2025-12-17 06:07:25Ten years ago.
Bjorn sat in the back seat of the car, knees drawn up, staring out the window as trees blurred past. Up front, his mother's voice broke the silence.
"Where are we traveling to this time, dear?"
His father chuckled. "It's a surpri—"
WEEE-WONK!
BOOM!!
The crash came out of nowhere. Metal twisted. Glass shattered. The world flipped sideways.
And as it did, through the chaos and screaming tires, Bjorn saw something that would haunt him forever—
A woman. Standing by a flickering roadside light. Watching.
Still. Silent. Unblinking.
> They said it was an accident. A freak crash. But I remember… someone watching.
---
When he woke up, everything was different.
He lay in a cold hospital bed, face bruised, stitched at the lip. Machines beeped rhythmically. A nurse moved in the background, more shadow than person.
> I survived. Barely.
---
After the hospital, there was no reunion. No home.
Just rain.
A small, gloomy house waited at the end of a gravel road.
> After the hospital, I was sent to live with my uncle.
They gave him the room nobody wanted. Just a thin mattress. Peeling walls. Dust.
> They gave me the room no one wanted.
At the dinner table, everyone ate. Except him.
"You're too late. No food left," his aunt said.
> I wasn't family. I was the crash they didn't ask for.
---
Time passed. The storm inside him grew.
He sat by the cracked window, watching. Thinking. Burning.
> He stopped hoping. He started planning.
He knew the layout of the house now. Knew where his uncle kept the cash—hidden deep in the drawer.
> He knew exactly where the money was.
One night, while the rain poured and thunder grumbled in the distance, he packed his things.
He didn't look back.
> He didn't vanish. He escaped.
By morning, his uncle's shouts echoed through the house as he discovered the empty drawer.
> They never saw him again.
---
Out in the rain, a boy walked alone.
From the shadows, unseen by him, the silhouette of the old woman appeared again.
This time, she was smiling.
Dear friends and readers,
I hope this message finds you well. I’m reaching out to share something deeply personal and important to me — I’ve recently completed my novel, a story that has taken months of passion, sleepless nights, and relentless creativity. Writing this book has been more than just storytelling; it has been a journey of self-discovery, healing, and expression.
Now that the words are on the page, I need your help to bring this story to life and into the hands of readers. Whether you're an avid book lover or someone who believes in supporting growing creatives, your support — in any form — would mean the world to me.
You can support my novel by sharing it with others, offering feedback, purchasing a copy once it’s released, or even just spreading the word on social media. Every small action adds up and helps more than you might think.
This novel represents a piece of me — the struggles I’ve faced, the emotions I’ve poured into each character, and the hope that my words might resonate with someone out there. If you’ve ever believed in me, or in the power of stories to move and connect people, I humbly ask for your support now.
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chapter 28: a face to bite, a name to curse
They say beauty is a blessing. They lied. Beauty is a weapon — and I was born holding it. I bent the world with a glance,made gods and beasts alike kneel for a touch they could never keep. Even in this cursed realm, thrown here by that wrinkled witch, I believed my charm would conquer everything. But then came the two who would not look at me. Lucien ......pride carved into flesh. A man too immaculate to be tempted. And Bjorn......the broken wolf, silent, scarred, and maddeningly indifferent. Their refusal was a wound… and a challenge. I craved the taste of what denied me. To chase Lucien is to chase war......and I am not a fool who wastes her soldiers before Walpurgis. So I chose the smaller beast. The one who defies beauty itself. The one who makes my hunger feel human. --- The drums had gone quiet. Only the wind spoke now— a low, rhythmic moan that slipped between the torn veils and half-burned lanterns of the Lust camp. The moon bled down like an opene
chapter 27: the critic and the flame
