Hi! I'm Raven — necromancer, containment specialist, and today's lucky pick for Rule One protocol. Honestly, it feels kind of poetic, right? Especially since I used to be center in my K-pop group — and not just any center, the main rapper too. Which is, like, a huge deal. Super rare. But oh my god, sorry, old habit — my Moonlings used to love when I did that intro on stage. Ugh, I miss them.
Our group concept? Eternal devotion — literally. Fans didn't just cheer for us; they signed up to become part of the afterlife reserve. We didn't conscript. We didn't harvest. We waited. Every Moonling lived a full, beautiful mortal life. And when their time came — naturally, peacefully — we performed the rite. One incantation later? Eternal front-row access. Spectral fanbase secured. All bound by consent, glam, and the occasional séance ticket drop.
And hey — I'm always looking for new fans. You could totally be a Moonling too. I love all my fans. Well, minus the feral ones and those super gatekeepy types. You know who you are. Unlike the so-called "normal" idols — looking at you, Heaven-based dragon group Seraphic Skyfall — we don't rely on brute aura or pre-baptized contracts. And don't even get me started on the demon-label circuits like Bloodberry Halo. Or that hunter group with the weird purity clauses, Silver Vow, or whatever they're calling themselves this week. Sure, we're ranked fourth right now. But spiritually? Socially? Metaphysically? We're number one, babe. Don't let those bias charts fool you.
Though, if you want a little insider lore — it's usually mortal or lower-immortal idol groups that dominate the charts. Something about that one-life-to-live energy really hits. We medium immortals mostly get mortals based on worship, legacy, or vibe. It's such an interesting dynamic. You can find video breakdowns all over LifeNet if you're curious — full tier lists, resurrection rumors, even fan rituals that made it into contracts. Wild stuff.
I might as well plug the group — so when our music makes its way into your realm, you'll already know the name. We are Nocturne Bloom the first idol unit legally licensed for posthumous soul integration under the Necro-Entertainment Ethics Accord.
And yes, I was the center. Absolutely the main rapper. People always ask why I rap instead of sing for spellwork, and I'm like — okay, first of all? When you've got a magical musical flow like mine, rap is just built different. Stronger rhythm. Sharper strikes. Faster hits.
And if you've ever heard our version of Eminem — who, by the way, is a literal candy demon-angel hybrid — you'd get it. He's officially the fastest magical rapper alive. Once rap started hitting the magical circuit, it was over for the ballad casters. That flow is everything.
And yes, I stand by it. Every beat, every bar, every breath.
I might be speaking out my ass, but if you're asking why I say we're number one? It's not just ego — it's the system. We've got one of the most emotionally ethical, magically airtight, fan-integrated contract structures in the business. Our spells don't just bind — they uplift. We make afterlife promises and keep them in full glam, on beat, no blood tax needed. That's why I stand by it. Our fans aren't pawns — they're partners.
If that doesn't convince you to become a fan, I don't know what will. I mean, I'm not holier-than-thou or anything — but I'm also not a total bitch like those damn hunter groups. Especially Silver Vow. God, I usually don't have beef with hunters, but that group? I'd rather collab with the heavenly dragons than touch their purity-clause mess.
Okay. Formality hat on. Just—fair warning. I tend to slip into stage-speak when I get excited, and this assignment? Kinda giving comeback energy. So yeah. This might get weird.
So. Before I transferred to the U.S. branch (culture shock plus bonus barbecue), my primary function was adjacent to high-threat exorcism — but, like, with a serious glam component. I was technically a K-pop idol first — doing necromancy onstage with a few sealed rites offstage. Most people assumed we were just aesthetic. But when the Hasher branch announced they were scouting necromancers to pilot a full-on idol initiative in Korea? I jumped. A lot of folks were skeptical — like, "Why would you use necromancers? Aren't they just good for farming, medicine, or law?" But babe. We're more than that.
And yeah — it's kinda sad when people treat idols like objects. I get it. We do serve looks, and yes, our performances are hyper-curated. But people forget there's a difference between the performer and the person. And sometimes? That line gets blurry — especially when the performance matches who we are. It's complicated. It's also real.
