curse paradise

"Finally, the victim's life force would be drained, extinguished in a way that defied comprehension. What remained was no longer a person, but a twisted, corrupted husk—an abomination that seemed to mock the laws of nature itself.

And this is just the prologue to the 3000 Circles of Death."

With those chilling words, the coffin was sealed. Then, as if it had never been, it vanished. The kingdom that once stood proud was now silent, every citizen lying lifeless—snuffed out like candles in a storm. Only the royalty remained, untouched yet surrounded by unimaginable horror.

The king, Richard, stood among his last remaining bloodline. His face was pale, yet his resolve was firm. He had made his decision. With a solemn nod, his family understood. They raised their blades to their own hearts, ready to end their existence in a world that no longer had a place for them.

But before the steel could pierce flesh, slow and steady footsteps echoed through the silence.

"I wouldn't advise that, Richard," a voice, smooth yet commanding, broke through the stillness. "There is nothing to be gained from your death. Besides, the heretic has been cursed and killed."

The king froze, his hands trembling around the hilt of his blade. This man—this stranger—had spoken his name without honorifics, without hesitation, as if he had known him all his life. Cloaked in a flowing white robe trimmed with gold, his sandals gleamed like brass, and a radiant halo obscured his face. The very air around him felt divine, oppressive yet intoxicating.

Richard, ever cautious, narrowed his eyes. "Who are you? And how do you know me?"

The man smiled—a gesture both reassuring and terrifying. "I am the Voice of the Seven Stars, sent to bring a new dawn to humanity. And I want you to be my herald. But I will not force you."

He paused, surveying the ruin of the kingdom, his expression unreadable as the scent of blood thickened in the air.

"I can help you recreate the world," he continued, his voice an irresistible force, "but only if you are willing to do it in my image."

Richard's heart pounded. "But how can that be? My kingdom is nothing but ruins. I am the last of the weakest bloodline. There is no power left in me."

"All I need from you," the man said, stepping closer, "is belief. Shed your weak, pathetic human nature, and you will gain power beyond your imagination. The choice is yours."

The words wrapped around Richard's soul like chains of light. There was something holy about them—something undeniable. He had no other options.

Without hesitation, the king dropped to one knee. "Yes. I will."

The rest of the surviving royalty followed his lead, kneeling in submission.

The man smiled. With one swift movement, he reached out and tore his own left arm from his body. There was no cry of pain, no wince—only the same serene smile.

"Take and eat," he said. "I will be in you, and you will be in me."

Richard did not hesitate. He sank his teeth into the offered flesh, the taste unlike anything he had ever known—divine, intoxicating, transcendent. He passed it to the next person, who did the same, until all had partaken.

"Now, drink my blood," the man continued, offering his wrist. "Drink your fill and accept your new nature."

They obeyed, and with every drop they consumed, something inside them changed. Power surged through them, their bodies humming with an energy beyond mortality.

As the transformation settled, Richard saw that the man was preparing to leave. Panicked, he rushed forward. "My lord, will we ever hear from you again? How will we know when you call?"

The man turned his glowing gaze upon him. "I will always be with you," he said. "And if you ever need me…"

He turned and looked the lifeless body of the fallen soldier lay on the blood-soaked ground, his head shattered and his brain scattered like a grotesque mosaic, the robed man approached with slow, deliberate steps. The golden trim of his white robe shimmered, unaffected by the carnage around him. His presence alone seemed to distort the air, a force that bent the very fabric of reality.

He knelt beside the ruined corpse, his halo radiating an eerie glow that pulsated in rhythm with an unseen heartbeat. With an outstretched hand, he touched the soldier's chest, and immediately, the ground beneath them trembled. The blood that had seeped into the earth began to flow backward, reversing its path as if time itself was bending to his will. Pieces of shattered skull reassembled, brain matter slithered back into place, and torn flesh stitched itself together with an unnatural smoothness. The soldier's lifeless eyes, once bulging from their sockets, receded back, but they no longer held the dullness of death—now, they glowed with an eerie golden light.

The robed man exhaled, his breath like a celestial wind, and spoke in a voice that resonated with power.

"You were cast into the abyss, but I have plucked you from its depths. Rise, forsake your mortal weakness, and become my priest."

The soldier's chest heaved violently as he gasped for air, his reborn lungs filling with something more potent than mere breath. His body convulsed, not in pain, but in transformation. His once battle-worn armor disintegrated into golden dust, swirling around him before reforming into a robe similar to his master's—pure white, lined with intricate golden patterns resembling sacred symbols that pulsed with divine energy. His sleeves were wide, flowing like liquid light, and on his chest was an emblem of a sun with an all-seeing eye at its center, forever marking him as a servant of the divine. His boots, now shining like polished brass, made no sound against the ground, as if he had transcended the weight of mortality itself.

When he finally stood, his face bore no trace of the man he had once been. His features were sharper, ethereal, as though carved by celestial hands. His golden eyes burned with unwavering devotion, his hair—once mundane—now carried streaks of shimmering silver, a sign of his rebirth. He bowed deeply before the robed man, his voice steady yet brimming with newfound reverence.

"I am yours to command, use me as it please you, my Lord."

The robed man smiled, satisfied.

"Then go, my priest, and spread my will, reshape this world in my image. let them be my weapons, my seven horns".

Then, he vanished.

That marked the beginning of the Fellowship of the seven stars.