A cold wind slithered through the narrow alleys of Veritaz City as Eryon walked with his hood pulled low, blending into the crowd of murmuring strangers. He couldn't shake the scene from last night—the shimmering figure standing behind his reflection, whispering his name through a smile that stretched too wide.
That was the moment he truly accepted it.
His Helunsntion had awakened.
But he didn't know yet whether it was a blessing… or the first warning of his downfall.
Tonight, he had only one goal: find the Archivist, the man rumored to know every hidden disease, every forbidden phenomenon… and the true origin of the mind-born curse that plagued him.
The Archivist lived inside the abandoned sector of District 9, where people vanished like dust swallowed by darkness. As Eryon stepped into the shadowed streets, he felt that familiar pricking sensation behind his eyes—a signal that his Manifestation was watching the world through him.
The Whisper in his head echoed:
"Someone is already waiting for you."
Eryon stopped.
His fingers tightened.
His vision flashed with glimmers of gold—his power trying to activate on its own.
"No. Not now," he muttered.
The Whisper chuckled softly, a hollow sound inside his bones.
"You don't command me. You wish… I obey."
Eryon exhaled sharply. "Just stay quiet."
But the Whisper was right.
Someone was waiting.
A man stood at the far end of the alley, motionless. His coat was long, dark, and old—cloth worn thin at the edges. But that wasn't what froze Eryon's blood.
The man was smiling.
Except he had no eyes.
Just smooth, pale skin where his eyes should've been, stretching across his face as the smile widened unnaturally.
"Eryon Vassir," the eyeless man greeted, voice warm, friendly… but drenched in something poisonous. "We've been expecting you."
Eryon's heart slammed in his chest. "Who… who are you?"
"The world calls me many names," the man replied. "But for you, I am simply a Messenger."
A Messenger.
The same word carved in the Helunsntion cult symbol—the triangle with an open circle inside, representing the mind that reveals itself to the chosen.
Eryon stepped back. "Stay away from me."
The eyeless man tilted his head. "Why would I? I am here to help you understand the gift you carry."
"My power is not a gift," Eryon snapped. "It's killing me."
"Everything kills you," the man laughed softly. "Time kills. Hope kills. Love kills. At least this one grants you meaning before it ends you."
The Whisper crawled into Eryon's skull:
"He is right. Listen to him… he knows the rules."
Eryon gritted his teeth. "I don't want meaning. I want control."
The Messenger's smile widened so far it almost split.
"Then you must learn the first truth."
He raised a hand, and the air trembled with a mental pulse Eryon felt in his spine.
"Helunsntion does not manifest what you think…"
He leaned forward.
"…it manifests what you fear."
The alley twisted for a moment. The walls stretched. The ground pulsed. But it wasn't real—Eryon knew that. It was the disease, feeding on the Messenger's presence, reacting like hungry fire touching dry leaves.
"Stop it," Eryon muttered.
But the Messenger continued walking closer.
"You're losing yourself," he warned. "Your mind is unguarded. Your Manifestation is already hungry. It wants to shape your world. And when your fear creates reality, you cannot undo it."
Eryon stepped back again—but his heel hit something soft.
He froze.
Slowly, he looked down.
A body lay behind him.
A man, lifeless, face frozen in terror—eyes torn out.
Eryon stumbled away from the corpse, heart hammering.
"I didn't— I didn't do this!"
The Messenger chuckled. "No, no… of course not. Not yet."
A shiver dropped through Eryon's spine.
Not yet?
"What do you want from me?" he whispered.
"To warn you," the Messenger said. "Your Manifestation is awakening too fast. Your Helunsntion is unstable. And that means…"
The smile twisted.
"…others will come."
"Others?"
"Oh yes." The Messenger's head snapped in an unnatural angle. "You are not the only one blessed. There are dozens across the city. Unknowing. Untrained. Dangerous."
The Whisper hissed:
"They are prey. You are predator."
Eryon's breath hitched. "No. I'm not a predator. I'm not like you."
The Messenger's body twitched as if he'd been insulted.
"Like me? Oh boy… I am nothing like you."
Then he stepped closer—too close.
Eryon saw a symbol etched into his skin under the collarbone—the Helunsntion Cult mark:
A broken circle inside a triangle, cracked in three places.
"The Helunsntion chooses those with fractured minds," the Messenger continued. "Those who carry wounds not visible. Those who think too deeply. Those who fear too quietly."
His voice softened to a whisper.
"You are one of the strongest candidates our cult has ever found."
Eryon's eyes widened.
"I'm not joining any cult."
"Joining?" the Messenger laughed, almost offended. "Oh, you misunderstand. You do not join Helunsntion… Helunsntion joins you."
Suddenly the Messenger vanished.
Just disappeared. No sound. No blur. No movement.
Eryon staggered back, breath sharp. "Where—?"
A whisper brushed his right ear:
"Behind you."
Eryon spun—too late.
A hand touched his forehead.
A surge of pain shot through his skull like lightning.
His vision exploded into gold and black.
The Whisper screamed inside him.
His Manifestation burst forward, uncontrolled.
The air behind Eryon warped, twisting like a living shadow forming limb-like shapes. The alley shook, reality bending as his power manifested a creature from the deepest part of his subconscious—a hollow silhouette with glowing cracks across its body.
The Messenger stepped back, delighted.
"Beautiful."
Eryon collapsed to one knee, gripping his head. "Stop—STOP!"
The shadow creature roared—soundless, yet deafening inside the mind.
It lunged at the Messenger.
But the Messenger raised a hand.
Black tendrils of nothingness exploded outward, clashing with the shadow creature in a burst of warped energy.
The alley warped, the world bending at the edges.
Eryon's vision blurred.
He was losing grip—on reality, on himself.
The Messenger sighed, disappointed.
"You are far too unstable. You will break before you bloom."
With a flick of his fingers, the Messenger dissolved into thin dust, vanishing into the night.
The shadow creature shrieked and collapsed back into Eryon's body, leaving him choking on air, covered in sweat.
The alley returned to normal.
The corpse vanished—maybe it was never real.
Eryon staggered upright, trembling.
"What… what am I becoming?"
The Whisper answered, soft now, almost tender:
"Something necessary."
Eryon looked at his trembling hands, the faint glow fading from his veins.
The Archivist was somewhere deeper in the district.
Someone who knew the truth.
Someone who could help him—or destroy him.
But Eryon had no choice.
If he didn't find answers soon…
His mind would shape a nightmare he could never escape.
And he could feel it.
Eyes watching him from the dark corners of the city.
Not human eyes.
Eyes from minds that were no longer their own.