In a night soaked with rain, in a back alley stripped of both light and prayer, Enver stood. His coat fluttered with the wind, but his stance was unwavering. Before him, a man drenched in blood and fear lay crumpled among the filth and slick stones. Yet his fear was not from pain—but from what could not be seen.
> "I didn't steal… I just… took what I paid for… with their bodies," he stammered, blood and lies mixing on his tongue.
Enver said nothing.
But the world answered for him.
Beyond the veil of reality, crawling from the man's flesh, emerged an astral creature shaped like a centipede—long, grotesque, and glistening like a wound that refused to heal. It slithered along the man's spine, coiling around his ribs like an invisible chain.
It wasn't a ghost. Nor a demon.
It was a symbol.
A manifestation of lust and greed—fed for far too long by deeds left unrepented.
Enver stepped forward slowly, and every footfall made the shadows tremble. He raised the old rosary hanging from his neck—not to pray, but to invoke. The beads glowed briefly, then summoned a fire of purification from within him. A fire that did not burn flesh, but tore open the lies buried deep within the soul.
> "You've turned the bodies of others into tribute for your own devil," Enver whispered, his voice calm—like a funeral hymn. "Now, your body will become their final battleground."
The centipede writhed, clawing at the air, shrieking in tones no normal man could hear.
But Enver was no ordinary man.
He was a Hellseer—the eye of a world tired of sin.
And as the creature burned in a light that rose from within, the man screamed.
Not from pain.
But because his entire being unraveled—mask by mask falling away—
until only the shadow of fear remained.
---
But the judgment of this night was not yet complete.
Enver lifted his gaze. His eyes were hollow, yet glowing faintly like an eternal ember.
He saw further.
> Behind this man's sin, something deeper lurked.
The centipede was not the true danger—but its mother.
The one who lived in a house of luxury.
The one who hid behind curtains, soft beds, and sweet perfume.
The one who greeted victims with a smile, and locked the door from the inside.
At that very moment, the air around him began to shift.
From the shadows of the alley, something emerged.
A figure.
Tall, almost translucent, with eyes that glowed like light from a primordial age.
Its voice was made of whispers from before the first prayer was ever spoken.
> "You are the keeper of a decaying world, Enver Eraly," the voice thundered like thousands of spirits speaking at once.
"We—the ancient spirits—have seen a child cast into our land.
A light still unrecognized.
Her name… is Lumina."
Enver closed his eyes, listening not with ears—but with blood.
> "Why are you telling me this?"
The ancient spirit did not answer directly.
It only pointed to the sky—
which now cracked gently like an old mirror.
> "Because the world is losing its center.
And only two lights, opposite in nature, can stop its collapse."
---
Enver opened his eyes.
The man he had purified now lay still—just a man, no longer masked, no longer shielded, no longer haunted by a parasitic soul.
And Enver walked away.
Toward the house gilded in gold but hiding a darkness deeper than any grave.
Meanwhile, far away,
a girl with light in her hands
began to dream
of a future that no one could write—except herself.