Chapter 5

  THE NIGHTMARE BENEATH HELL (1)

  Deep in the heart of a vast, monster-infested forest, where the sky remained dark and storm clouds had lingered ever since the arrival of an unnatural presence—stood a fortress forgotten by time and untouched by mortals for centuries.

  Beneath the shattered ceiling of its grand, crumbling hall, eight mysterious figures stood in a loose circle. Their very presence warped the air, radiating a malevolent force so potent that it kept even S-class danger beasts in the forest at bay.

  These were not mere beings—they were calamities in humanoid form.

  Devils—creatures of the realm of darkness.

  They called themselves the Twelve Apostles. Creations of the one they called Master, each born from his will. Blessed—or cursed—with godlike power.

  Tonight, only eight had gathered out of the twelve devils. With the first two apostles who would be arriving with the Master himself… and barring the two who had died under strange and untraceable conditions.

  “Master will appear soon with his will, and we’ll be given a new mission.” The third apostle announced.

  A heavy silence hung in the air—until the Seventh Apostle broke it. “It has been far too long since we have all gathered under the same roof.”

  The eleventh Apostle nodded. “The Master’s summons must mean something critical.”

  The Sixth Apostle smirked. “Looks like we’ve finally found a clue to the Second Key.”

  Arms folded across his armored chest, the Ninth Apostle scoffed. “Forget the key—did you hear about the humans from another world? One of them is supposedly dead. And those god’s lackeys are now in panic about who did it.”

  “So, who was it? A hero-class? Or a Master.” the Fifth Apostle asked sharply. “Most of them are weak, but their gods empower them with divine energy whenever they face danger. It’s not easy to bring one down.”

  The Sixth shook his head. “I don’t know the full details. But doesn’t that leave only seventeen of them still alive, and we haven’t even been in action.”

  “Who cares? They had it coming. Flying with borrowed wings—they were bound to crash.” the Eleventh Apostle said, flexing his clawed gauntlet that shimmered in a black aura. “What I want to know is, who does the Master plan to send on this new mission?”

  The Ninth grinned cockily. “Obviously me. I’m the most capable.”

  “You?” the Fifth sneered. “You’re the Ninth. Five of us outrank you in raw power alone.”

  “And yet power and number mean nothing when you can control the battlefield like me.” The ninth apostle argued.

  Everyone turned to the far corner of the hall. The Fourth Apostle sat there, back leaning against a cracked obsidian pillar, eyes shut, arms folded. His presence was suffocating, as if the shadows themselves bent to his will.

  “You’re quiet, Fourth.” the Seventh teased, though wariness edged her tone. “Usually, you’re the first to brag about surpassing us all and becoming the Master’s favorite.”

  “Last time, didn’t you claim you’d find a relic to control the world?” the Third added, snorting.

  The Fourth Apostle didn’t move. A faint, dark mist swirled around him as if he was meditating in the eye of a storm. His lips parted slightly, signaling that he was about to awaken.

  “Damn it!” the Fifth muttered. “He must be playing with his clone again.” The Fifth didn’t like it—unlike the other devils, who lacked this ability, it made it difficult for them to venture into the outside world.

  Under their Master’s orders, they couldn’t do so directly unless given a mission after the Tenth Apostle died.

  Suddenly, the Fourth Apostle’s body jerked.

  A sharp, unnatural snap cracked through the pillar behind him like a whip. His eyes shot open, like twin voids swirling within a violet fog which constituted its head.

  “What’s wrong, Blightmar? Nightmares woke you up?” The Sixth Apostle laughed, and others followed.

  Blightmar stood stiffly, twitching. “I found her.”

  His voice was raw. Cracked. Strained like he had clawed his way from the very grasp of death itself.

  “I found the one who got the Eighth and Tenth.”

  “What?” the Fifth Apostle snapped, stepping forward. “Who was it? An underworlder? Or some godforsaken angel trying to curry favor?”

  Blightmar’s head turned, too slowly, as if under the effect of invisible strings. “No. A girl. A human girl… White hair. Blue eyes. Does it ring a bell?”

  Blightmar spoke in broken words, unaware that his thoughts were muddled as he struggled to focus on delivering his findings to his companions.

  Silence followed.

  Then, laughter came.

  Hollow and sharp.

  “You expect us to believe that?” spat the Eleventh.

