Looking at the third page, I found that same painting again. But something was different.
The boy's mouth was more open than before, as if he were in deep pain, an agony that seemed to overflow from the image. His face was now contorted in a desperate expression, and he was no longer looking at me.
His eyes... I couldn't see anything in them. They were like empty wells, draining everything I could recognize.
The hand began to move on the clock he was holding, ticking, second after second, minute after minute, just like a real clock.
A chill ran down my spine. Fear began to grow uncontrollably in my chest, a suffocating pressure that left me breathless.
"66"
Organizing my mind, forcing my reasoning to remain steady, I moved on to the next marker.
"Can you hear me?" I heard that voice again. This time, I not only read, but heard the words whispered behind me, as if they were made by the shadows.
An icy chill ran through me from head to toe. I felt an old, cold hand slide through my hair. The touch was unbearable, almost cutting.
"33"
I turned to the next page.
The photo of the boy disappeared and, in its place, an invisible hand began to grope my body. It passed over my nose, my mouth—the fear became almost palpable.
I had never felt anything like this before. I almost succumbed to terror, but I gathered all my mental strength to continue, to face what was before me.
There was a dark corridor depicted on the page. The ceiling arched in a perfect arc, while the sides widened as they approached the floor, as if inviting me to enter that endless place.
At the end of the corridor was a wall. On it, twelve symbols formed a twelve-pointed star. Each point housed an enigmatic symbol, full of meaning.
"66"
I turned to the next page, and it was as if I had taken a step forward in the image, approaching that star, feeling the weight of the mystery.
Then, a low growl echoed in the corner of my ear. Nails scratched my skin, and muffled banging echoed from my room—as if thousands of arms were pounding the floor at a frightening pace, like a centipede.
"132... 264... 24... 48... 12... 110... 220..."
Ding, dong!
I was standing before the twelve runes.
At that moment, it was as if an invisible legion had grabbed hold of my body, a multitude of whispering voices, a single voice in thousands of mouths.
The myriad voices emerged as if speaking directly into my mind—dreamy, greedy voices singing an opera in a macabre and hypnotic tone.
"My beloved hometown...
I will return one day.
I have been wandering for so long, so long.
I miss the clean spring, my neighbors.
Let's enjoy the best virgins together while we listen...
To the enchanting cries, we celebrate, dance, and sing.
The sky is red, like blood, and the earth is boiling like lava.
I miss the blood in the glass, it was soft and tasty.
Let's laugh, tear off our skin, and dance.
We chew each other now as we sing this song..."
I stood frozen, sweat pouring down my face.
Something crawled in front of me as the poem echoed in my ears. The moonlight illuminated what looked like my own face — but my eyes were completely white, and my mouth was open in a silent scream. The expression was identical to that of the boy in the painting I knew.
Ding—dong!
Darkness enveloped the room once again.
I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and saw myself sleeping in my rocking chair. The window was open, and the cool night wind still caressed my sweaty skin.
(Was it a nightmare?) I thought, my heart still racing.
The words in the book suddenly disappeared. For a moment, the pages were blurry, as if the ink had vanished into thin air. But then, slowly, the letters began to reappear, sharp and clear.
The cover of the book had changed. Now it was dark, almost gloomy, as if it had absorbed all the light in the room.
In the center, many strange runes appeared, glowing with a faint, mysterious light. The mark that had been there before was gone, replaced by a black shadow that trembled slightly in the shape of a centipede. It looked alive—I could swear its red head was moving before my eyes.
It was as if something had been engraved on that page, something that pulsed with a life of its own.
(That symbolism again... how am I related to this?)
Felipe had warned me that all of this had to do with my ancestry, but I never imagined that the book would be so frightening. The illusion I experienced was not just any nightmare—it was a warning. A warning of the real danger that this tome represented.
Still, it was the only concrete clue I had so far about the magicians.
The sounds around me slowly returned—people talking, doors opening and closing. Gradually, I calmed down, seeking comfort in the normality of that environment.
My nightmare still haunted me. The icy touch I felt on my skin, the sticky feeling that seemed to cling to me, that putrid smell that still made me wrinkle my nose... and that demonic, tormented voice echoed in my mind like a constant whisper.
I had never experienced anything like this before.
Turning the cover, my eyes caught the title in bold letters:
"Arts of the Black Mist, Path of Shadow and Death."
With my heart racing, I opened the first page.
(This book will help you lay the foundation. If you want to go further, look for the tome: Kingdom of Black Light. For your own safety, I suggest you do not try other techniques. As my descendant, they will only hurt you).
I smiled, an ironic and somewhat bitter smile.
(It seems I had a problematic ancestor...)
Felipe's words came to mind. Was this thing really bothering me so much that I accepted this book? Maybe that's why he was relieved to get rid of it.
If so, could this ancestor still be alive in some way?
My mind began to spin with all the coincidences of the last few days—it seemed like something was pulling me into the world of wizards, as if I had a hidden destiny there.
(Let's see what this book has to teach me.)
I turned the pages carefully. They were written in Rurh, an ancient language I could understand reasonably well, which made everything easier to decipher.