Chapter 1
"One must pursue the latest benefit."
"How long will you keep hiding?!"
CRASH!
In the dim corner of the room, Uhs—a twelve-year-old boy—sat curled up, his back pressed against the cold, rotting wooden wall. His body twitched uncontrollably, his knees occasionally jerking up to touch his sweat-slicked shins.
He was whispering secrets to his own limbs.
An overturned small table served as a shield in front of him, though it was far too tiny to fully conceal him. In the near-darkness, with only a faint sliver of light seeping through the cracks, Uhs found a sliver of peace.
A long shadow slithered across the floor, swaying gently each time the night wind shifted the tattered curtains.
Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, occasionally echoed from the hallway, making his heart pound harder. He held his breath, ensuring not a sound escaped. Here, behind this overturned table, he was nobody. Not a child to be punished, nor one forced to answer.
Not obligated to respond to questions he never wanted to hear.
Dust swirled whenever he shifted, and the pale light creeping in turned the particles into tiny, floating stars.
About to fall.
Uhs reached out, trying to catch them—but certainty eluded him, leaving only the familiar cold air and the reign of solitude.
Outside, the world might still spin with all its noise and chaos. But inside this cramped space, behind the overturned table that served as his fortress, time seemed to freeze in thick silence. Uhs took a slow breath, feeling the cold air fill his lungs.
For so long, fear had made everything feel suffocating.
Just for this moment—without having to dread the lurking hunter-angels, without needing to stay alert at every shifting shadow—he could breathe freely.
Ush.
That was what they called him. A short name, warm in the harsh brightness of the world.
Yet it haunted the order of his thoughts.
That name—Ush—felt like the last remnant of a fading caress, a fragment of tenderness not yet fully eroded by life's cruelty. But the world beyond his hiding place was no longer a kind one. He had witnessed the fall of God and His Entire Host, a cataclysm that turned the sky into ashen gloom and the earth into a desolate wasteland—fit only for demons, devils, and restless spirits.
The white light that occasionally slipped through the window cracks was no longer pure.
It was tainted, no different from milk stirred with poison.
Yet in that murkiness, Ush found shelter. In a world where brightness stabbed like a blade, shadows were his allies. And in a realm utterly forsaken by the One God, perhaps only the restless dead—those wretched, whispering things—would still listen to the fragile rhythm of his breath.
Soft at times. Trembling. But stubbornly alive.
Ush had once thought, had dared to hope, that the world could still be saved. That behind all this darkness, a thread of light might remain. But instead of making peace with ruin, the Cursed One—in His unfathomable pride—had acted. He commanded His angels and all the entities of so-called "pure light" to rebel, declaring war upon the satanic sovereigns who now ruled the ruins.
A cosmic betrayal.
And in this chaos, Ush—a twelve-year-old boy—had to stay awake, trapped in regret that gnawed at him like rats on old bones.
He should have never nodded. Never agreed when his family suggested moving to that old house, a decaying structure standing too close to the remnants of something older than churches, mosques, or any holy ground humanity remembered. That place held something deeper, something that should have stayed buried forever.
Now, crouched behind this overturned table with his knees pressed to his chin, Ush revisited his foolish choice. Every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of wind through the walls, seemed to mock him.
"Did you really think this would end well?" whispered something in the dark, its voice frayed, caught between dust and dying light.
Outside, the sky was likely still red—a wound that refused to heal. And Ush knew he couldn't hide here forever. But for now, in a world where God had become the traitor and light was just another lie, this overturned table was his territory. The last place where safety still almost existed.
Safe.
At least until something far worse found him.
For the true terror began not with demons or vengeful spirits—but with them.
The angels.
Bound by a loyalty beyond reason.
Once, they had been holy light—bearers of divine will, the right hand of the Almighty Creator. Now, they were nothing but relentless executioners, moving in perfect formation under the command of the Forsaken One. Their once-pristine feathers hung dull and tattered, draped in shrouds of dust. The wisdom that once gleamed in their eyes had emptied, reflecting nothing but the order to kill and kill again.
And they came for Ush's family.
One by one.
Systematic.
Like a purification.
Ush's father died first—his neck snapped cleanly, the work of practiced hands. No blood. No mess. Just a death too neat for something so cruel.
His mother vanished the next day. Only a strand of long hair caught on the door hinge remained. Ripped out by the roots.
His siblings, his aunts, even his nine-day-old cousin—all erased. No dramatic struggle, no grotesque spectacle as one might expect. Just… gone. As if scraped from the ledger of history itself.
And Ush?
They let him live.
Not by escape.
Not by chance.
But because they wanted it this way.
Sometimes, the angels revealed themselves—standing at the end of the road, watching from rooftops, or as silhouettes behind tattered curtains. They never touched him. Never struck.
Only made sure he knew.
That he was the last.
That his bloodline would end with him.
And one day, when the Forsaken One decreed "enough"—
They would come.
Behind the overturned table, Ush stared at his hands. Still whole. Still alive. But for how long? In the suffocating grip of helplessness, he chose the only path left:
Hide. And pray.
Not to God—the Forsaken One was no ally. Not to the angels, now his executioners. He prayed to anything, to anyone, even to the bleak void between stars.
"Save me. Now. I don't care what it costs later."
No bargains. No conditions. He'd pay any price, suffer any consequence—just to survive this night, this second.
Still crouched in the dark, the air thick with dust and dread, Ush whispered to the shadows:
"Take my soul tomorrow if you must. But tonight—please. Don't let them find me. Not a single crack."
He shut his eyes, biting his hand to stifle the tears.
Outside, thunder rolled.
As if something—
Or someone—
Had listened.
To be continued…