The first time I performed on a stage as a licensed Hasher was electric. But the moment I became a Hasher? That's a whole story. See, we'd started doing ghost hunts — or what fans now call them — but quickly realized most of the spirits weren't the problem. What we were facing were full-on stalker-class serial entities. That's what we called them. Every branch has its own slang or rank system, sure — but I think most of us agreed to keep that term. Because it fit.
What's wild is, Korea already had a Hasher branch — but when they started branching out into entertainment markets? That's when people really started paying attention. In most parts of the world, Hashers get viewed as entertainers at best, exterminators at most. If you're not in fieldwork or paperwork, you're probably doing something flashy to stay afloat. And honestly? I don't blame us. Hasher work isn't a cheap gig. It pays out differently — not always in coin, but in resonance. On a soul level, it's rich. On paper? Meh. So yeah, we double up.
I started officially working as a Hasher around the late 2010s — and babe, that was a rough time to be an idol. Every gen's got its chaos, but that stretch? We called it the stalker-serial era. Things got real. Fans went from parasocial to predatory. And guess who handled it? Not the cops — our managers. Our bodyguards. Us.
The Korea branch finally stopped using necromancers as stage décor and let us help for real. We weren't just performers anymore. We were the bait. We drew in the obsessed, then turned that fixation back on the threat. And yeah — we had a few close calls. But that's probably what made the higher-ups realize we were ready. Felt like some weird trial-by-fandom ritual.
That's why our fan contracts are what they are. It takes a certain soul to love us without tipping into curse territory. You think it's easy letting people worship you without it unraveling? Try it.
So yeah, when the late-2010s fan incidents started going viral — doxxing, breakdowns, disappearances — the big agencies finally panicked. Magical surveillance flagged it first: sigils on mirrors, obsession spells, offerings in alleyways. That wasn't just fame pressure. That was cursecraft.
Right around then, we got folded into what's now the Hasher network. Back then the terms weren't even standard, but the work was happening. People were out there handling slashers in whatever gear they had. Giving it a name made it real.
So we got branded, trained, and unleashed. Glam still mattered — but now the glam had teeth.
Now let's talk about my necromancer work. Yeah, I'm a triple threat — K-pop idol, Hasher, and still doing the full necromancy grind. People act shocked every time. Like, "Wait, you're a necromancer?" Babe, who do you think preps the reanimated for psychospiritual testimony? Some crusty warlock with bone dust under his nails? No. Me. With sterile gloves, ritual-grade hygiene, and a highlight that hits under candlelight.
Thing is, public ritual work dropped off hard. Families started customizing their afterlife plans — curated heavens, branded limbos, themed underworlds. Everyone wants their own version of heaven or hell these days. And yeah, we provide. For a fee. Which we then have to pay forward to the Sonsters — the afterlife brokers. They're the ones who handle the conversion, translation, and transfer into whatever realm the client picked. It's weird. It's messy. But the Sonsters know the rules.
People keep saying necromancers are rich — that lie needs to die in a ditch. Most of us are just making ends meet. So when folks ask why I signed on? Easy. It pays, it resonates, and it's mine.
Sorry if I'm giving you the long intro. Me and Sexy Boulder — that's Hex-One and Hex-Two's uncle, if you're new here — figured you might need a little lore about us first, just to understand where we're coming from. Before we give you what you actually came for.
Anyway. Rule One? Yeah, that rule's always been a little... messy. It's got the usual slasher pathology, sure, but the horror trope it pulls from? Could be literally anything. Creepy kid? Possessed doll? A haunted love letter or a reflection that compliments you too perfectly? If it makes you feel safe first and corrupted second — congrats, Rule One.
Honestly, all the rules are like that. You think it's one thing, turns out to be another. They twist. They bleed into each other. That's why I keep my necromancer license up to date — just in case something crosses over and I need to explain why I summoned a dead person mid-mission. Summoning ghosts? Not easy. Not legal without stacks of paperwork. Ghosts have their own thing going on — whether they died into it or were born cursed from the start.
So yeah, I've got clearance to summon a few ghosts who actually broke Rule One. And no, it's not just plot convenience — though it is very convenient. Just know, behind every spooky cameo is a stack of soulwork forms and a signature from at least three departments.
