Chapter One - "The Devil's Breath"
The year 2030—a time when geography shrinks to faded maps before the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle. There, an island smolders like an ember of hell in the ocean's embrace. A dense rainforest surrounds it like eternal sentinels, its tangled leaves breathing suffocating humidity, while between its ancient trees slithers a nightmarish green gas, writhing like the souls of the damned. Its putrid stench—a mix of rotting flesh and ancient hatred—is almost tangible, searing through nasal passages, melting innards before dropping victims to their knees, vomiting their guts under the unbearable reek.
At the heart of this vegetal inferno rises a dormant volcano, a silent witness to catastrophe, and beside it looms the Black Palace. This satanic edifice towers seven stories high, its polished obsidian gleaming like coal soaked in starlight's blood. A crimson aura coils around it like a serpent of dark magic, sparking with cursed energy whenever living flesh draws near. Dozens of graves encircle the scene, each guarded by a different demonic statue, their ruby-red eyes tracking visitors, their carved mouths whispering archaic curses.
The massive metal gates breathe like living lungs, exhaling scalding air with every opening, as if the palace itself were alive. Upon the blackened metal, eerie engravings twist like worms of green light.
Inside, the long corridors resemble the intestines of a primordial beast, walls of the same black stone but etched with carvings of blood rituals. Green torches sway without wind, casting dancing shadows of the sculpted demons. At the end of this architectural nightmare waits the throne room.
The chamber is circular, like a pupil staring into hell, its vaulted ceiling vanishing into darkness. At its center stands a throne of the same cursed material, inlaid with golden bones. Upon it sits Thomas Valentine—a ghost from a forgotten past.
His pallid skin resembles a corpse preserved in a damp cellar, and his green eyes glint like lobsters in the abyss. His hair is a demonic masterpiece—the upper half sleek black, like the silk of venomous spiders, the lower half coiled green, like the roots of a blighted tree. From his earlobes, living vines dangle like emerald serpents.
His black cloak is woven from darkness itself, its green embroideries glowing like poisoned fireflies. When he moves, the fabric whispers with the voices of thousands of victims.
"Come forth, now!" His voice is a blend of a lion's roar and a serpent's hiss.
The ground erupts in seven pentagram-shaped stars, melting into red lava before evaporating, leaving behind seven figures in crimson robes. Fury, their leader, kneels like a broken slave.
"The forces are gathered, my lord. The army is ready."
"Give me a full report." Thomas's words fall like drops of toxic mercury.
Fury begins listing the troops with pride and terror:
"Two million undead human soldiers... their decomposed faces still frozen in final agony. One million fossilized beasts, crawling as if their bones still burn. Half a million mid-tier demons, their red eyes glowing like embers in a graveyard."
Thomas turns his green gaze toward the window, where the green fog licks at the glass:
"And can the humans withstand us?"
"Impossible! I alone could wipe their cities from existence in a week!" Fury puffs up like a proud rooster.
But Thomas shakes his head slowly, making the vines in his hair writhe like starving animals:
"Arrogance is the poison heroes love to drink. Humans may seem like worms—but even worms feast on giants' corpses."
Then he raises an unnaturally long finger, its claw blackened at the tip:
"Tell the army. Next week, we open hell's gates."
As Fury vanishes, Thomas remains alone with his shadow, which twists unnaturally. He lifts a pale hand to his eyes:
"Ten thousand years of waiting... I will make every second worth it. I will plant fear in every atom of this universe."His laughter cracks like a string of snapping bones.