The name echoed in his mind.
Drip.
Blood dripped down his face, the rotting stench thick in his nostrils—strong enough to make any mortal man retch.
He opened his eyes beneath the tree that had killed him.
Then it hit him like lightning: he was still in danger.
The tree was luring him. Coaxing him closer. But he could think now. He could resist.
He staggered back.
"Fuck that shit."
He ran—panic setting in—desperate to find an exit.
Fumbling with a door, yanking it open with shaking hands.
Normally, he wouldn't be doing this.
But something had changed.
He was afraid.
Afraid of that tree… of the thing that had spoken to him. The thing that tried to take him.
It hated him. Wanted him to suffer.
He tore through the building, throwing open doors, finding nothing but twisted, alien things behind each one.
This place was a maze. A maze without an exit.
"Who the goddamn architect of this nightmare?"
Whoever that bastard was, Desan was pretty sure they'd built an exit into this place.
But maybe… maybe Desan just wasn't meant to find it.
In his desperation, he tripped—his foot catching on a warped, broken tile—and went flying into a wall.
Thud.
The wall gave way with a sickening crack, decayed wood and plaster collapsing beneath him.
He crashed through, hit the ground hard.
It was cold.
Lightless.
A library.
Shelves loomed like tombstones, packed with books that stank of mold, rot, and something worse.
He breathed in heavy, ragged, then shoved himself to his feet.
The air didn't want to be disturbed.
He wandered between the towering stacks until one book pulled his eyes toward it.
Something about it... felt alive.
"That feels… alive," he muttered.
He reached for it.
Bound in human skin.
Of course it was.
He opened the cover.
Knowledge of Everything.
"Isn't that a bit ambitious?" he muttered. "I don't know much about this world, but I damn well know it doesn't fit into 200 pages."
He flipped through it—blank pages.
He chuckled, just for a second. A moment of absurdity slices through the horror.
Then the book twitched.
Its pages writhed like flesh. Paper tore and reformed, curling into something that looked like a worm with wings.
It should not have flown.
Its body bent every law of nature. Bloated. Slick with ink and membrane. And yet it hovered pulsing, twitching.
Desan's eyes widened.
"Fuck—"
He dove sideways just as it lunged.
He crashed to the ground with force.
The thing came at him fast, shrieking like torn parchment.
He scrambled for his sword, grabbing the hilt just in time.
Swung hard. Missed.
It darted aside with a squelch and hiss. Too small.
He jumped back, boots skidding on dusty wood. Heart hammering.
His sword slammed into a shelf, splintering old wood, sending books tumbling like dead birds.
Then he heard it.
A voice. Sarcastic. Mocking.
"Stop jumping around like a damn monkey."
He froze.
"What?"
He turned.
It hovered there—twitching—mouth split open not with teeth, but pages. Razor-thin sheets fluttering like a shredder mid-feast.
Then it struck.
Slammed into his chest with unnatural weight—biting.
He screamed.
Not sharp pain—deep. A spreading rot. A slow, burning fuse.
It wasn't just biting—it was fusing.
Parchment-flesh slithered beneath his skin, burrowing like ink in water. Threading through veins.
Veins blackened. Skin bubbled, peeled. It was writing itself into him.
"Why… why is this happening?" he gasped, collapsing to his knees.
Then the voice echoed inside his skull.
"…That took more effect than it should."
His breath hitched.
He looked down.
Etched into his chest was a symbol.
At the center: an unblinking eye, dark as ink. Around it, shifting letters spiraled in a ring, moving. Watching him back.
Something scurried through his mind. Fast. Curious.
"You're strange," the voice whispered—not in his ears, but behind his eyes.
His breath caught.
Now he was sure—it was in his head.
"You don't have much memory."
"Get out of my head," Desan growled, clutching his skull.
"Can't." The voice was amused. "I'm part of you now. You are me. I am you. Your thoughts are mine."
Desan's eyes narrowed. "If we're one…"
He picked up his sword. Braced his foot against a shattered beam for leverage.
And stabbed it into the eye carved into his chest.
Agony.
Raw. Blinding. Every nerve screamed.