As I was scanning through the dead network — yeah, we all have our own version of it — I had to leave my literal body. And I mean literal-literal. Everyone's dead network works differently. It's like a private server coded to your soul — some folks never even boot theirs up. Mine? I call it Doogle. Yeah, like Google but for ghosts. So if I zone out mid-ritual? I'm probably in Doogle, checking spiritual data streams or ghost pings. This body isn't even my base form. I just felt like presenting feminine today. Little vacation trip to Lover Lane. Cute, right?
It's always a little awkward explaining my they/them situation to Sexy Boulder. To him, I just look like a girl. But that's just the body I pulled for the ritual.
Hasher work is actually really inclusive — doesn't matter your race, age, soul level, whatever. But the truth? Slashers target femme bodies more often. It's just how the pattern plays. So yeah, I've got a body suit for that. I lean into it when I need to. The genre expects a girl. I give them one.
Sexy Boulder's gotten better about it too. He started asking questions — not just about me, but other species, other rituals. Stuff outside his bubble. And honestly? It's made him a better hunter. Understanding how different folks move through fear? That helps. Big picture-wise. Which is a big step up, given that he's just an enhanced human compared to the rest of us. I sometimes forget he's technically younger than me. Though, by necromancer maturity scales, I'm still in my twenties.
If you look at horror history, it's always the woman screaming, the woman surviving, the woman becoming. The genre's built on femininity — pain, purity, vengeance. And yeah, that's not new. Back in the Jack the Ripper days, women were the main targets. That's when Hashers ran brothels in the slums — not just for coin, but because that's where the killers came. We became protection by necessity.
Since then? We've grown. Hashers today stand on more equal ground. But let's not rewrite history — male Hashers used to get paid less, trusted less. They couldn't bait the same way femme-presenting ones could. These days, they hold their own. Still, horror's always been led by women. Be honest — you tuning in for the guy dying shirtless, or the girl going topless and slicing monsters in heels?
So yeah, I wear the trope. And then I weaponize it.
And while we're on the topic — yeah, I'm a triple threat. K-pop idol, necromancer, Hasher. When a necromancer becomes a Hasher, it's like triple billing — triple the ritual load, triple the spiritual reward. It's not gold, it's reach.
You'll find most necromancers use they/them at least part of the time. Once you get into it, gender's more of a tool than an identity — a tuning fork for magic. Male, female, nonbinary — we cycle through all three. That flexibility? Makes us sharp. Efficient. Adaptable.
In the field, you'll see us a lot — think lab techs, but with extra hands and soul gear. Necromancers are considered some of the best partner types in Hasher work. Few of us choose to work alone — not because we can't, but because we know better. You get killed in the wrong way and your soul becomes a weapon. Slashers know that. They'll use it.
Magic Theory 101? It's a mess — especially when you're dealing with necromantic current like mine. Magic can be stunning, expressive, adaptable. But underneath all that? It's painfully gendered. I'm not joking.
We're expected to switch between three core templates: male, female, and nonbinary. Not for style — for function. Each form carries different magical polarity. The nonbinary one is what we call spell-neutral — balanced, clean for rites where gender gets in the way.
But yeah — a ton of spellwork is locked behind gender codes. Old grimoires don't care how you identify; they want the right 'frequency.' Banishment loops, fertility rites, even memory extractions — they all key off gender alignment. If that sounds exhausting, that's because it is. That's why we shift. That's why we train. Not for expression — for survival.
Okay so, here's a cursed little throwback y'all might enjoy — and yeah, it stars Athena. And yes, I'm saying it loud: Athena is a whole bitch. I don't care how many temples she's got or how many scrolls got her name in gold. In the magical world? She's not the goddess of wisdom. She's the virgin goddess of bitchness. Period. Which is wild, because some days she's a virgin, and other days she's not — something about sleeping with her uncle who owns the sea. Like, what the hell is up with that Greek family tree?
And don't even get me started on Zeus and Hera. You'd think they'd be the most canceled couple in divine history — but apparently they figured out what an open marriage was sometime around the 1960s and have been vibing ever since. Hera's the goddess of marriage, sure, but these days that means all types. She's actually thriving now.
Believe it or not, I don't think Nicky even remembers this one, because I wasn't considered a major leader yet. But she ended up saving a whole group of fans from a slasher who had crossed over from Africa — right when some Greek deities were trying to stir up their old mess again. Apparently, Athena thought it'd be funny to hijack a soul and use it to kill the last surviving soldier from some ancient divine bet. Real classy.
