# Chapter 1: The Whisper of the Black Moon

  ## I. The Curse and the Pact

  A faint whisper, almost ethereal.

  *"I love you..."*

  The voice drifted like warm mist into Zack’s ear, rousing him with the gentleness of a pleasant nightmare. Beside him, buried in the blackened floor, lay the **"Black Moon"**—his sword—throbbing like an open wound in reality. So dark it devoured all light, its silver hilt engraved with a rustic waning-moon symbol, as if the blade itself mourned endlessly.

  Zack lay motionless, rigid as a fresh corpse, eyes wide in a trance as he searched the ceiling for the source of that voice. But there was only silence.

  He drew a deep, rasping breath. The air was thick, almost putrid.

  He turned toward the lone window—cracked and misshapen, hung with a filthy rag that fluttered like a forgotten sigh. Moonlight strained to creep in but was beaten back by grime and time.

  Rising slowly, he fixed his gaze on the sword. It seemed to return the stare.

  Not a weapon. A curse. A mirror. A pact.

  In the dark room, lit only by a trembling candle, the word clawed its way out of his throat:

  “Damnation…”

  A pause. An almost reverent hush.

  With violent force, Zack let his head drop to the floor.

  *Crack.* The wood groaned.

  His skull met the boards with a hollow thud.

  Blood welled in his eyes.

  In that moment, he hated himself more than anything.

  But why?

  Staggering upright, he shuffled to the broken mirror.

  Blood trailed down his brow.

  There he saw himself: white hair, tangled and stained with blood; skin as pale as diseased snow; oversized garments stitched from skins and feathers of hunted beasts. A twenty-five-year-old man shattered within, twisted without.

  No purpose. No salvation.

  A madman teetering on the brink.

  The mirror spat back his image with contempt. Behind that cracked frame lay a bed of hay and rags, bathed in pale moonlight. And there—like a phantom—stood her:

  A girl in white.

  Hair golden as sin.

  Eyes golden as promise.

  Skin sweet as hazelnut.

  And, as though under a spell, she whispered once more:

  *"I love you..."*

  ## II. Refuge in In Medias Res

  The crooked-plank cabin, wedged between rusting metal shacks, was the perfect hideout for someone who wished to go unseen. In *In Medias Res*, rent was cheap enough to stay clear of the military—but too steep for anyone to call it “home.” There, Zack Fair slept beneath a veil of indifference.

  In this rotten quarter, brown and caramel eyes were the norm; black eyes, like his, went unnoticed. At night, the streets fell silent: no thefts, no killings—even in misery, there was law and respect. And Zack; he was law and respect.

  A few alleys away, the high city glittered like a starry sky. On the horizon, the royal castle rose in unnatural hues—purple, white, and black, more precious than gold.

  “A poor empire for a poor country,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the hilt of the “Black Moon” at his waist.

  No one dared greet him. A single glance could bring deadly silence; looking elsewhere was common sense. The fear Zack inspired lingered in every door and shadow.

  He reached the **“Leaky Mug”** with a sharp rap:

  *knock, knock…*

  The wood creaked. A slit opened, and a hidden voice hissed:

  “Password?”

  “Purple pigs.”

  The door swung wide, and the hall erupted in raucous music, laughter, and cries. A bard struck fierce chords on his lute while the crowd—drunk on both joy and despair—sang, wept, and danced to exorcise hunger and fear.

  When Zack entered, everything froze. All eyes turned to the hooded stranger. The bard’s fingers stilled on the strings. Tension thickened like mist… until Zack lifted his arm in a nearly imperceptible gesture. In an instant, the hall burst back into revelry. The bard resumed his tune, and mugs clinked once more.

  Zack slipped into a dark corner at the bar. Without a word, the bartender placed before him a steaming mug and a crumpled envelope. He drained the mug in one gulp, inhaled sharply, and murmured:

  “What is it, K?”

  Beside him, a woman in a black cloak lowered her hood. Dark curls framed a dusky face, and her eyes—red, deep—glowed like living embers.

  “You’re strange, Zack. How do you sense my aura so easily?”

  He gave a wry half-smile, nerves humming beneath his skin.

  “I don’t know, K. Seems the training paid off.”

  K returned the smile—gentle, defiant.

  “Then celebrate with me. We’ve a hunt tonight.”

  Zack raised an eyebrow.

  “Where’s that fool?”

  “Sleeping, master,” she said, her tone strangely maternal. “It wasn’t easy to bring him here…”

  K cast a wary glance at his mug.

  “You spoil him too much.”

  With a soft laugh, she stepped close. Her scent—pepper and rosemary—made Zack shift uneasily. Without warning, K embraced him and pressed a brief, warm kiss to his lips, murmuring in his ear:

  “He’s just a child.”

  Zack said nothing. He blushed, smiled, and held her fiery gaze.

  “I know.”

  Together, they slipped out without another word. Outside, the Void’s putrid mist curled through the streets, reminding them that the hunt had begun.

  ## III. The Hunt Beneath the Red Lights

  Leaping across the rooftops of *In Medias Res*, Zack and K blended into the darkness, becoming one with the night—shadows amidst the great hunt. The black mist hung thick and suffocating over the city like an ominous omen. The citizens of the lower district knew the signs well: lock the doors, shutter the windows, and stay utterly silent.

