THE STORY CONTINUES.....
(its a very painfull chapter with some new reveals .)
Chapter — The Bell Beneath the Moon
The moon never moved in this world.
It hung above the city like an unblinking eye—pale, enormous, eternal—casting silver shadows that never shifted, never softened. Buildings stood intact, roads were clean, lights still worked… and yet the city felt abandoned, as if humanity had stepped out for a moment and never returned.
Armin woke with a gasp.
Cold concrete beneath his palms. Neon light flickering above him. The Thunder Dragon Sword was gone—but the ache in his bones, the scars on his skin, the weight in his chest… they were still there.
So it wasn't a dream.
He staggered to his feet, heart racing, and wandered streets that should've been alive. Shops stocked. Vehicles parked neatly. Food still warm in sealed containers.
No people.
Only silence.
Until—
Clang.
A bell rang.
Not loud.
Not distant.
Close enough to feel it vibrate inside his ribs.
Windows slammed shut across the city. Metal shutters dropped. Doors sealed. The empty streets became a funnel of fear—as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Then he saw them.
People.
Hundreds—thousands—emerging from hidden alleys and underground passages, running in one direction. No one spoke. No one looked back.
Instinct took over.
Armin ran with them.
The mountain loomed at the edge of the city like a scar on the horizon. At its base, an opening carved into stone glowed faintly—ancient inscriptions burning gold.
Sun Fury.
Even without knowing the name, Armin felt it. A power meant to repel what hunted under moonlight.
But they were late.
The howls came first.
Then the shadows moved.
Werewolves poured from rooftops and streets, bodies twisting mid-run, claws tearing into stone, eyes glowing feral white. Screams erupted. Order collapsed.
Armin turned—
And that's when he saw him.
A young man near the end of the crowd, carrying a little girl on his back. Her leg hung limp. Blood soaked his shoulder. He ran slower than the rest.
Too slow.
Someone shoved him.
Another kicked him.
"Don't slow us down!"
He fell just steps from the passage.
He twisted mid-air to protect the girl, crashing hard against the ground, curling around her like a shield. He screamed—not in fear, but desperation.
"Help—please—she's hurt—!"
No one stopped.
Armin tried to move.
His legs wouldn't.
The werewolves leapt.
Claws tore into the man's back. Flesh ripped. Bone cracked. His scream turned hoarse, wet, breaking apart as blood filled his lungs.
Still, he held her.
Still, he shielded her.
he sobbed, voice dissolving.
Why me?
Why is life so cruel?
The werewolves burned as they crossed into the Sun Fury's range, their flesh smoking—but they dragged his corpse back with them anyway.
The girl screamed.
And then—
A figure dropped from above.
A man in a dark cloak, landing hard, already moving. He wore a demon mask—half-smiling, half-crying—its expression frozen between mockery and grief.
He didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the girl, turned, and leapt into the passage just as claws scraped stone behind him.
The bell rang again.
Survival.
Inside the mountain base, people collapsed where they stood. Some cried. Some vomited. Some stared into nothing.
The girl slept in the masked man's arms, blood still staining her clothes.
He sat on a stone slab beneath burning inscriptions, rocking her gently.
Then he picked up a guitar.
No announcement.
No warning.
He just began to sing.
His voice was rough. Broken. Beautiful in the way shattered glass catches moonlight.
And the song spread through the hall like a wound reopening.
On lands of lies, these houses of deceit,
Those who live inside wear clean white faces—
But hearts of stone beneath.
Armin crying unknowingly.
He continues.
Is this nature's fault,
Or the sin of our own hands?
Whatever the answer—
The punishment is still ours.
The words hit harder than any blade.
People stopped moving.
Some covered their mouths. Some clenched their fists. Some wept silently,
ashamed of surviving.
The masked man didn't look at anyone.
He sang to the ceiling.
To the moon beyond stone.
To the dead who couldn't listen anymore.
Armin felt it then.
This world wasn't an escape.
It was a mirror.
A place where trauma didn't fade—
it waited.
The bell echoed softly inside his chest.
And somewhere far away, watching through layers of reality, something ancient smiled.
Because Armin had crossed worlds.
And both of them were hungry.
TO BE CONTINUED...