You know how the Greek gods are — petty, theatrical, always betting on mortal lives like it's a Saturday game show. Athena showed up like she owned the place, mid-drama, soul magic pulsing, and then Nicky came in hot. No fanfare, just vibes and violence.
Security got called because she was straight-up throwing hands with a goddess. I didn't even know it was her at first. But then I heard that voice — loud, furious, and pure Nicky: "Oh hell no. You are not about to use some war-trauma sob story to ghost-possess a K-idol, you toga-wrapped tax fraud! You redneck incest freak with a spear fetish — keep Poseidon's dick out your drama and sit your virgin-ass wisdom down before I drag your helmet through every underworld filing cabinet until Hades personally files a divine restraining order."
Classic Nicky. I was still backstage watching it unfold like a cursed crossover episode. Meanwhile, ten minutes later I had to go deal with the slasher itself — the one who tried to rekill its victim mid-resort gig. That whole week? Absolute chaos.
Sorry — went off on a whole mythological rant again. Happens when I get fired up. What can I say? I was a huge fan of Nicky back in the day. Still am, honestly. She goes by a different name now, but whatever. I get to work with her more often these days, and that's still kind of surreal. Anyway, speaking of surreal — I finally ran into some ghosts again, so let me tell you how that went.
I sat down with one of the victims — the same one who still had a trophy jutting out of their eye socket like it was a corsage. They told me it all started when their hotel sent out a last-minute invite to a talent show. Totally random. Said the prize money was ridiculous — like $10,000 USD ridiculous. Which sounds fab, until you realize that, adjusted to Korean won, that's over 13 million KRW. And the way they charge for this resort? You'd need it just to afford the minibar.
Here's the math for the international folks:
$10,000 USD is about ₩13,800,000 KRW$13,500 CAD (because Canada's soft flexing)£7,800 GBP (and you still wouldn't get breakfast included)
This place has 4.5-star prices with zero-star exorcism coverage. And to be clear — if you're not in a cursed couple, you're paying full rate. Like, $15,000 for the premium five-night package, no couple discount. But if you are a couple? And the slasher cult thinks you're romantically bonded — well, congrats, you qualify for the "blood pact getaway" pricing. They slash the cost down to $3,000. It's bait, obviously. The cult used that fake discount model to encourage people to come in pairs — easier to manipulate, easier to kill.
For some loser reason, they only apply the discount to couples. No friends. No siblings. Just that sweet, easy-to-target emotional codependency.
Honestly, some non-cursed resorts offer that rate — without the blood-soaked history. So yeah — the money looked good, but that talent show was a trap with room service. They entered. They won. And that's when things went cursed.
Enough talk about money. When I asked the victims for their story, the mood shifted like a floor gave out beneath us. Every single one of them had a visceral reaction to the word "manager." Like a nerve had been hit that never healed right. One ghost with a half-sung voice said, almost automatically, "The manager said don't let them in." It came out like breath reflex. A memory recited from muscle, not mind. That's when the manager, pale and wrong-smiling, told them, "Don't let them in." And they listened. Gods, they listened.
One of the ghosts said it all changed the moment those words were spoken. Like something inside their reality cracked. Suddenly, they started hearing things — not just voices, but memories that weren't theirs. Thoughts stitched with static. Feelings that didn't belong to them. Words that felt warm until they burned. Spoken in perfect imitation of love. The kind of sound that settles into your bones before you even realize it's devouring you.
I felt bad for them. I really did. Because honestly? I can't even blame them. In a world like ours — where the supernatural is real, where death is porous, where multiverse bleed is normal — hope's a dangerous thing. The idea that your loved one might reach out? Send a sign, leave a dream, knock on your door in spirit? That kind of magic does happen. It's not rare. It's possible.
And that's what makes it worse. Because it means the bad things — the things that mimic warmth, that wear your grief like a mask — know exactly what to do. They remember the scent of your mom's perfume. The nickname your sister used. The lullaby your partner hummed before bed. They know how to knock. They know how to wait. And they always wait for when you're alone.
