Awakening of the Dead

The Devil wakes

The Devil Wakes

Darkness curled into his veins like icy fire, birthing shadows that writhed beneath his skin—pulses of ancient power beating in tandem with a newfound, feral heartbeat. Elior collapsed onto the cracked wooden floor of the ruined house, breathing ragged and shallow, as if the very air had thickened with ash and despair.

His hands shook uncontrollably, black veins snaking like living tattoos across his pale skin. Wide-eyed, he stared at the shifting mark on his arm, mesmerized and horrified by its slow, pulsating rhythm—as though the darkness itself was breathing through him.

The cold voice never left his mind. It was relentless—a chain of commands and whispered threats that shattered any fragile residue of innocence he still held.

"Listen to me, Elior. They will fear you now. They will kneel before the shadow you become. But power is pain. Power is sacrifice."

A sudden wave of nausea swept over him and he doubled, clutching his stomach as visions of flames engulfing his tormentors slashed through his consciousness. Faces contorted in fear, screams drowned in a firestorm of rage and ash.

"You have nothing left to lose," the voice whispered cruelly. "Why hold back? Why not embrace the darkness?"

His chest heaved, sweat cooling rapidly despite the inferno writhing within. Doubt gnawed deep, a serpent coiling tight—yet the hunger to crush his tormentors, to finally overcome the humiliation carved into his days, burned hotter.

He forced himself upright, legs trembling. The very walls seemed to warp and breathe around him—shadows growing into claws that scraped eagerly at the peeling edges. Shards of broken glass on the floor whispered threats and promises, their reflections splitting and reassembling his haunted, fractured gaze.

His eyes, now gleaming with smoldering ember-light, took in the remains of his home—the tattered curtain swaying as if hiding secrets, the cracked mirror splintered with memories, the dust swirling thick like a mortuary shroud.

With a trembling touch, he brushed the dark tattoo. It pulsed violently, searing into his flesh—a living curse, and a promise. The pain from its touch was somehow sweet, a baptism of agony.

Suddenly, the corners of the room stirred; spectral whispers twisted through the air in sinister lullabies—voices of the forgotten dead, beckoning, remembering. A chill swept through, cutting deeper than the fire of pain within him.

"You are no longer the boy they crushed."

A dark shape gathered itself by the broken window, growing more vivid and more corporeal—shifting, fluid, and crowned with burning eyes that pierced the gloom.

"You called for power," it murmured, its hunger echoing in Elior’s bones. "Now claim your birthright. Rewrite your story in blood and shadow."

Elior’s nails dug into his palms, breaking skin, the sting grounding him in brutal reality. Inside, the battle raged like a hurricane; his remaining humanity screamed for mercy, but the darkness clawed harder.

Memories tore past his vision—every brutal insult, every cruel laugh echoing through the years, every sharp shove, every moment when hope guttered out and left him choking on ashes.

"No!" he gasped, voice cracking. "I’m not your puppet!"

But the shadow’s laughter filled the room, cold and unyielding.

"You are both master and prisoner now."

Pain blossomed across his chest, spreading like wildfire. The mark flared, its tendrils spiraling up his arm and over his heart, searing a new truth into every nerve. His breath hitched as his eyes blazed, burning black and red.

Then, with a low, guttural roar, Elior felt the power surge—consuming, relentless, terrifying. No longer merely a boy, he was the storm, the fire in the dark—an unfolding nightmare steeped in both fury and sorrow.

Silence claimed the room. Shadows pressed close, whispering, promising.

In the dark, only one word escaped his trembling lips:

"Rise."

And the darkness answered, flooding through him—a promise, a threat, a rebirt