Chapter 06: King Solomon’s Damnation
Chapter 06: King Solomon's Damnation
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The crimson moon bled across the sky, its light thick like clotting ichor. Jack's fingers twitched against cold, smooth bone. His vision swam, the world tilting violently as his mind clawed its way back from the abyss the Bible had dragged him through.
*He was sitting on a throne of skulls.*
Not just arranged—*fused*. The villagers' remains had been hollowed out, their craniums split and stitched together with sinewy black tendrils that pulsed like veins. The eye sockets wept a viscous, tar-like substance that dripped down the grotesque monument, hissing as it hit the ground.
Jack tried to stand.
The throne *held him down*.
The shadows beneath the bones slithered up his legs, coiling around his thighs like serpents. A chorus of whispers slithered from the skulls' gaping jaws:
*"You built this."*
*"You* *wanted* *this."*
*"King."*
Above him, perched atop the highest skull, the crow watched. No longer the monstrous, exaggerated beast from before—now it was only *twice* the size of a normal bird, its feathers glistening like wet ink. Its beak parted, and instead of a caw, it spoke—**in Jack's own voice.**
*"Do you remember killing them?"*
Jack's breath hitched. **No.** He hadn't—he *couldn't* have—
The crow's head tilted, its obsidian eyes reflecting not Jack's face, but something **else**—something with too many teeth.
*"Liar."*
Then, the darkness *moved*.
Shadows peeled away from the ground, taking shape—**crows**. Hundreds. Thousands. They burst from the void in a storm of flapping wings and clicking beaks, circling above him in a swirling vortex. Their cries weren't bird calls, but **words**, whispered in the voices of the dead:
*"Murderer."*
*"Monster."*
*"King."*
Jack clutched his head, nails digging into his scalp. **No.** He hadn't—
Then why did his hands smell like blood?
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The Bible lay beside the throne, its cover shuddering as if breathing. The moment Jack reached for it, the throne's shadowy bindings *tightened*, digging into his flesh like barbed wire.
*"You don't get to run,"* the crow croaked. *"Not from this."*
The book flipped open on its own, pages splitting with wet, tearing sounds. The words weren't ink—they were **scars**, carved into the parchment like wounds.
*l*The Story of King Solomon.*
But not the sanitized scripture.
This was the *truth*.
*A. Control Over the Wind *
The text slithered into Jack's mind:
*"And the wind obeyed Solomon, for it was not air that moved—but the*
*screams of the buried alive.*"
A gust of rancid air rushed past Jack's face. The stench of rotting lungs filled his nostrils. The wind **shrieked**, forming shapes—skeletal hands, faces with stitched-shut mouths, a chorus of the damned whispering secrets that slithered into Jack's ears like worms.
The Bible's ink *melted*, reforming:
*"Solomon did not command the wind. The wind commanded*
*him*
*It spoke in the voices of the children he burned. The wives he buried. The enemies he flayed alive. It showed him his future—his corpse on a throne of skulls, just like*
*yours*."
Jack's vision *split*.
For a moment, he wasn't himself. He was **Solomon**, standing atop a mountain of flayed skin, the wind howling through the ribcages of his enemies. A crown of nails dug into his forehead, blood dripping into his eyes.
*And he was laughing.*
The vision snapped away, leaving Jack gasping.
The crow's beak clicked. *"Do you see now?"*
Jack's hands trembled. **No.** He wasn't like that. He wasn't—
The Bible turned the page with a sound like a **bone breaking**.
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II. The Jinn's Obedience
The words pulsed like an open wound:
*"Solomon bound the demons, but they did not serve him. They* ***worshipped*** *him. And in their worship, they made him* ***more*** *than human."*
The ground beneath the throne **split**.
Blackened hands clawed their way out, fingers too long, knuckles too many. They grasped at Jack's legs, their touch searing like brands.
*"They called him king,"* the Bible whispered. *"Just as they call* ***you***."*
One of the hands **twisted**, its skin peeling back to reveal a **face**—Jack's face—embedded in the palm. Its lips split into a grin.
*"You're one of us now."*
Jack kicked, but the hands **multiplied**, dragging him deeper into the throne. The skulls laughed, their jaws clacking like castanets.
The Bible's ink bubbled, forming new words:
*"Solomon's greatest sin was not controlling the demons. It was* ***loving*** *it."*
A memory that wasn't his flooded Jack's mind—Solomon, seated in a hall of writhing shadows, watching as demons tore apart screaming men. **And smiling.**
Jack's own lips **twitched**.
A laugh bubbled up in his throat—hysterical, uncontrollable.
The crow joined in.
The hands pulled harder.
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### **III. The Ignorance of the Dead (A Trap)**
The Bible's pages turned to a passage where the ink wasn't just blood—it was **tears**.
*"When Solomon died, the demons did not know. They kept building his temple, piling skull upon skull, throne upon throne."*
The crows above Jack **stillened**.
The hands gripping him **froze**.
A terrible silence fell.
Then—**gnawing**.
Something was eating through the bones beneath him.
Jack looked down. A single white worm, no thicker than a thread, was burrowing into the skull beneath his thigh.
The crow's voice was a whisper. *"They don't know you're dead either."*
Jack's breath hitched.
*"Am I?"*
The worm **burst**, splitting into a thousand squirming tendrils that raced up the throne—up **his legs**—burrowing under his skin.
The Bible's final words dripped onto the page:
*"Solomon's corpse still sits on his throne. The demons still kneel. And now,* ***so do you***."
The hands dragged Jack under.
The crows dove after him.
And the last thing Jack heard was his own voice, whispering from the crow's beak:
*"Pray."*
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IV. The Temple of Bones
Darkness.
Then—*light*.
Jack stood in a vast, cavernous temple, its pillars made of **femurs**, its arches constructed from **spines**. At its center, a throne—**his throne**—sat atop a mountain of corpses in varying states of decay.
Some were fresh.
Some were ancient.
All had *his face*.
At the foot of the throne, a figure knelt—a man in tattered robes, his head bowed. When he looked up, Jack's stomach lurched.
*It was Solomon.*
His eyes were hollow, his lips sewn shut with black thread. He raised a skeletal hand, pointing at Jack.
The temple *shuddered*.
The corpses *stood*.
And the crow's voice echoed from every direction:
*"You were never the reader, Jack."*
*"You were the* *sacrifice*."
The corpses lunged.
The throne *claimed its king.*
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IV. The Last Revelation
The throne stood empty.
The Bible lay closed.
And deep beneath the earth, in a temple of bones, something wearing Jack's skin **opened its eyes**.