  “A mere human girl? Are you deluded?!” The Sixth Apostle spoke for everyone.

  “I’m not lying.” Blightmar rasped. “She admitted it. Her name… her name is—”

  Blightmar stopped in the middle.

  “What’s her name?” the Twelfth Apostle asked, feigning curiosity as if trying to keep the conversation going for fun.

  Blightmar’s throat contorted as the wisps around his head made a hollow in the center for the sound to pass.

  But no sound came.

  Then his feet lifted off the ground, his body floating unnaturally midair. The purple haze from his core flared and then began to die, like breath sucked from lungs.

  His limbs convulsed. Twisted.

  “Blightmar!” the fifth Apostle roared. “This is no time for you to put on a show. Speak, damn you!”

  But Blightmar’s mouth hung open in a silent scream. His entire form began to shake violently, and the shadows around him writhed like serpents. The black miasma coursing through him erupted in an uncontrollable howl.

  “Is this some kind of a sick joke you are playing now?” The Sixth Apostle asked, feeling angered.

  “Something’s wrong!” gasped the Third Apostle. “There’s a… presence. Something is here!”

  _ _ _ _—A sensation foreign to these abominations—slithered into their chests.

  Then a voice whispered. Soft, feminine. Echoing from the very walls of their minds.

  ‘I never expected others to be here as well. So, you are the devils calling yourselves the Twelve Apostles. I suppose nine will be left by the time I am done.’

  “This doesn’t make any damn sense. Why can’t I move? Who are you?” the Ninth Apostle exclaimed in agony.

  “Who’s there?! Show yourself, coward! I will tear you with my―” the Fifth Apostle bellowed, trying to grip his war-scythe, but it fell to the ground, his fingers trembling under the pressure.

  ‘Hello, everyone. Don’t be scared. I am not here to hurt you. I am just here to get some of my questions answered from this one. It’s not like I am trying to get back at him for trying to make me feel terrible with the little stunt he pulled.’ The young girl’s voice answered.

  The Apostle's breath became ragged. Their vision warped.

  “What kind of magic is this? Or is it some kind of skill? I don’t understand?” The seventh Apostle screamed and dropped to his knees.

  “I... don’t know.” The Third Apostle’s ignorance alone was enough to cast a shadow of dread across every face.

  If even the Supreme Devil of Magic couldn’t grasp this skill, then no one could.

  ‘It’s a new spell I created. Silent Dominion. It’s a higher-dimensional void magic that manipulates the target’s soul core with threads in space. It’s surprising that even those nearby seem to feel its effects.’

  The voice paused, as if taking a deep breath, then spoke with a hint of irritation. ‘And I am not a coward. Trust me, if showing up there were even an option, I’d be there. Maybe you should be glad, that isn’t the case.’

  And now the voice again sounded excited. ‘You all already look like you're in so much pain. So, how about it, you could each tell me how you feel so I can get a better understanding to later use this spell in moderation. Just think of it as a simple survey.’

  The Apostles turned attentive to the voice as if they were obligated to do as instructed.

  “I… can’t control my magic—! It's burning me alive! My skin… It’s melting!” The Fifth Apostle, clad in full-body armor, screamed as his metallic plating sizzled—flesh bubbling and blistering beneath it.

  ‘Maybe you should try taking it off.’ The sweet voice suggested.

  And he did.

  The sickening sound of flesh tearing filled the chamber as the Fifth Apostle, using his trembling claw-tipped hands, dug beneath the searing plates.

  A strained cry escaped him as he ripped both metal and flesh away in one motion.

  Blood poured from his abdomen in a gushing torrent, his breath ragged, yet he kept moving—driven by panic, pain, and the desperate need to escape the burning hell.

  “My head! It’s splitting open! The voices won’t stop! They’re still screaming!!” The Sixth Apostle cried, clutching his brain tightly with his arms, almost sinking in through his skull.

  ‘Then why don’t you stop listening?’ The sweet voice asked, soft and innocent.

  The Sixth Apostle obeyed.

  With a desperate smile on his face, as if he had found the solution to his problem, he ripped his ears off and swallowed them to forever get rid of the source of his agony.

  “Noooo…. I can still hear them.” The Sixth Apostle again screamed.

  Driven to madness, he grabbed his own arm and ripped it from the socket, flinging it across the chamber.