  Up high, however, it was a different story. The wealthy regions of the city shone brightly, streets bustling with nobles indulging in their whims. The black mist did not frighten them—they ignored it as if they were immune to the Void. Gambling dens, brothels, and slave markets formed the grotesque glamour of the elite. There, blue eyes were the norm; a mark of nobility etched into every face.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Emerging from the shadows of the lower district, Zack pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

  Name: Pratt Zanola

  Age: 35

  Height: 6'2"

  Features: Blue eyes, black hair

  Reason: (Rape)

  “Master, he’s from the Zanola Family. It’s going to draw a lot of attention,” K whispered.

  The response came like a blade—swift, cold, and merciless:

  “He was paid for. His father sold parts of his body to get money.”

  The silence that followed was heavy. A cruel answer for an inhuman act. K knew, just by looking into Zack’s eyes, that Pratt’s death would not be quick.

  As they moved toward the district of lights, the overwhelming illumination made stealth harder, but it was nothing they hadn't faced before. Slipping through alleys and jumping from house to house, they advanced until they spotted their destination: a massive bar drenched in pulsing red lights, more a brothel than any ordinary bar.

  This was Dragon House territory.

  Zack and K entered discreetly through a bathroom window. Inside, a few men were laughing and talking loudly. They were quickly knocked out and their clothes taken.

  Wearing baseball caps and dark sunglasses they had brought for the job, Zack and K melted into the crowd.

  The pounding music shook the walls. Symbols of dragons and twisting serpents danced along the walls in hypnotic patterns—a clear reminder of who ruled this rotten corner of the world.

  There, Zack could already feel it. Oscillating energies, chaos pulsing through narrow corridors and behind closed doors. Loud music shattered the air, mixed with screams, drunken laughter, and moans.

  “How will we know he’s here?” K asked, her voice nearly swallowed by the noise.

  “He’s here,” Zack replied without hesitation. “My informant confirmed it an hour ago.”

  His voice was a blade.

  “We’ll go door to door.”

  Each door was a new hell.

  K and Zack already knew what awaited them, but even so... every step was a punch to the soul.

  Behind each door:

  — Slaves being mutilated and humiliated.

  — Women being abused verbally and sexually.

  — Monsters in cages, devouring still-breathing people while nobles roared with laughter.

  — Children sacrificed for twisted pleasures.

  — Orgies where violence and blood oozed down the walls.

  With every door opened, the stench of corruption grew stronger.

  The blue eyes of the nobles gleamed like beacons from hell as they committed their horrors.

  And those who suffered—all of them—had eyes like Zack and K: black as the void.

  The sickening smiles of the tormentors blended into the atmosphere, contaminating the air, suffocating sanity.

  They were demons. Every single one.

  K trembled. Rage pulsed in her chest, poisoning her thoughts.

  Her fists clenched so tightly that her nails tore into her own flesh. Blood dripped.

  She stumbled over to a trash can and vomited, her body rejecting what her mind tried to endure.

  But the laughter...

  The damned laughter still echoed, mocking her, trying to shatter her.

  In a swift, rare gesture of tenderness, Zack pulled her into his arms.

  He hugged her tightly, cradled her face with both hands, and kissed her forehead with a fierce gentleness.

  “I’m here,” he whispered. “Count to ten... and breathe, K.”

  With each number, her breathing slowed.

  The storm inside her began to calm.

  For a moment, the world seemed a little less rotten.

  “That’s why I didn’t want you to come,” Zack murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re not ready yet... nor is the boy. But now... be strong. We finish this.”

  K nodded, her body still trembling, but her will hardened.

  They moved forward.

  At the end of the corridor of horrors, they realized: he wasn’t there.

  But Zack... Zack now knew exactly where Pratt Zanola was waiting for them.

  ## IV. The Blood Feast at the Dragon Bar

  At the end of the corridor, Zack and K advanced in silence toward the Dragon Bar. From afar, they spotted Pratt Zanola seated on a chair, shackled by chains, before slaves kneeling like dogs. Pratt, in his sick delight, tossed bits of food into their mouths as they leaped and snarled like beasts. Around him, nobles roared with laughter, women “entertained” the wealthy gentlemen, and the king’s soldiers stood guard.

  The hall was a macabre display of ostentation: dragons carved into the ceiling; gleaming silver chandeliers; tables and chairs trimmed in gold. The soldiers feasted on rare delicacies, clad in violet armor inlaid with gold and wielding silver swords. Some even abused the slaves, lost in their sadistic pleasures.

  K clenched her fist, her voice raw:

  “I can’t… I feel so—”

  In the blink of an eye, Zack was no longer by her side. K recoiled as he materialized before her, wreathed in black smoke. His cap and sunglasses were gone; his face was freed and twisted into a mad grin. The Black Eyes of the Void sucked every ounce of energy from the hall as he spun in the air like a whirlwind.

  Suddenly, the Black Moon blade flared, devouring the surrounding light. Zack’s frenzied laughter rang out, and carnage erupted:

  — Heads fell.

  — Swords clanged against armor.

  — Nobles were decapitated in the half-light.

  The torches were snuffed; only sparks of steel and terrified screams remained.

  Women fled in panic, but there was nowhere to hide. Bodies were torn apart—arms, legs, skulls strewn across the floor. It was a blood-soaked theater, and the victims, its grotesque cast. The soldiers begged for mercy, but Zack cut them down without pity.

  K ran to the door, bracing it with all her strength. Every strike of metal sounded like a death knell: “PAH! CLACK! PAAH!” Gradually, the onslaught faded until only deadly silence remained, swallowed by the Void’s black smoke.

  In the Dragon Bar, only the echo of the blood feast endured.

  A note from L.KNocturne

  Author’s Note:

  A tale forged from cosmic horror, power, romance, and fantasy. An original story born from a tabletop RPG session.