Book1 ch.1.
"The Second Silence"
He came back wearing a body like a funeral suit—pressed into flesh and walked like a stranger in his own bones. The world didn’t quake when he was born again. There were no stars hovering over rusted hospitals or choirs humming in ultrasound machines. No shepherds. No signs.
Just blood.
Just rust-colored skies.
He didn't know his name—just that he hated crosses. Hated the sanctimonious glint in a priest’s eye. Hated the sound of forgiveness. The scent of incense made him gag. He worked graveyard shifts at a meat-packing plant in Nowhere, Illinois, where cows hung like crucified saints and the floors stank of old sins.
But dreams haunted him like maggots in bone.
Dreams of nails through wrists, of cheering crowds feeding on death like it was bread and wine. He dreamt of betrayal not once—but always. He wept in sleep, and woke with fists clenched so hard they bled.
The world around him was rot wrapped in neon. Garbage fires behind strip malls. Fathers disappearing. Children watching with cracked phone screens for something that never came.
And deep in the woods, in a house older than language, the witches watched.
They were not green-skinned cartoon hags. No broomsticks. These were druids, dismembered from time. Eyes like insects. Teeth like forest roots. Their warlocks walked inside mirrors. They knew. The stars had whispered it to them:
He is here. The Inverted One. The Hanged God returned in fury.
They called him the Second Silence.
Because this time, he would not speak forgiveness.
This time, the lamb had fangs.
They captured him under a blood moon, dragged him through birch and ash, binding his arms in barbed scripture. They sang hymns in dead languages and offered him to the threshold between worlds—not to die, but to open. With his blood they’d plant a new world. One untouched by mercy. A garden of bone and blasphemy.
He didn’t struggle. He smiled.
Because now he remembered.
He remembered the thorn crown and the mockery.
He remembered the rot in men’s hearts.
He remembered his own scream in that cave between death and light.
“You think I am your sacrifice,” he whispered, as his blood turned the sky black. “But you’ve opened a door that swings both ways.”
And from behind him stepped something older than Genesis.
Not angels.
Not demons.
But the void between them.
The world would not be saved this time.
It would be silenced.
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