  Then, with wild eyes and blood-soaked lips, he brought the remaining hand to his mouth—biting down hard until bone cracked between his jaws—before spitting the mangled remains to the floor.

  The room fell silent for a heartbeat, save for the wet thud of flesh and the whirlpool of uncontrollable black miasma around the Fourth Apostle.

  “What is this feeling? What is happening to me? I don’t understand.” The devil murmured, confusion clouding his thoughts.

  ‘Don’t be scared. Tell me.’ the voice coaxed gently.

  “No, don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. My eyes are shut.” the Ninth Apostle stammered, his voice trembling like that of a terrified child as he desperately tried to hide his face.

  ‘It’s alright. You are free to do anything you want.’ The voice remained calm, unbothered by the Apostle’s refusal.

  But in his frantic desperation, the Ninth Apostle brought his claws to his face and began to gouge his own eyes out. The sickening pop of each eyeball being ripped from its socket echoed through the chamber.

  He crushed them in his hands, his fingers slick with the viscous, black fluid, as if punishing himself for rejecting the voice’s kindness.

  ‘And how do you feel?’ the voice inquired, turning to the Seventh Apostle, who stood nearby.

  “I feel hungry.” The Seventh Apostle licked her lips, her gaze lingering on the Ninth Apostle.

  ‘Then you should eat something nice and healthy.’ the voice suggested softly, as if offering a kind recommendation.

  The Seventh Apostle’s eyes flicked toward the Ninth Apostle, whose face was now a twisted mess—his empty sockets staring into nothingness. Her tongue slithered out like a chameleon, long and wet, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

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  In the blink of an eye, her mouth stretched grotesquely wide—like a whip, her tongue circled the Ninth’s head and tore it off. In one swift, pulling motion, the Seventh Apostle swallowed the head whole.

  The sickening crunch of bone breaking was followed by the squelch of his flesh as she chewed on him, devouring him with savage hunger.

  ‘I guess that should be enough.’ the voice continued, its tone unwavering. ‘Now, where was I? Oh right. So, why don’t you tell me everything you know?’

  The Third Apostle stood frozen, his heart pounding as he felt the presence of the Fourth Apostle begin to fade—his soul core being consumed, thread by thread, by an unseen force.

  Is this the girl the Fourth Apostle warned us about? The Third Apostle thought. The one who murdered our brethren… What is she looking for? Who is she?

  The Third Apostle believed his high magical resistance would prevent him from losing his sanity like the others. But even now, he was paralyzed—unable to lift a finger or immediately cast a spell.

  He had never heard of mind manipulation magic that could affect the original soul of a clone—even across such vast distances.

  And even the after effects that were felt by the other Apostles in the vicinity. Wasn’t because they were the target of the caster.

  It was the pressure... the overwhelming weight of the caster’s mental will and magical aura crushing down on them.

  The Third Apostle could not even comprehend what they were experiencing. His mind reeled, unable to react.

  ‘So, another devil is your master.’ the voice spoke casually, sifting through stolen thoughts of the Fourth Apostle. ‘And, you have been involved in all sorts of mischief. And you even know about the reincarnates. You are an interesting, fun bunch... but I already expected this. Now, tell me what I really want to know—about my present.’

  The Third Apostle realized he had to act. Even if the enemy wasn’t here in person—if her presence was only mental—he needed to destroy the link binding her to this place.

  That link was Blightmar. If he could sever it, maybe they stood a chance.

  He turned toward the twin Apostles—the Eleventh and Twelfth—for aid, but what he saw shattered the last of his composure.

  The Twelfth Apostle lay on the ground, twitching violently, white foam frothing from his mouth. He had already succumbed to the pressure and had fainted.

  On top of him sat the Eleventh Apostle, sobbing uncontrollably as he tore open his twin’s chest and feasted on his still-beating heart.

  It was too late to ask others for help as the Third Apostle felt hopeless and alone.

  This can't go on... the Third Apostle gritted his teeth.

  If he wanted to stop this madness he needed to do something even if it meant getting rid of the Fourth Apostle, Blightmar.

  Summoning all the magic he had left, he collected as much black miasma in raw form, hurling a devastating concentration of it at Blightmar’s body. But even before the magic could take off it froze and reversed.

  In an instant, it tore back toward him and exploded in his face, sending him crashing to the ground.