The eve of Walpurgis dripped crimson beneath the moon. Its light seeped through the thin fabric of the Sloth faction’s tent — a slow pulse of red that moved like breath.Inside, the air was dense with the scent of herbs and burnt incense. The canvas walls sagged slightly, weighed down by damp mist. A small brazier hissed weakly in the corner, giving off a lazy glow that barely chased the shadows away.Aira sat on a mat, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty cup. The world outside murmured — distant laughter, the crackle of torches, the restless wind.Her gaze drifted toward the flicker of light that cut through the tent’s entrance.Bjorn’s name still echoed in her mind — captured by the Lust leader.Her heartbeat quickened. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, quietly, she began to rise.The shift of fabric, the creak of the floor mat — that was enough to stir the figure reclining on the couch nearby.Lan, the Slot
chapter 26: eve of the red moon
(volume 2)The night before Walpurgis bled quietly into the Lust faction's camp. Moonlight dripped through torn silk canopies and broken lanterns, painting everything in shades of pale desire and decay. Perfume and blood mingled in the air — sweet, cloying, wrong. Bjorn stirred. His body screamed in protest. Every muscle felt torn. His wrists were swollen and raw, skin rubbed bloody where the ropes had bitten too deep. He'd fought before — tried to break free when they first dragged him here — but exhaustion had conquered rebellion. Now he hung against the log, bound by thick cords slick with sweat and rain. His breath came in short, cracked bursts. His vision swam. The world around him was sound before shape — laughter, whispers, the faint rhythm of drums somewhere in the dark. He blinked. And then he saw them. Figures — dozens of them — forming a half-circle around him. The Lust
chapter 25: the strong survive
The night air was heavy, the echoes of music and drunken cheer still spilling faintly from the great hall. But outside the dojo gates, the mood was far colder.Seven disciples stumbled in through the courtyard, their robes dirt-stained, their lanterns dim. Faces grim, they bowed low before the dojo master, their leader stepping forward.Disciple (bowing, voice low):"Master… we searched the roads, the riverbank, even the shrines in the woods. Ashura… he was nowhere to be found."The words rippled through the silence like a blade.Lan clenched his fists, teeth grinding. His voice cracked with restrained anger as he turned to his father.Lan:"Father, this is why I told you to let me go myself! You think your disciples could bring him back? He's my brother — I would've found him!"For the first time since the duel, the dojo master rose fully from his seat. His presence silenced even the murmurs of the crowd still lingering in the hall. His eyes were sharp, unyielding, and his words rang
chapter 24: the silent departure
Ashura's body, battered and broken, sways on his feet. Blood trickles down his lips, his arm hanging uselessly at his side. His vision blurs, but he refuses to kneel. For a heartbeat, the arena goes silent as his body finally gives in.Slow motion fall:His knees buckle, his body falling forward. In his mind, fragmented thoughts echo:"So this… is my limit? Life… it's never been fair. No matter how much I try… I'm always… the shadow…"His body collapses with a heavy thud against the stone floor, the sound echoing in the hall. Dust rises, mixing with the dark stain of blood beneath him.---"HANA!!!" a voice gasps — it's Hana, breaking through the stunned silence. She rushes past the guards, tears streaming down her face as she falls beside her brother."ASHURA!!" she cries, clutching his limp body, shaking him as though her voice alone could drag him back. His head rolls slightly, his face pale, chest rising weakly but still alive.---The silence shatters.Half the crowd erupts in ro
chapter 23 : ashura's stand
The Sloth leader leaned back against the crooked trunk, his usually half-closed eyes flickering with a rare sharpness. His voice, though slow, carried a weight that made Aira listen. Sloth Leader: "I was from the family of dojo owners." Aira blinked, surprised. Aira: "Even in this civilization… dojos existed?" He gave a small nod. Sloth Leader: "Of course they did. Discipline, combat, tradition—these things outlive civilizations. My family's dojo wasn't just for fighting… it was our bloodline, our pride. Generations before me trained under the same roof, passing down every technique as if it were scripture." He paused, his tone dragging as if remembering old dust-covered days. Sloth Leader (continuing): "I was the one next in line… destined to inherit it all." Aira frowned softly. Aira: "Wait… but you just told me y
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