The voice shrieked.
"STOP, YOU IDIOT! IF YOU KEEP DOING THAT, WE BOTH DIE!"
Blood poured down his body like melted wax. Vision swam.
But he grinned through the pain.
"Good."
"I'm here to help you."
"No."
"You're not thinking straight. I can help you get out of here."
"And why the hell would you do that?" Desan hissed. "You're not doing this out of kindness."
"Of course not," the voice said smugly. "But if you die, I die. Survival, Desan. Simple math."
"So let's make a deal."
"What if I break the deal?"
"You can't," the voice hissed. "Once a deal is made, it binds two souls together with will. If you break it, your will dies."
The voice began to speak its conditions, but before it could—
Desan twisted the sword deeper.
Pain exploded again. Like fire licking through bone.
The parasite screamed in his mind. Writhing.
"No," Desan growled. "That's not it. You want more than survival."
He paused, panting. Then spoke.
"You want my body."
A pause.
"You tried to take it once."
The voice curled like a grin behind his eyes. "What makes you think that?"
"You consume memories. Rewrite the host from the inside."
He gripped the sword tightly. "But I don't have memories. I'm a blank slate. So you failed."
"I know how this works—you'll give me some condition I'll break, then try to take over my body."
A jagged laugh echoed inside his skull. Bitter. Pained.
"Okay. You got me," it rasped. "So what now? Gonna bleed out just to win an argument? Die for nothing?"
Desan didn't answer. He was slipping. Losing blood. Losing time.
But wait.
This is the same for it.
He just had to last longer.
"What if I don't care?" he muttered.
"You're going to die for your stupid pride," the voice snapped, desperate now.
"So what?" Desan spat.
His head felt light. He was dying—slowly.
But the thing inside him?
It was dying too.
And it was afraid.
"What do you want?"
It was quieter now. Almost... scared.
Desan gritted his teeth. His voice was slurred, fading.
"Deal. Under my condition. Or we both die."
A pause. Static silence.
Then:
"What's your condition?"
He almost laughed, but it came out as a cough. Wet. Sharp.
"No taking over my body. No tricking. You help me—with your knowledge—and in return…"
He swayed, eyes burning, lungs aching.
"I help you get more of what you want. More knowledge. More minds. More books or whatever the fuck you feed on."
He dropped the sword. Couldn't hold it anymore.
But his voice stayed sharp.
"That's the deal. No lies. No overrides. You work with me."
Silence.
Then the voice answered—low, twitching.
"…Fine."
"But you better not waste me."
Desan grinned weakly, blood pooling around him.
Desan hissed through his teeth as he tore a strip of cloth from his shirt. He wrapped it tight around the gash in his leg, the fabric soaking red almost instantly. It wasn't pretty, but it'd hold. For now.
He leaned back against a collapsed shelf, panting.
"Alright," he muttered, voice ragged. "We've got a deal. I'm still alive. So now you talk."
His eyes narrowed.
"So what the hell are you? And what's your name?"
Silence.
Then, slowly, the voice answered—almost reluctantly.
"I'm... called Velcrith."
The name echoed in Desan's skull, heavy and wrong, like a word not meant to be spoken aloud.
"I wasn't born like you were. I was... called into being. Pulled together by hunger—the hunger of those who needed to know."
It paused. Desan could feel it shifting just beneath the surface of his thoughts.
"I grew in the spaces between their questions. In the void left behind when answers was not found. I am what forms when curiosity digs too deep."
Desan frowned. "So why me?"
Velcrith responded, almost amused."Because you asked. Even when it hurt. Even when you were dying. You kept asking."
A chill crawled up Desan's spine.
"Curiosity," it whispered. "Your mind—raw, empty, but not silent. You didn't beg to be saved. You asked why. That's what called me."
Desan stood, swaying slightly, his makeshift bandage already soaked.
"Fine. Velcrith." He spat the name like poison. "You've got your deal. I've got my conditions. You help me, and you don't touch the wheel."
He tapped the side of his skull with a bloodied finger.
"I steer. You whisper."
Velcrith purred inside his head, low and sharp.
"Agreed. For now."