalk. He moved with the rhythm of the city. He never rushed or slowed down; he was always at pace with the surrounding chaos.

It helped that he looked like someone worth noticing.

At five foot ten, with a lean but defined build, he had the kind of athletic frame that made people assume he worked out—which was only half true. His life kept him in shape whether he liked it or not.

His sharp jawline and high cheekbones could have made him conventionally good-looking, but he didn't have the time—or the patience—to care.

His black curls were always messy, always falling into his deep brown eyes, making him look like he'd either just rolled out of bed or had been running on zero sleep for days.

Some people could effortlessly own that "reckless and charming" look.

Elion? He just looked exhausted.

Not that he cared.

He had bigger things to worry about.

As he was walking, some random guy in a suit nearly shoulder-checked him into next week, sprinting across the crosswalk like his entire life depended on catching a bus.

Elion barely reacted. New Orleans had two speeds: fast and "good luck"—you either adapted to the rush of life there, or you got left behind.

A cyclist shot past so close that if Elion had reached out, he could have swiped the guy's backpack without breaking stride.

Right behind him, a woman with AirPods power-walked straight through Elion's personal space, too busy yelling at someone named Gary about a "colossal failure in the spreadsheets" to notice anything else.

And just when Elion thought the chaos had peaked, a guy balancing three iced coffees with absolutely zero spatial awareness stumbled into his path, making a head-on collision feel inevitable.

The guy caught the edge of a loose brick in the sidewalk—his foot twisted, his balance wavered, and suddenly, disaster was incoming.

Without thinking, Elion's reflexes kicked in. He stepped forward, hands moving fast, and snatched two of the coffees just as they started to tip. The third wobbled dangerously, but the guy managed to keep his grip at the last second.

Wide-eyed, the guy sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh, man—" He blinked at Elion, relief flooding his face. "You saved my life."

Elion handed back the drinks with a small smirk. "More like your caffeine supply. Careful next time."

The guy let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, no kidding. Thanks, man!"

Elion just shook his head, blending back into the flow of the city.

This was how life worked. No pauses. No space to breathe. Just keep moving, or you'll get flattened.

His reflection flashed in a shop window. The black hoodie. The tired posture. The restless eyes that never stopped moving. He looked the same as always. But sometimes, when he really stopped and stared, it felt like he was looking at a stranger.

A stranger wearing his face.

Or maybe, if he was being honest… someone he just didn't want to recognize.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Just like that, everything changed. A feeling tightened in his chest before he even checked the screen. Because deep down, he already knew—this wasn't good news.

Elion barely pulled his phone out of his pocket before the buzzing stopped. The screen lit up.

Six unread messages.

All of them were from his Mom.

His stomach tightened.

Mom never texted this much unless something was wrong. He hoped he was wrong.

He swiped open the notifications, scanned the messages, and then played the first one. It was a voice message.

MOM (Voice Message): "Elion, I need you to talk to Liam when you get home."

Elion paused mid-step. "Liam?" he muttered.

He immediately tapped play on the next one. His mother's voice came through, soft but tight with frustration.

MOM (Voice Message): "He got into another fight. You know how he is. I tried talking to him, but he was not listening. I need your help to handle this before it gets worse."

Elion sighed. "That kid... When is he gonna learn?"

Liam had been picking fights for as long as he could throw a punch. Most of the time, it was just stupid posturing, a bad habit. But sometimes? It was worse.

Still, this wasn't an emergency. His Mom would've called if it were.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face. His mother had enough on her plate already. Raising three kids alone? That was hard enough without Liam going around trying to knock people's teeth out every other week.

Maybe—just maybe—things would've been different if their father had been around.

A ghost of a memory surfaced, something half-formed, worn out like an old photograph. The last time Elion had seen his father, he'd barely been ten. Alia had just been born, and their father had been home for maybe a week—long enough for Elion to watch him hold his baby sister like she was the most fragile thing in the world.

And then he was gone again.

Expedition, his mother had said. Archaeology. Important work.

Elion had believed that when he was a kid. He'd imagined his father out in the world, uncovering ancient ruins, brushing dust off relics that would end up in history books. Maybe even fighting off some tomb raiders, Indiana Jones-style.

But as he got older, the stories made less sense. Archaeologists didn't just disappear for years on end. They didn't miss birthdays, graduations, or emergency hospital visits.

They didn't miss entire childhoods.

Elion exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought. No point in thinking about it now.

Liam was his problem, just like everything else. Still, this wasn't an emergency. His Mom would've called if it were. He typed out a reply.

ELION: I'll talk to him when I get home.

A few seconds later, another message popped up.

MOM (Voice Message): Okay. Can you grab some groceries first? The usual. And get extra eggs this time—your brother keeps inhaling them like they don't cost money.

Elion smirked, shaking his head. At least she sounded calmer now. He typed a reply.

ELION: Got it.

That was enough for now. Liam's fight could wait. Elion needed a place to clear his head and maybe... take a break from his responsibilities for a few hours. His plate was full at the moment. Maybe groceries shopping could help him clear his mind.

