The night said nothing when Enver arrived at the luxurious mansion.
No one welcomed him—except the wind, which trembled knowing who had come.
The house stood like a giant wounded in silence—its walls whispered, its floors groaned. Moonlight refused to touch the windows, as if unwilling to reflect the sins slumbering within.
Enver stepped through the corridor in silence.
Each footstep awakened spirits sleeping in the floor's cracks.
Soft laughter echoed faintly—not from children, but from shadows of unfinished pasts.
Behind a neatly arranged bookshelf was a hidden door.
It wasn't locked—only sealed by fear.
Enver merely stared at it. Without touching, the door creaked open slowly, bowing to something inexplicable.
The basement greeted him with the scent of dried blood and the sound of restrained breathing.
At the center of the room lay a scroll—
Old, bound in cords soaked in ancient blood—not of this life, but from lives long gone.
It wasn't an ordinary object. Not a spellbook. Not a charm.
It was the remnant of a pact never redeemed.
And only one kind of soul could open it: one recognized by both death and life.
Enver didn't touch it. He only stared, and the world shuddered.
Blue flames crawled from beneath his feet, climbing the air, circling the scroll.
The scroll could not endure—it unfurled not in defeat, but in fear.
And from within spilled shadows:
The cries of women.
Tiny hands screaming in silence.
The roars of men drunk on power.
And one entity that bound them all: a centipede spirit with a human head.
The underground sky trembled. From the darkness, a long, glistening body emerged.
The monstrous centipede slithered along the walls, its eyes crimson, its mouth chanting cursed prayers.
"Hellseer…" it hissed. "You… do not belong to this world."
Enver stood unmoved. His hair stirred softly.
His eyes remained calm, though storms raged within.
"I am not from above… nor below," he replied, a whisper that echoed.
"I am a wanderer from the vanished boundary."
The centipede coiled, then screamed—a screech that summoned lesser astral spirits from the walls.
Hundreds of insect-like creatures with human faces swarmed around Enver, attempting to infiltrate the cracks of his soul.
But there were no cracks left.
Enver had sealed them with ancient wounds that could no longer be wounded.
He raised his hand, and blue light ignited in his palm.
Not holy light, but light born from sorrow accepted without condition.
"Purificazione," he whispered.
Spiritual fire spread like winter fog.
It did not burn, but dismantled astral bonds one by one.
The creatures wailed—not from pain, but from being freed before they could seek revenge.
The centipede's body convulsed.
Faces of its victims spilled from its eyes.
Children's weeping flowed from its back.
And as it collapsed, it whispered to Enver:
"If you keep walking this path… you will lose her."
Enver said nothing.
For somewhere deep within, he knew—the whisper was not a threat… but a prophecy.
When it ended, the basement became a silent cave.
The scroll burned itself to ash, leaving behind only sparkling dust.
Enver ascended. The house began to crack.
The sins once stored in luxurious furniture began to rot.
And as he opened the front door, the night exhaled cold air once more.
But before he could step out, a small voice stopped him.
"Sir…"
A boy stood outside.
A child with empty eyes, dressed in a torn pajama.
One of those who was never saved in time.
Enver looked at him.
There were no words.
The child didn't thank him.
He cried—not out of fear… but because it was too late.
And Enver knew: sometimes, saving doesn't mean healing.