Long ago, in the mist-veiled lands of Thaloria,
there lived a girl whose heart had shattered beyond repair.
She watched her family perish—one by one—
torn apart by war, betrayal, and the cruelty of humanity.
Grief consumed her.
And when no one heeded her cries...
Something else did.
One night, beneath a weeping tree, as she wept into the cold earth,
a voice—low, ancient, and faceless—whispered from the darkness:
> "Don't cry. Hate."
"Do you want revenge?"
She didn't respond at first.
Only silence echoed back.
Only the flicker of rage ignited in her eyes.
Then softly—coldly—she whispered back:
> "Yes. I want to kill them all."
The voice responded with a promise.
But also... a price.
> "Then I shall help you.
But nothing comes without sacrifice."
From the shadows, it offered her a book.
Black. Blank.
Bound in something that pulsed faintly...
like flesh.
As her fingers brushed against it,
the voice murmured again—closer this time, as if brushing her ear:
> "Its name is Lingua Mortem..."
"The Tongue of Death."
"It speaks only when you write your hate."
---
And so she wrote.
Names. Faces. Methods. Vengeance.
A tale of death by whispers.
A curse for every careless tongue.
She titled it: The Witch's Whisper.
When she finished,
she walked into the city.
No screams.
No shouts.
Just a whisper:
> "Kill them all."
Again.
And again.
The people began to fall.
Some clutched their throats—
choked by invisible hands.
Others whispered her name—
and their tongues split like cursed fruit.
Mouths bled.
Eyes rolled.
Voices cracked.
And with every whisper...
another soul died.
---
By morning, the city was silent.
A graveyard of secrets.
A place of severed breath.
The girl was gone.
Some say she burned with the curse.
Others claim the demon reclaimed her soul.
But her story—The Witch's Whisper—was never found.
It vanished with her, as if erased from time itself.
---
Yet the book...
the one given by the demon...
> Remained.
Still black.
Still blank.
Still pulsing.
Sealed. Hidden. Forgotten.
---
Until someone...
found it again.
---
In the hands of a new seeker,
the book felt alive.
The pages trembled, eager for the touch of a new writer.
The air thickened with anticipation,
as if the darkness itself held its breath.
Would this new soul be tempted
by the whispers of vengeance?
Would they dare to write their pain—
to unleash a storm of chaos upon the world?
As the seeker opened the book,
a chill ran down their spine.
They could almost hear the echoes of the girl's rage,
reverberating through time.
The choice lay before them—
Would they embrace the darkness...
or turn away from the abyss?
---