  The Third Apostle was left in a trance, as he saw his own magic formation go against his will.

  And in that moment, it became undeniable—this wasn’t the product of any spell or technique. This was something more primal. More absolute.

  It was fear.

  The fear that his magic wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The fear that the Third Apostle's spell had betrayed him—and detonated.

  The kind of fear a drowning man feels when he realizes the surface is no longer within reach. —Hopeless.

  The kind of fear a child feels when the closet creaks open in the dead of night. —Powerless.

  The kind of fear a soldier feels when the battlefield goes quiet—too quiet. —Doomed.

  Or the fear of an ant, staring up as a boot descends, knowing there is nothing it can do. —Insignificant.

  Not fear of pain.

  Not fear of death.

  But the fear—that there was someone even more powerful, who could make them feel utterly miserable and powerless without even trying.

  And none of the Apostles had ever felt that before—until she arrived.

  …

  Somewhere deep within the fading consciousness of the Fourth Apostle, buried beneath the layers of pain and unraveling thought, a single flicker of awareness remained.

  A thought.

  A truth he had ignored until now.

  All this time, he had felt uneasy around Alicia. That strange sense of dread that made his skin crawl was not out of anger or suspicion.

  But fear.

  It was the same feeling he had only ever known in the presence of one other being—his master.

  And now, he finally understood why he never stood a chance or why none of his curses succeeded.

  It was fear. Plain and simple.

  And with that, the last remnants of his mind slipped into darkness, extinguished like a candle in the wind.

  …

  Suddenly, the hall was swallowed by a hollow darkness.

  In an instant, the Apostles felt their consciousness snap back. The suffocating pressure vanished. The distortion was gone.

  And then—

  A shift.

  They were no longer there.

  The next moment, they found themselves standing on familiar scorched ground, breathing in the acrid air that could only belong to one place—the Realm of Darkness.

  Relief almost washed over them… until they looked ahead.

  There, towering before them, was their master—Zero. Beside him stood the First and Second Apostles, faces unreadable.

  “Master.” the Third Apostle began, his voice unsteady, “we were attacked… the Fourth Apostle, he—”

  But his words faltered as his gaze froze.

  Where the Fourth Apostle had once floated in the hall, only a splattered blotch of black-purple ichor remained, soaking on the ground.

  At that moment, the ring on Zero’s fourth finger let out a faint crack... then slowly crumbled into fading dust.

  “KRAAAHHHhhh…!”

  Zero let out a howl that shook the very air, a scream that echoed through the burning skies of the false hell.

  ◇◇◇

  “I think I got everything I needed to know about the book from that Apostle. I would’ve questioned the rest of them too—if that being hadn’t appeared and severed the connection.”

  According to Al, they shifted into another dimension, which explains why our mental link was cut off.

  I momentarily stared at the crumpled, hollow robe— that once housed the clone of the Fourth Apostle —still steaming, as if the soul had been boiled out of it.

  Looks like his mind couldn’t even handle the basic level of the spell. They should really consider a name change now that they’re down three members.

  Maybe I should recommend a few names— they were such good people, always listening to everything I said. Though honestly, I think they always overdid it.

  The other devils are also out of commission, even if at the end their leader showed up to save them.

  “That means they won’t be coming after me, at least not until they figure out who I am. Hopefully, they’re smart enough to be cautious.”

  Now… what was it I needed to do next?

  Why do I feel like there’s something else I was supposed to do here? Am I forgetting something?

  Well, the gift comes first.

  I need to find a present for dad.

  “It’s gift hunting time. Let’s go.”

  I slipped through the half-open door—the same one that had been left ajar earlier.

  No sooner had my boots touched the polished stone floor than Al’s voice alerted me.

  A high concentration of curse magic was spread in the area.

  “It must be the brainwashing effect triggered when the cursed book was activated.” I muttered. A tingling sensation crept over me. “Something tells me this is going to turn out to be an incredible gift.”

  Looking around, I realized I’d entered what seemed to be a storage area of the magic tower. The shelves were packed with magically engineered items, spell components, artifacts—an entire treasure trove of arcane knowledge.

  Exploring this place would’ve been a dream under different circumstances. But I didn’t have the luxury of time. Sooner or later, someone was bound to show up—either to retrieve the cursed book or to stop it.

  I had to move fast.

  Swoop in, secure the book, and make it mine.

  At least that’s the plan.

