eybaba

Arthur Winner is a boy who lives in the modern world, unaware of the dark legacy within him—the last fragment of Azrael’s soul, the Angel of Death. Since childhood, his life has been filled with pain and suffering; his mother once tried to kill him, but his father saved him at the last moment. Years later, betrayal strikes again when his girlfriend cheats on him with his closest friend, shattering the little trust he had in the world.

On one of the darkest days of his life, after a fight with that very close friend led to his temporary suspension from school, he spent the first day of his suspension in quiet solitude at home. But that silence didn’t last long. A mysterious voice called out to him… and following the sound, he was led to the basement, where a truth beyond his comprehension awaited him—a secret that might change his destiny forever.

But is he ready to accept the fate that has been written for him?

Legacy of Death

Cold. Like the edge of a blade, gliding slowly but deeply across the skin.

Arthur woke up with a sharp gasp, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart pounding like a war drum. A cold sweat clung to his skin, sending an unsettling shiver through his spine. The room was dark—too dark. The faint glow of the streetlamp outside barely seeped through the curtains, casting long, unnatural shadows across the walls.

But this darkness… this wasn't normal.

It was thick, suffocating, alive.

And the whispers were still there. Like echoes trapped within the hollow spaces of his mind.

"Do you hear me, Master? You're awake now... awake at last..."

His breath hitched. His hands trembled as he dragged them down his face, trying to shake the lingering terror from the dream—if it even was a dream. His pulse pounded in his ears, but underneath it, beneath the silence, he could feel something watching.

Not just from the corners of the room. Not just from the shadows.

He blinked. And for a fraction of a second, the darkness moved.

A ripple, like breath shifting against the walls. Like something shifting within the air itself.

A chill crawled up his spine, but his lips twisted into that same bitter smirk—the one he always wore when fear gnawed at his insides.

"Alright," he muttered, voice hoarse. "What the hell is this? A new nightmare? Or just a regular mental breakdown?"

"Not a nightmare. Not a hallucination. The truth."

The voice slithered through the walls, through the very floor beneath him. It wasn't just inside his head—it was everywhere.

Arthur forced his stiff muscles to move, pushing himself upright. His limbs felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive, as if something unseen was weighing him down. He clenched his jaw, planting his feet on the cold wooden floor. The air was thick, pressing against his skin like unseen hands.

"Don't be afraid, Master. Soon, everything will become clear."

Arthur's breath hitched as something seared against the back of his neck. His body tensed, fingers clawing at the sheets as the sensation spread—hot and cold at the same time, like molten ice digging into his flesh.

Instinctively, his hand shot up, fingers trembling as they pressed against the back of his neck. And then—

Something under his skin. Moving.

His breath stilled. His pulse turned to ice.

The flesh beneath his fingers wasn't just skin anymore. It shifted beneath his touch, like something alive, something that didn't belong to him. His throat went dry, his entire body locked in place as his mind screamed for an explanation that didn't exist.

"Son of a—what the hell is this?"

A laugh. Slow. Amused. Wrong.

"The price of truth, Master. The wound that binds you to what has always been."

Arthur didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers away from his neck.

The Whispering Wound