That's why the Sonsters had to put a lock on it. Not a regular one. A hard-coded metaphysical embargo. Because these weren't just hauntings — they were emotional hijackings. And the cost was too high. Not just death. Soul fragmentation. Looping trauma. Whole afterlives derailed. Some ghosts never even made it to their resting gates. Just kept replaying the moment they believed. That's why we call it a kindness when we burn the thread clean.
So yeah. I felt bad. But lucky for me — I'm built different. Uninvited fans? Not my first séance. And when they knock, I knock harder.
I got out of my trance and waited for the sign. It felt... still. Like they weren't trying to make a move. Maybe showing up on an off-day threw them off. Ritual windows and temporal cycles are weird like that.
This isn't my first time throwing off a ritual. Sometimes, when you interrupt something bound to time — like a summoning or an inherited curse loop — it resets the cycle entirely. It's risky, sure, but if you know what you're doing, you can reroute the momentum. Give yourself a clean slate to flip the board before the game starts.
Honestly, I was enjoying the downtime. Until — knock knock. A piece of paper slid under our door like a hotel bill with teeth. It had blood written across it. Real blood. Curdled, brown at the edges.
I woke everyone up and read the letter out loud: "We know what you did to our family members, you sick fucks. We gave you time to rest and have fun, but now you've got to play by our rules. Ready for the game? Come to the talent show and only bring one person."
We all started laughing. But deep down? None of us were surprised. A manager and a talent show? In horror terms, that's like peanut butter and ritual knives. It's practically a genre staple. You've seen it before — shows like Stage Fright, where cursed productions become death traps, or Hell House LLC, where a fake event spirals into real bloodshed. This place had the same energy. All flash, all charm, all rot underneath.
I shrugged and said, "Guess they found their family torn apart. Wonder if they realized they messed up when they tied themselves to rules."
Summoner slashers aren't common — not like W-class. They don't show up often because they bind themselves to their own rules. That's the trap. The house rules only work if you can find loopholes. And once they make the wrong promise? It's over."
And that was my cue. Idol mode: on.
I reached into my bag and took out the cane — the one that doubles as my mic stand when it's showtime. Then I unzipped the travel shell and pulled out my literal body suit. The one I'd worn to blend in during the ghost interview? Cute, especially good for dealing with non-supernatural slasher types who fall for the feminine-presenting bait.
I headed into the bathroom to peel it off and slip into my neutral build — spell-stable, aura-balanced, and easier to enchant.
When I stepped back out, Sexy Boulder gave me a thumbs up from the bed and asked, "You remember the rules, right?"
I reached into my bag and took out the cane — the one that doubles as my mic stand when it's showtime. Then I unzipped the travel shell and pulled out my more neutral-looking suit. The one I'd worn during the ghost interview was cute — femme-presenting, easy bait for the non-supernatural slasher types — but this one? Spell-stable, aura-balanced, and built for function over flash.
I headed into the bathroom to peel it off and slip into my neutral build — spell-stable, aura-balanced, and easier to enchant.
When I stepped back out, Sexy Boulder gave me a thumbs up from the bed and asked, "You remember the rules, right?"
He was already unpacking my combat kit — starting with my makeup. We're talking full glam armor: triple-seal foundation from WarPaint Wards, enchanted liner by HexxHaus, and a shimmerblast highlight set from SigilSkin that literally deflects minor curses. That's the good stuff. Stuff that lasts through blood, sweat, and ruptured time loops.
I nodded, and while I adjusted the cane's weight in my hand, he started on my makeup — steady hands, smoky highlight, warpaint in blush tones.
Then, I said it out loud, calm and clear like I was announcing the opening act: "Rule 1: You may haunt to remember, not to harm."
That's the ghost version — spirits reliving memory to ease out emotion. But the slasher twist? You must haunt to wound.
That's a Wound-Walker type for some reason? They always pick a stage. Like, always. Theater kids turned curse vectors. It's dramatic, sure, but also kind of stupid. You'd think if you were designing a personal torture loop, you'd get more creative than an open mic night.
The protocol says we should pick a memory — something painful but survivable. Something with emotional teeth. Most people go tragic. I usually go petty. A middle-school rejection, a stage mic cutting out mid-high note. The kind of thing that still stings if you press too hard.
It keeps the slasher from getting too deep. You feed it surface-level sorrow and starve it of the real stuff. That's how you win the first round.
