WavesofBlueSea

In an alternate 21st century, unseen by the eyes of ordinary men, a war rages in the shadows.
The Order of the Silent Flame, an ancient brotherhood of exorcists, stands as humanity’s last line of defense against the demonic forces led by Centurion, the fallen warlord of the underworld. Armed with sacred relics, forbidden rituals, and unbreakable vows, the exorcists work in secrecy to protect a world that does not even know it’s under siege.
As the darkness spreads and Centurion’s legions grow bolder, cracks begin to form in the veil that hides the truth from humanity. And among the Order, a new generation must rise—one that will uncover long-buried secrets, face the betrayal of old allies, and decide whether the Silent Flame will continue to burn… or be snuffed out forever.

Apostles' War

The next day, Tagaytay City – 9:47 PM

Elian walked with aching legs and half-lidded eyes, his double shift finally over.

The streets were nearly empty. The fog had rolled in again — thick, cold, and crawling down from the hills like smoke from a dying altar.

He zipped up his jacket and turned into the slope toward his boarding house, the worn asphalt giving way to the pine-lined path behind the café. A shortcut. He always took it.

Each step made the gravel crunch beneath his worn sneakers — but the air was too quiet.

No wind. No insects. No music leaking from tourist bars.

The voice came from behind. Or in front. Or beside. It echoed without direction, like a whisper bouncing off unseen mirrors.

"Do you still believe it was only a dream?"

His breath caught. The sigil on the back of his hand pulsed with light beneath his glove, growing cold and tight like a second heartbeat.

Twisting through the trees like a funeral choir that had lost its melody.

Fog thickened. Trees twisted inward.

And out of the mist stepped three tall, humanoid shapes — cloaked in wind, with no faces, just impressions of screaming mouths swirling in smoke. Their forms flickered like shadows against headlights, insubstantial but real enough to move.

9:52 PM – The Forest Trail

His shoes slipped on damp roots. Branches scratched his cheeks. The mist swallowed his cries.

The forest was a maze of memories now — the trail warped, unfamiliar. Pine trees became towers. The earth dipped and spun.

And behind him, the Wailing Hordes surged — gliding above the ground, trailing tendrils of darkness like cloaks unraveling into the air.

Elian stumbled. Rolled down a small incline. His shoulder hit a stone. He winced, gasping.

The sigil on his hand flared again — briefly, like a warning. Like a scream in another language.

He pushed himself up. Bleeding, limping.

10:03 PM – The Hollow Grove

He reached a hollow grove where the trees bent low — the fog thinner, the moonlight barely reaching through the canopy.

There, he collapsed against a trunk, panting, trembling.

One of the Hordes stepped closer, its arms stretched wide, its body nothing but wind and sound and sorrow.

Elian's hands clutched his head. He bit his lip to keep from screaming.

Distant. Clear. Like a silver bell struck once in the dark.

The Wailing Hordes froze. Their bodies stilled.

They retreated — slipping back into the fog, their voices fading into the canopy above.

Elian lay still. Heart pounding. Tears on his cheeks.

Above, through the shifting fog, a single feather — white and glowing — fell onto his shoulder.

Chapter 6 – The Voices in the Mist