Elion took a deep breath, trying his best to forget everything. He put his phone in his pocket and kept walking, letting the busy city lead him. He walked without thinking as his mind wandered, troubled by worries he could not shake off. Then—

BEEEEP!

"Hey! Watch it, kid!"

A grey car zoomed past, the tires slicing through the evening air like a blade.

Elion stopped dead, heart hammering. "I'm sorry!" he blurted, raising a hand in apology—not that the driver stuck around to care.

He sighed and kept walking, that familiar exhaustion settling into his bones. Working wasn't the issue. He could handle long shifts, rude customers, and even late-night inventory restocks.

The real problem? No matter how much effort he put in, he was just getting by. No life. No progress. Just an endless cycle of study, work, sleep, repeat.

As he turned onto one of the streets, a familiar voice cut through the evening air.

"Elion! Hold up, man!"

He turned to see Jordan jogging toward him, looking effortlessly put together—like he hadn't just sprinted down the block. Before he could react, Jordan fell into step beside him—all effortless movement and stupid confidence.

Jordan Walker, his best friend, had that kind of energy that made people look twice. He walked through the city confidently, taking long strides. His shoulders were relaxed, and his hands were in his pockets as if he had all the time in the world.

Elion was sharp and quiet, while Jordan was laid-back but always kept up with everyone.

He was taller by an inch or two, built like an athlete who made everything look effortless. His hoodie was only half-zipped over a fitted shirt, the sleeves pushed up as if he had just rolled them up without thinking.

Jordan's golden-blonde hair practically reflected the streetlights, like he'd been personally blessed by the sun. He never had to put in much effort—his life seemed like a series of great moments. A few loose strands of hair framed his sharp face—he had high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and eyes that always looked playful.

Well, to cut it short, Jordan wasn't just cool. He was the guy who could talk his way into anything—and out of everything.

"Hey," Elion said, managing a small smile as Jordan caught up.

Jordan ran a hand through his hair like he was in a shampoo ad. "I thought you went home already," he said, still catching his breath. "I checked the bookstore, but you weren't there."

"Yeah. I left on time," Elion explained. "On my way to grab some groceries for my mom."

Jordan tilted his head. "Groceries, huh? Mind if I tag along? I was about to grab a coffee, but priorities."

Elion shrugged. "Sure. Just don't slow me down."

Jordan grinned. "Please. I should be saying that to you."

As they walked, the usual noise of the city faded, replaced by something different—a low, buzzing energy, like the moment before a storm hit.

Up ahead, a soccer court—well-known as The Cage by the locals—loomed under the streetlights.

Elion's eyes were fixated on the court. It had been years.

It wasn't just any soccer court. This was the spot. No refs, no soft turf, no mercy. Just rusted fences, cracked pavement, and bragging rights that lasted until the next game.

Normally, the place would be split into three courts and alive—shouts, scuffed sneakers, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a ball bouncing between players.

But tonight?

Dead silent.

Instead of a match, a group of guys stood in a circle, talking in hushed voices, their expressions tense. The way they kept glancing around told Elion this wasn't about who gets to play goalkeeper.

Jordan noticed, too. "Huh. The Cage is never this quiet."

Elion nodded. "Yeah. Either they lost the ball… or short of players."

Before they could walk past, someone spotted them.

"Yo, Jordan!"

A figure broke away from the group—Raymond Ortega. Built like a tank and pretty fast for his size, he was known for making sure you felt it when he tussled and more so when he tackled you.

He jogged over, grinning like Jordan had just saved his life. "Dude, perfect timing. We're short two players. You in?"

Jordan smirked. "Man, I haven't stretched in, like, a week."

Ray laughed before scoffing. "You don't need to stretch even after if it's a year. You're Jordan."

He then looked around and said, "We still need a player."

Jordan shrugged, clearly accepting this as a fact. Then he nudged his head toward Elion. "What about him?"

Raymond turned, giving Elion a quick once-over before looking back at Jordan.

"Uh… who's your friend? Is he good?"

Elion blinked. Well, that was expected.

It had been years since he last played here or since he participated in high school soccer tournaments, but he didn't think he'd been wiped from history.

Faces changed. Players came and went. He got it. But they had played a few times before. At least, remember him.

"Elion," he said flatly. Hoping that could trigger Raymond's memory.

Raymond squinted like he was trying to connect to a memory that didn't exist. "Elion?" He tested the name, then shook his head. "Sorry, man. Doesn't ring a bell."

The other guys in the group started whispering, trying to place him. "Nah. Never heard of you."

The words hit harder than they should've. Never heard of you?

Elion started to feel like he was in a movie where everyone forgot a character. Like everyone's memory about him had been wiped.

Jordan, meanwhile, just stood there, grinning.

Elion side-eyed him. "Something funny?"

Jordan's smirk widened. "Nope. Just waiting."

Raymond exhaled through his nose. "Look, no offense, but we really need players who can actually hold their own. No rookies."