  The moment I rounded the next corner, I came to a screeching halt.

  Lined up like statues in the corridor ahead stood dozens of hollow-eyed mages and scholars from the Magic Tower.

  Their faces were slack, eyes sunken and void of reason, yet glimmering faintly with cursed light. Whatever intelligence they once had was buried under layers of forced hypnotic control.

  “Hey there... How about letting me out with a free pass?” I asked with a sincere smile.

  They didn’t even blink.

  A low, unified inhuman gnarl rumbled from their throats. One by one, they stepped forward—then broke into a sprint as they lunged forward at me like a wave of broken minds.

  “Yeah, didn’t think so.” I muttered, spinning on my heel and bolting in the opposite direction.

  I ran nonstop, letting instinct and adrenaline guide me through the maze-like space, making turn after turn at every random shelf.

  Until—I skidded to a stop. A dead end, to be exact.

  Surrounded.

  Shelves loomed over me on all sides, crammed with fragile magical artifacts—tools, relics, and trinkets.

  I could blast through them, sure. But they were still innocent tower mages.

  I scanned the space quickly, thinking. Thinking. THINKING—

  Then my eyes locked onto a shiny artifact on the shelf. It was ornate, almost ceremonial-looking. Delicate. Probably important.

  I picked it up and held it high, letting the light dance off its polished surface, making sure I got everyone’s attention.

  The mages froze.

  Their eyes locked onto the artifact like starved beasts staring at meat, their eyeballs tracking it with every move I made.

  “I know, I know, you’re probably thinking—she has no idea how to use this. You’re right. I don’t.” I said sweetly, flashing a wicked grin that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

  Even in their trance, the mages visibly flinched.

  “And that’s exactly why you should be scared.”

  With a sharp motion, I hurled the artifact onto the ground.

  CRACK.

  The artifact shattered on the stone floor, shards scattering across the ground like spilled secrets.

  The mages stopped moving.

  Motionless. Dead silent. Grief settled over their features, eyes wide with a haunting emptiness—as if something precious inside them had died with that relic.

  “Please don’t hold a grudge against me.” I muttered, slightly stunned by their reaction. Even cursed and mindless, their pride as scholars and magic tower researchers remained.

  I reached for another artifact and tossed it casually.

  They snapped into motion—scrambling to catch it mid-air, diving, using their bodies to cushion the fall. Chaos erupted.

  With every throw, they lunged to intercept. Some collided. Others chanted broken spells. But all of them cleared space for me, desperately trying to protect their precious artefacts.

  I kept going. Another one. And another.

  I laughed. “Oh, now this is fun!”

  Al guided my way, taking me in the direction where the cursed energy radiating was the strongest.

  The mob scrambled to catch every item I threw, their trance overridden by some primal instinct to protect their sacred treasures.

  I was halfway through grabbing the next item when my fingers brushed something small—a tiny golden orb, smooth and faintly warm.

  “Hmm… this feels useful.” I pocketed it without a second thought.

  Then, grabbing one last crystal relic covered in floating magic circles and looked expensive enough to cause a magical heart attack.

  I hurled it high into the air behind me.

  “Catch!” I shouted over my shoulder.

  As the cursed mages rushed to save it, I darted through the path they’d cleared, leaving behind a trail of stunned, grief-stricken, magic nerds in my wake.

  “Thanks for the distraction.”

  The sound of bodies colliding echoed behind me as I slipped away down the hall.

  Al helped me trace the main source of the cursed energy. Inadvertently, it led me to a massive gate, which I figured must be the entrance to one of the upper floors of the magic tower.

  I used my dice bombs, tossing them at the gate.

  Click… BOOM.

  They detonated with a clean, concussive burst, blasting it open without leaving behind any traceable magical residue. After all, I couldn’t afford to leave any evidence behind while wrecking the tower—getting caught later can cause problems for Athena because of my affiliation with the Hart Kingdom.

  An explosion triggered by a magical device was much safer.

  I stepped out of the vault and into one of the upper floors of the magic tower. Judging by the view and the air pressure, I guessed I was at least fifty floors high.

  At the center was a massive hollow shaft—an open core that connected the tower’s many floors like a spine.

  The cursed mages had followed me out of the vault as well.

  Dozens—no, hundreds—of them poured out of the vault behind me, eyes still blank, expressions locked in that eerie trance. Their feet pounded the stone floor, surrounding me like a rising tide.

