The smelling fog swirled over the world like a funeral shroud, unbreakable since the sun, this cheeky eye of the gods, forever turned away from the sinful humanity.
It was a world where the very concept of "light" became a distant tradition, a whisper from a long-forgotten fairy tale.
In this hopeless darkness, like a thorn in the sick finger of fate, only the rustle of trees remained, whose black forest, like rotten teeth, bites into the rotting landscape.
In the depths of this forest nightmare, where the roots, like the bones of giant monsters, intertwine under the rotten earth, there was a hut - a pathetic building made of rotten logs and black clay. It was more of a ghostly reminder of the house than a real refuge. Lim lived here as if forgotten by gods and people.
A twelve-year-old boy, with a face as pale as moonlight, but who has been gone for a long time. His eyes, as deep as wells, in which only cold stars were reflected, saw something that no mind should have known.
He was a child of darkness, fed by the raw wind and the silence of abandoned forests. Lim knew neither the warmth of his mother, nor the affection of his father, nor the sympathy of his fellow misfortunes. His only companions were sounds that could make the blood freeze in the veins: the rustling of creatures, the sighs of the wind, taking with them the screams of the missing souls, and the distant grinding, from which the ears began to hurt.
In this world, where the nights seemed endless, and the very concepts of day and night lost their meaning, Lim learned to survive like a wolf, in which the human heart lives, and in which everything is poisoned by darkness and fear.
He didn't remember the times when the world was different. His life was a constant dance with death, in which he was always ready to take a step back, but never fell.
For in this darkness, beyond the border of the tangible and familiar, there are monsters born not of flesh and blood, but of the very longing of the human soul. They crawl and sneak like skin parasites, feeding on fear and despair.
They are a curse that people have incurred upon themselves by choosing the path of wickedness. And Lim, innocent and lonely, was doomed to live among them, forced to make his way through this poor world, where hope is a dangerous illusion, and survival is the only form of prayer.
He knew that his story had not yet been written, but it was already imbued with the smell of decay and a desperate struggle with the abyss, which was still struggling to absorb him. He was the last spark in the pitch darkness, and only time will tell whether he can keep his flame in this world, where horror has become commonplace, and death - the only loyalty.