Kyle Darkfield awoke, his skull engulfed in a sharp, pulsing pain—as if torn from a violent nightmare without warning.He tried to move, but couldn't.A heavy silence choked the room around him,a darkness unlike any he had ever known.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.A dim red light flickered across the walls, casting trembling shadows.In front of him stood a desk made of dark wood,and upon it, an open journal—its pages yellowed and cracked with age.It felt as though the passing minutes had bled into it,for letters began to emerge, one by one:
"Words are only written… when the spirits fall asleep."
A sudden unease gripped him.He raised his hand to touch the journal, but it froze mid-air.Beside it: a faintly glowing bottle of ink,a black pen,a small blade,and a gleaming brass revolver.
Breathing became a struggle.And then, without knowing why—he remembered his name: Kyle Darkfield.Then the city: Zokium.Then the cult: The Cursed Ink.
A whisper reached him—not through his ears, not from outside,but from within:
"The seal is cracking… and time is running out."
He tried to rise, but the pain forced him back.His chest groaned under its weight,and he collapsed into the wooden chair with a sharp cry that tore through the silence.
When he finally caught his breath and looked into the mirror,he saw himself—but felt that what stared back… was only a worn mask.
Then, across the journal's page, one final line appeared:
"Everyone will die, including you."– Echo of Souls
And in that moment,he decided he would not be just another pagein a book already written