  “You mean to say the cursed book is at the bottom-most level of the tower.” I responded to Al’s analysis after it finally traced back the origin of cursed magic.

  I exhaled slowly.

  “Guess we’re all going down the rabbit hole together.”

  Al warned me about multiple magical defenses spread throughout the tower. This place turned out to be a tough nut to crack, even for me, especially under these strained conditions.

  No time. No tricks. No escape routes left.

  I leapt into the shaft.

  The world became a blur of wind and fancy-looking sophisticated walls laced with defense and attack magic.

  My hair whipped around me as I dropped like a falling star, the black floor at the bottom growing ominously closer.

  Above, the mages rained down like a flock of ravens, their robes billowing behind them, still following without hesitation.

  And on the shaft walls. Slots opened.

  Magical turrets emerged from hidden compartments. I could hear the faint hum of barrels spinning, glowing with condensed magic energy.

  They clicked and chirped in synchronization, targeting me with deadly precision.

  I reached for my belt, fingers finding the familiar shape of the golden orb I got my hands on.

  And then—I grinned.

  “I guess there’s no holding back now.”

  ◇◇◇

  Fillia, Lilliana, and Justin stood frozen as the massive seal wall burst open with a deafening crash.

  From within the swirling dust and flickering light emerged a tall figure—an imposing man with a long, sharp grey beard. He wore flowing robes of deep violet and silver. A crystalline amulet floated near his chest.

  His cloak was clasped with a sigil only reserved for the highest authority of the Magic Tower. The unmistakable mark of the Tower’s master and holding the moniker of an archmage.

  But his eyes—

  His eyes were wrong.

  “Father...” all three of them whispered, voices overlapping with disbelief.

  “Father, are you alright Fillia called out, stepping forward instinctively—even as her intuition screamed that something was horribly off. Deep down, she already knew. But for a fleeting second, she hoped he’d speak, or smile, or simply look at her like he used to.

  Instead, silence.

  “Fillia, wait—something’s not right!” Lilliana called out, pulling her sister back. Her grip on her sword tightened as she turned sharply to Justin. “What happened to father, Justin?!”

  Justin stood stiff, his expression stunned, as if the world had stopped making sense.

  “Why now...?” he whispered. “I was supposed to fix this. It’s all my fault.”

  His eyes were wide with horror—trapped between memory and reality.

  And then, without a word, the man—their father, raised one hand slowly.

  In the other, he held a massive book, dark green with scaled parchment binding—dragon skin. Its pages, thick and appeared cracked with age.

  As the book creaked open, an eerie presence filled the room. Flipping faster and faster until the front cover split open with a wet, fleshy snap.

  A single, grotesque eye blinked awake from the cover. Slitted, golden, and brimming with malicious amusement—as if the world was nothing but a game to it.

  The Grimoire of Hollow.

  The moment the eye opened, a whirlpool of black-purple flames surged from the book, taking the shape of a colossal, spectral dragon. It roared with a sound that bent the air itself and lunged straight for Justin.

  This was one of their father’s special techniques—phantasmic fire magic. He conjured creatures made of flame, and the size and clarity of the dragon revealed just how powerful he remained, even under the curse.

  Fillia didn’t hesitate. She raised her hands and summoned an explosion of searing fire. She didn’t aim directly at their father—she couldn’t bring herself to. Instead, she fired to the side, launching an explosive blast that knocked him slightly off balance, forcing him to step away and break concentration to continue casting the magic.

  Lilliana dashed forward, her sword glowing. Holding it horizontally, she channeled her magic and formed a massive barrier of light. The flaming dragon slammed into her shield with a blast that shook the floor. She gritted her teeth, her steel boots skidding backward from the force, nearly knocking her off her feet.

  “Get it together, Justin!” she shouted.

  Justin had dropped to his knees, fists clenched. His whole body trembled.

  “This is all my fault.” he whispered again. His eyes were locked onto the man standing before them—his father—whose once-warm gaze was now replaced by a crimson glow, void of reason, consumed by the book’s curse.

  Justin’s eyes could only hopelessly see the book he was holding in his hand.

  The Grimoire of Hollow—the cursed artifact that had started all of this.

  The flames before him could only draw his mind back to the place where it all began.

  ◇◇◇

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