Chapter 1: The Soul's Hunger
Six hundred years ago, the city of Jammu was a place of breathtaking beauty and agonizing inequality. Surrounded by the towering, snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas, the city looked like a jewel from a distance. But inside its walls, a bitter struggle for survival played out every day. The sunlight would hit the golden domes of the Raja's palace first, while the lower slums remained in the cold shadows of the valley for hours longer.
In a small, dilapidated stone hut on the very edge of the city's forest line, lived two brothers: Arthur and Andrew.
Arthur, the elder, was a man built from the very earth he tilled—hard, unyielding, and scarred. His muscles were like knotted ropes, a result of years of back-breaking labor in the rocky fields. But it was his eyes that were truly remarkable. They were not the eyes of a simple farmer; they were the eyes of a man who looked at the world and saw only what was being kept from him.
"Look at them, Andrew," Arthur spat, his voice thick with a resentment that had been simmering for years. He was standing on a ridge, pointing his calloused finger at the royal procession moving through the city gates below. The Raja sat atop an elephant draped in silk and gold, while servants fanned him with peacock feathers.
Andrew, younger and leaner, was sitting on a wooden stump, mending a fishing net. His face held a natural serenity that often infuriated his brother. Andrew's eyes were like the mountain lakes—clear, calm, and reflecting whatever light was given to them.
"I see them, Arthur," Andrew said softly. "But their gold doesn't make the air they breathe any sweeter than ours. We have our health. We have our freedom."
"Freedom?" Arthur laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "Freedom to starve? Freedom to watch our mother die because we couldn't afford a single vial of medicine from the royal apothecary? Freedom to watch the tax collectors take half of our grain while we survive on husks? That is not freedom, Andrew. That is a slow death."
Arthur turned away, his gaze falling upon the Kala Van—the Black Woods. Legend said the woods were cursed, a place where the ancient laws of man and gods did not apply. While most people avoided even looking at the dark, twisted treeline, Arthur found himself drawn to it. He felt a kinship with the darkness.
The Call of the Abyss
That night, a strange atmospheric shift occurred. The temperature dropped until the breath of the brothers hung in the air like ghostly mist. A heavy, suffocating silence settled over Jammu. While Andrew slept deeply, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic peace, Arthur lay awake.
He could hear a pulse. It wasn't his own heart; it was a thumping sound coming from deep within the forest. It was a rhythmic, magnetic vibration that seemed to be calling his name.
Arthur... Arthur of the Shadows...
Driven by a hunger that was no longer just for food, Arthur rose. He didn't take a lantern. He didn't take a weapon. He walked into the Black Woods with nothing but his rage.
The forest was a labyrinth of thorns and ancient, gnarled oaks. The trees seemed to groan as he passed, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. After an hour of walking, he reached a clearing that the sun had not touched in centuries. In the center stood an altar of obsidian, so black that it seemed to absorb the moonlight.
As Arthur stepped into the circle, the air grew heavy with the scent of ozone and ancient dust. The shadows around the clearing began to warp and stretch, swirling together until they formed a tall, elegant, yet terrifying figure. It had no skin, only a surface that looked like shifting smoke. Its eyes were two burning pits of crimson fire—the Devil.
"You have a very loud soul, Arthur," the entity spoke. The voice didn't come from a throat; it resonated inside Arthur's very bones, making his teeth ache. "It has been screaming for years. I decided it was finally time to answer."
Arthur's heart hammered against his ribs, but he did not step back. "You are the one the old stories warn about. The Bringer of Forbidden Gifts."
"Gifts are for children," the Devil hissed, stepping closer. The grass beneath its feet turned to ash instantly. "I offer contracts. I see the hate in your heart, Arthur. I see how you hate the Raja, how you hate the gods who left you in the dirt, how you even hate the weakness in your own brother. I can change all of that."
"At what price?" Arthur asked, his voice shaking.
"A simple one. I will give you the 'Dominion of Shadows.' You will have strength that no army can match. You will be able to command the very elements of darkness. Gold will flow to you like water. But... with every act of power, you will lose a piece of your humanity. Your heart will turn to stone, and your soul will eventually belong to me in the pits of the Void. Do we have a deal?"
Arthur thought of his mother's cold hands. He thought of the guards who had kicked him into the mud. He thought of the golden palace.
"I don't need a soul," Arthur growled, his eyes reflecting the Devil's fire. "I need to be a King."
The Blood Pact
The Devil produced a dagger made of frozen shadow. "Then let the blood of the mountain seal the throne of the abyss."
Arthur took the blade. It was colder than ice, biting into his palm before he even applied pressure. He sliced his hand open, and instead of red blood dripping down, it was a dark, glowing purple. He pressed his hand against the obsidian altar.
The world shattered.
A pillar of black lightning struck Arthur from the sky. He screamed, but no sound came out. He felt his veins being ripped open and filled with liquid darkness. His muscles expanded, his senses sharpened until he could hear the heartbeat of every creature in the forest. The pain was absolute, but so was the euphoria.
When the light faded, Arthur was different. He was taller, his skin had a deathly pale sheen, and his eyes now held a permanent, sinister glow.
He returned to the hut at dawn. Andrew was standing outside, looking for him. When Andrew saw Arthur emerging from the woods, he fell to his knees. The air around Arthur was shimmering with a dark heat.
"Arthur? What have you done?" Andrew whispered, his voice trembling with terror. "Your scent... you smell like a grave."
Arthur didn't look at his brother. He looked at his own hands, where black smoke was curling between his fingers. He looked toward the city of Jammu, and for the first time in his life, he didn't feel like a victim. He felt like a predator.
"The time for praying is over, Andrew," Arthur said, his voice now carrying a deep, metallic resonance. "Today, Jammu begins to pay its debt to me."