Frostysyrup

Thrust into an enigmatic world born from bloodshed; venture inside its complexities, dark-side, and always changing nature. At the center, a boy; brought up by an exiled mage, steps into a life of independence. A test to try and change his life for the better after witnessing what war can do to a person. The walk towards finding a stable living gets toppled as a unique magical element awakens. Using people, toying with emotions, doing anything and everything to get what he wants, this is the life of the next Death Reaper. Mostly emotionless, life continues as questions about his state of mind and being remains clouded behind many personas.

This isn’t the story of a single man, it’s the story of a whole world. Read as the world builds itself from the ground up. Conspiracies, evil, the dark side of humanity. In addition, tis the start of a new age; the birth of monsters – a story depicting the tales of the first heroes and demons to ever exist. 

The Wielder of Death Magic isn’t a typical fantasy. The heroes don’t summon forth power from heroes of old, here, the characters are the ones who make up the myths and legends for the next generation. Amidst the turmoil, Staxius, he lives on, watching and waiting as the world grows. 

P.S, I’m not that normal of a writer, my advice is to not expect anything going into this world. Forget everything, I personally, don’t care about rules and limitations and what can be considered to be the norm – the characters are given life, the world moves on its own; I’m just a spectator. No plot, nothing planned, all that you read is the product of the characters moving and acting individually. As opposed to me subjecting them with my emotions, the connection is reversed. They are the ones who dictate the story (Believe it or not, that's the way I write) A world, a story, characters, and the foolish author; we all evolve as one. On behalf of the people mentioned above, thanks for reading, I appreciate it all.
[Cover is copyrighted by Sxperimental]

The Wielder of Death Magic

Vases of golden hue crashed. A decadently decorated hall suffered the poison of chaos. Chandeliers fell from their suspended elevation. Wall-paint smeared, carrying scarps and nail marks. A group of gods laid about at the center. At that precise moment, the debris and mess caused by magic, seemed as if an invading army, a circle of relative cleanliness became their case. A moat of unperturbed marble tiles separated beauty from ugly.

"How could we have lost!" fired a wounded Zeus.

"My lord, there was nothing we could have done," followed Lixbin, "-we mustn't forget that man is the reincarnation of Alfred. Look at Qhildir," they threw a foreign glance at a lounge chair, "-look at him, he's wounded beyond repair. Inflicting such bodily harm on a high-deity, we must not act brazenly."

"I know," he gripped the chair's arms, "-defeat tastes bad either way."

Curse of Misfortune