Chapter 9 – Whispers of the Shadow
As soon as Gharib remembered the first piece of human flesh he had consumed, nausea overwhelmed him. He began to vomit uncontrollably, his body rebelling against what he had become.
He tried to collect himself,
but what he feared the most
was already taking hold.
His blood boiled in his veins.
His bones cracked,
reshaping from within.
Heat surged from the core of his being,
as if an invisible fire had been lit deep in his marrow.
He felt his face twist—
not with emotion, but transformation.
As if an unseen hand was molding him,
breaking and reforming his skull like wet clay.
His skin shivered—
not from cold,
but from something deeper.
Something ancient.
Something wrong.
He glanced into a small puddle nearby—
but it wasn't his reflection he saw.
Dozens of faces flickered over the surface.
Every second, a new one.
A hundred identities clawing to take his place.
He no longer recognized himself.
His voice shattered inside him,
returning as a cacophony of layered echoes.
His skin broke out in pale, eerie bumps,
like a warning meant for those still clinging to sanity.
He felt his face melt—
like wax beneath a ruthless flame.
The transformation went on for hours.
When it finally ended,
what emerged was not the same man.
Gharib was reborn.
Stronger.
Deeper.
And far less human.
The first thing he noticed—
his hearing had sharpened,
his vision could now pierce through darkness.
But instead of feeling empowered,
he felt something watching him…
from within.
Then—
a strange pulsing sensation.
It came from beneath the shop floor,
like a siren's call pulling at his soul.
He moved, not by will, but by instinct.
Down below, he found a hidden iron door—
covered in strange symbols and unreadable script.
He reached for it…
and it opened without resistance.
Inside…
resting on a stone pedestal,
was a sword.
Its scabbard was pitch-black,
with faint silver patterns etched across it,
as if the carvings had faded over countless ages.
He unsheathed it—
and a sharp whisper echoed through the room,
like the breath of death itself.
The blade was long and narrow,
its surface faintly glowing—
as if it had been forged from the shadow of a fallen star.
It didn't shine like other swords.
Its glow was subtle,
like an old ember refusing to die.
The hilt was wrapped in dark thread,
crisscrossing in an "X" pattern,
stained with sweat… and blood.
Near the base of the blade,
there was a small inscription—
words he couldn't read,
but could feel.
The sword pulsed,
as if it… breathed.
Gharib grasped the hilt—
and his heart trembled.
Beside the pedestal lay a piece of parchment.
Written in jagged ink:
> "This is no mere weapon.
It is a memory.
A curse.
Or a promise... written in blood."
He recoiled.
His fingers twitched.
He nearly dropped the blade in fear.
But just as he did—
a voice came from the sword itself.
Rough.
Deep.
Ancient.
"You… Gharib. I'm glad we meet again."