One of the guys muttered, "Especially tonight."

Elion caught that but let it slide. What's so special about tonight?

Before he could ask, Jordan clapped him on the shoulder. "Rookies? Bro, if you think I have a shot at going pro, you should've seen this guy back in the day."

Silence.

A few players exchanged looks. Others raised their eyebrows, now giving Elion a little more attention.

Raymond arched an eyebrow. "For real?"

Jordan nodded, still completely unfazed. "For real."

Elion flexed his fingers. It had been a while, but muscle memory was a stubborn thing. His body still remembered the game, even if these guys didn't remember him.

"Guess we'll see," he said. In soccer, he had his share of pride and confidence.

Ray studied him for a beat, then shrugged. "Alright. If Jordan's vouching for you, you get a shot. But if you suck, you're off the court in two minutes."

Elion smirked. "Fair enough."

As they walked toward the court, Elion felt it—the weight of doubt. Nobody remembered him. Nobody expected anything.

But they were about to.

Yeah, they were about to.

"You cool with this?" Jordan asked, glancing at him. "Won't your mom be waiting those groceries?"

Elion shrugged. "Nah, they're for tomorrow. She's okay."

"Ah, crap," Elion muttered under his breath as realization hit him.

Jordan shot him a curious look. "What now?"

Elion exhaled, glancing down at his feet. "I'm wearing Converse," he admitted. "Didn't exactly plan on playing."

He eyed the court, already dreading how the pavement would chew through his grip. He could manage—but it definitely wasn't ideal.

Jordan snorted. "Oh, and now you care about shoes?"

Elion shot him a look. "I'd rather not have my ankles broken, thanks."

Jordan laughed, shaking his head. "Man, since when did you ever give a damn about shoes?" He smirked, elbowing Elion. "What happened to 'It's not about the shoes, it's about the talent'?"

Elion groaned. "Don't start."

Too late. Jordan was already on a roll. "Dude, back in school, people used to clown on you for wearing those no-brand cleats, and you were the one talking trash like, 'Oh, it's not about the logo, it's about what you do with it.' And now you're telling me you need proper kicks?"

Elion huffed. "I stand by that. But Converse for street soccer? Different story."

Jordan grinned. "Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that."

Elion shook his head, already regretting mentioning it. Still, at least he'd made one smart decision today—he was wearing soccer shorts under his jeans instead of just his boxers. Small wins.

"At least I'm not about to embarrass myself out there in tight jeans," he muttered, undoing his belt and stepping out of his pants, revealing the shorts underneath.

Jordan whistled. "Well, would you look at that?"

Elion rolled his eyes. "I was planning to work out later. Sue me."

He pulled the red bib over his head, the fabric smelling like it had been marinated in sweat for the past year. His nose immediately wrinkled. "Man, when was the last time they washed these?"

Jordan, already in his bib, grinned. "Pretty sure these things are self-cleaning—you know, in a 'let the next person's sweat cancel out the last guy's' kind of way."

"Fantastic," Elion muttered, adjusting the straps.

Despite being street soccer, the setup was weirdly organized. Normally, The Cage ran 3-on-3 or 5-on-5—fast-paced, high-energy, nonstop chaos. But tonight?

9-a-side.

Which was practically a full team and a full court, at least by The Cage's standards.

The court was big enough to handle it, sure, but it was rare for Elion to see this many people playing at once.

He glanced at the opponents in their white bibs. A few familiar faces jumped out—guys he hadn't seen in years. Some were former players from his old days here, others just regulars at The Cage.

'Interesting.'

Jordan jogged up beside him, rolling his shoulders. "You look like you're thinking too hard."

Elion nodded toward the other team. "Recognize any of them?"

Jordan followed his gaze, his eyes scanning the white bibs. Then, he let out a low whistle.

"Oh yeah. Couple of real ballers over there. That guy—" he nodded toward a lanky dude adjusting his shin guards— "is Marcus. Crazy footwork. And that dude? Malik. I swear he has a sixth sense for interceptions. If he's marking you, good luck getting a clean pass off."

Elion hummed. "Yeah, I remember Marcus. I played against him years ago."

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Do you remember how that went?"

Elion smirked. "Let's just say I left him with trust issues."

Jordan laughed. "Man, I cannot wait for this."

Elion laughed. Same here. He cannot wait, too.

Author's Note:

Hey, everyone!

First of all, thank you for checking out my new story. Whether you're here out of curiosity, for the action, or just because you clicked on the wrong title and decided to stick around—welcome! I appreciate every single one of you.

Now, a quick heads-up: This story takes place in real-world locations, and I'll be using actual names for cities, landmarks, and places. However, don't expect everything to be a replica of reality. I'll make slight (or sometimes major) adjustments to better fit the story, the action, and the chaos that will unfold.

So if you notice a street that doesn't exist, a building that's way cooler than it is in real life, or a city that somehow has fewer traffic jams—just roll with it. It's all in the name of storytelling.