The night hadn't ended, only its shape changed.
Aaron lay half-conscious on the floor. His breathing were uneven, shallow and restrained, as though he feared waking something which waited in the silence. The air pressed down like a damp cloth over his lungs.
He could still feel her, that woman from the dream, her whisper inside the folds of his mind.
It wasn't a memory. It wasn't imagination either. It was a residue.
And underneath that residue, a voice.
It was soft, familiar and unwanted.
"You didn't do it."
The words vibrated inside him though not spoken aloud, but he felt. Like an echo repeating from the pit of his stomach.
He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy.
"You didn't do it."
Again.
The same tone. Calm and maternal.
Something in his chest twisted. A flicker of warmth. A flicker of denial.
His hand clenched. "I didn't—"
The shadows beneath his skin rippled. He saw for a moment faces, pale and dissolving; the mouths were wide open, silently accusing. The air buzzed with static.
"You didn't do it… but you wanted to."
His vision darkened. His pulse slowed.
He saw flashes, but not of his life, of someone else's.
A crying woman.
A falling knife.
Blood, dripping onto gray tiles.
Then silence.
A voice inside not his spoke:
"This is what you carry."
He almost believed it.
But something inside him, a cold grounded thread refused.
The doubt broke like brittle glass.
He whistled softly.
The world came back.
The illusion imploded in a silent burst.
He blinked, the sweat rolling down his temple. His chest ached, his pulse ragged.
The room was still there, the same ruined house, the faint orange of dawn pressing through cracks in the wall.
The old man beside him stirred, the exorcist blessed by the Sun.
His arm was wrapped in bloodied cloth, his breathing shallow but steady.
When he saw Aaron was awake, he gave a thin, tired smile.
"Good lad. You fought it off."
Aaron said nothing.
The old man motioned weakly to the floor. " It's actually a Haunter of Veil-rank. Bound to the floor. They feed on our guilt, mostly. They twist it until you drown in it."
His eyes turned toward the shadowed corner of the room. "We were lucky."
Aaron followed his gaze. The floorboards were blackened, burned into a perfect circle - at its center, faint outlines of fingers reaching upward.
"Lucky," Aaron echoed, though his voice didn't sound like his own.
---
Then came the sound.
Soft. Like glass cracking underwater.
The air folded in on itself, and the woman appeared again the same ghost from his dream.
But she wasn't screaming now. She had no distortion and madness.
She looked… calm. Almost human.
Her face was pale, features gentle. She stepped towards him-or rather, drifted-leaving behind trails of faint, dissolving light.
Her mouth opened, but words would not form. Rather, she began to break apart, like dust caught in slow wind.
Each particle glowed, not white but black.
And as they gathered, they coalesced into a thin band which wrapped around Aaron's right forearm.
An amulet with one bead.
It felt warm and alive.
The old man expelled air from his nose, something between resignation and grim humour.
"Well," he said, low, "looks like the lady chose her knight.
Aaron stared at the amulet, a place where he could feel it pulsing faintly under his skin. It wasn't pain; it was understanding.
A wordless voice filled his thoughts, not the Haunter's, not his own:
"You see through lies. Now show them the truth."
---
Knowledge poured in, not as words but as sensation: the feel of cold light behind his eyes; the sound of someone screaming underwater.
He stumbled, clutching his head.
Images flashed again-but this time they weren't from the ghost. They were… instructions.
He saw his own reflection in the broken mirror by the wall.
Two black flecks glimmered faintly within his pupils, shifting, like living shadows.
[Illusion Magic: Eye of Abyss.]
He didn't need to read it. He knew.
A gift accursed to despair.
He could make others feel what he had felt. Project their own ruin back into them.
He stared at the reflection until his own eyes began to blur.
However,
The old man's voice then broke the silence.
"She left you a contract. A binding. It's not over."
Aaron turned slowly. "What do you mean?"
The old man nodded toward the mark. "A quest mark. You're tethered to her now. To complete it, you must perform what she began in life, finish her vengeance. She's named three sinners."
"They're the ones. The ghost marked them when she was alive. Rapists and Killers. They hid behind the world's collapse."
Aaron's fingers brushed the bead on his arm. It pulsed faintly, responding to his heartbeat.
He said nothing.
He reached the first floor. Saw the three men and went towards them.
When he finally stood before them, the others looked up. Their faces were pale, anxious.
They'd seen it; they'd felt the presence of the Haunter, too.
Aaron walked forward, silent, knife in hand.
The old man didn't stop him. Didn't look away. The first man tried to run. Aaron caught him by the hair and drove the blade through the neck.
It was cleanly done with no hesitation and anger. The second begged. Aaron's face did not change. The knife came in below the ribs. The third just stared at him and smiled, as if relieved.
Aaron ended it quickly. After that, the world seemed to quiet. Even the air felt stiller.
"They were monsters long before the ghosts rose." Aaron looked down at his hands. The black bead glowed faintly, then dimmed.
The others whispered behind him.
"Cold-blooded."
"Not human anymore."
Their words didn't sting. They sounded distant-like voices underwater.
Later, after the camp settled into a restless silence, quarrels erupted. One woman shouted that Aaron had murdered them. Another wept. A voice then cursed the old man for allowing it. He didn't answer them.
When the old man finally spoke, his voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"This is not the world you remember," he said. "Either you follow the rules of survival… or you die with your pity."
His tone wasn't cruel or loud, just empty. The type of tone that closes discussions.
...
Aaron stood apart, near the broken window in his room, staring out into the dead city.
The moon hung low, veiled by gray mist.
On his arm, the mark pulsed faintly, reflecting the moonlight.
"Aaron… are you okay?"
He waited before answering. His throat felt dry, and his chest was heavier than before.
"I don't know," he said quietly. And for a long while, he just stood there, listening to the silence breathe. The moonlight faded. And in its absence, there was only the faint black glint that remained in his eyes.