Meanwhile, Vicky was decking out the weapon itself. It wasn't just a cane now. It was the centerpiece. Nicky added a single drop of her blood to the shaft, and the whole thing lit up green — softly glowing, humming with that banshee edge.
The moment I stepped into the theater space, the lights flickered like someone trying to cue their own trauma.
The manager was already there — looking like every sleazy cliché ever birthed by bad lighting and worse contracts. Greasy comb-over, sweat-stained button-up clinging to a stomach that hadn't seen cardio since the 90s, and that permanent whiff of cologne trying too hard to cover failure. He had the exact energy of someone who'd get caught hiding a mic in the greenroom — the kind of guy who calls teen idols "sweetheart" and thinks NDAs are flirtation.
He was center stage, barefoot, glassy-eyed, reenacting his saddest moment like an improv scene no one asked for. Crying over two bodies in tattered pajamas, pretending to cradle his dead parents.
"They were mauled by a teddy bear," the manager sobbed. "I brought them back. I had to."
Then the lights snapped bright. The manager stood, posture shifting like a stage actor switching roles, and began a monologue: "Couples are like TV shows. People only like them when they end badly. Happy endings are boring. Real love should unravel."
He raised a hand and strings of glowing thread lashed out toward us — trying to hook us, pull us into some twisted puppet scene. We dodged, easy. The moment his magic whiffed, I tapped the cane once on the floor.
Click. Tap. Slide.
And launched into a casual tap routine. Just a few rhythmic steps, nothing flashy. Then I smirked and said, "You got lucky, my dear manager."
That pissed him off. He opened a leather-bound tome — enchanted, pulsing with aura marks — and hurled weaponized memories at me like daggers. Moments of grief, snapshots of betrayal, echo-voice illusions meant to slice deep.
But the cane blocked every one. On impact, the runes pulsed green. Steady. Unimpressed.
The room started to smell like green apples for some reason. Tart and sweet, like someone sprayed trauma with a grocery store fragrance. It was weirdly crisp — a scent too clean for this cursed little theater of horror.
I twirled the mic cane once, spun back into stance — and then jumped onto the stage with a smug clap of my hands.
Suddenly, tango music filled the room. Rich, moody, laced with tension.
The manager's eyes darted around, confused. "Where's that music coming from?"
I winked. "I bring my own."
My mic cane isn't just for show. It's literally a theme standard — a spell-channeling, soul-amplifying, cursed performance rod. Anyone who hears the music I play can't help but dance fight. It makes slasher hunting easier — and way more stylish.
We launched into it. A full-blown dancer battle — sharp steps, tight spins, his sleazy hands trying to wrap strings mid-rhythm while I dodged, twisted, and spun the cane like a metronome with teeth.
"You and your little buddies got lucky 'cause we're not allowed to kill you," I said mid-dip. "Sonsters want you alive, then the Sonters want you alive."
Then I dipped him — hard — and threw a clean right hook to his jaw, knocking him halfway into memory foam and delusion. He slumped mid-pose, dazed.
I tilted my head, cool as hell. "You just don't get how lucky you are, do you?" I struck a K-pop power pose — elbow popped, one knee dipped, smirk loaded and camera-ready. Then I flowed into another like I was teasing a comeback stage, not delivering a legal verdict.
Stage presence matters. Especially when you're rubbing it in.
"You're only still standing because two other orders got dibs.Their punishments are lighter — maybe some time in a cell, a few years sorting souls, doing the whole redemption arc. But once you're out of their hands? Well… let's just say it won't be so gentle."
I gave him a wink and hit a final, dazzling pose. "We hashers got you first. And unlike them? We're patient. We'll wait 'til it's time to turn your ass into a livestreamed cautionary tale."
I slammed the cane into his ribs with a satisfying crack and watched him crumple fully this time.
"Night-night, darling."
I flicked open the intercom rune on my mic cane. "Nicky. Pick-up."
The air shimmered, and a glowing door tore itself open stage left. Nicky stepped through like she'd been waiting in the wings the whole time — which, knowing her, she had.
I propped my cane back on my shoulder, took one last look at the tangled threads of the ruined performance, and said:
"Rule One. You may haunt to remember, not to harm."
Then I turned on my heel, cane tapping out the beat.
"I guess it's time for Rule Two."