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

The night air felt thick, like it was pressing in on him, suffocating. Arthur's breath was shallow, his pulse hammering in his ears. He gripped the porch railing so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The visions still lingered, burned into the backs of his eyelids—the battlefield, the blood, the towering figure with burning eyes. They felt too real to be just hallucinations. Too familiar.

"Come now, Master. Don't look so lost."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. "Shut. Up."

"Oh, but you need me, don't you? Who else will tell you the truth?"

Arthur's head snapped up, his jaw tightening. "The truth? You mean the cryptic bullshit you keep whispering in my ear?" His voice dripped with venom. "You act like you're some all-knowing entity, but all you do is talk in circles. If you want me to listen, then say something real."

The voice chuckled, dark amusement dripping from every syllable.

"Very well. Let's start with a simple question, shall we? What are you?"

Arthur frowned. "What kind of question is that?"

"A crucial one. One your father and sister are too afraid to answer."

Arthur swallowed, his throat dry. "I'm just me," he said, but the words felt weak. Hollow.

The voice hummed. "Are you? Are you really?"

A sharp pain bloomed in his temples, and suddenly—

He was somewhere else. Not the front porch. Not even in his own body.

He was standing in a vast, ruined landscape. The sky was cracked open, swirling with dark clouds that bled red at the edges. The ground beneath him was scorched, littered with skeletal remains. In the distance, shadowy figures moved—not human.

A man stood before him. No—not a man. Something more.

He was tall, clad in blackened armor streaked with dried blood. His face was hidden behind a jagged helmet, but Arthur could feel the intensity of his gaze burning into him.

"You are not yet whole," the figure said, his voice deep, almost distorted.

Arthur tried to step back, but his body wouldn't obey.

"Who—" His voice cracked. "Who the hell are you?"

The figure tilted his head. "I am the one who was betrayed. The one who was broken. The one who was cast into oblivion."

The sky darkened further. The air crackled with energy.

Arthur's pulse pounded. "That doesn't answer my damn question."

The figure took a step forward, and with it came a wave of crushing pressure. Arthur dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.

"You carry a part of me," the figure rumbled. "And soon, you will remember."

Arthur tried to move, tried to fight, but the force pressing down on him was overwhelming. His skull felt like it was splitting open.

Arthur shot upright with a sharp gasp, his body drenched in sweat. His surroundings blurred for a second before snapping back into focus. He was still on the porch. The cold night air pressed against his skin.

His head was pounding. His stomach twisted.

That wasn't just a dream.

He could still feel the weight of that vision, still hear the voice of the armored figure ringing in his head.

The voice inside him was silent now, as if it had retreated into the depths of his mind. Watching. Waiting.

Arthur exhaled shakily, his hands gripping the edges of the porch railing.

His father knew something. Eleanor knew something. And now, so did he.

The Hollow Truth