**Chapter 01: Jack**
The Ntuli continent, one of the five continents of the world, lay isolated in the southern reaches, shrouded in mist and mystery. Rarely did its people interact with the other four continents, as if the land itself had been forgotten by time and the heavens. Here, in the remote village of Emag, our story begins.
Emag was a place of silence and shadows. Its cobblestone streets were often empty, its homes locked tight against the unseen terrors that roamed the night. The villagers rarely spoke, their faces gaunt and eyes hollow, as if they carried the weight of a curse they dared not name. It was here, on the edge of the village near the crumbling cemetery, that an old church stood—broken, desolate, and home to a young man named Jack.
Jack was twenty years old, though his eyes carried the weariness of someone much older. He had lived alone in the church since he was seventeen, when his parents had tried to sacrifice him in a twisted ritual for wealth and immortality. How he had escaped, he couldn't remember. The memory was a blur of screams, blood, and a blinding light that left him with a throbbing headache whenever he tried to recall it. All he knew was that he had woken up in the church, the doors sealed shut, and the villagers whispering that he was cursed.
Now, Jack survived by hunting in the forest that bordered the village. He returned one evening with a rabbit slung over his shoulder, its lifeless body swaying with each step. As he passed through the village entrance, he muttered, "Praise the Lord," a habit he couldn't shake despite the silence that had greeted his prayers for years.
The village was eerily quiet, as always. A few villagers shuffled about, their heads down and eyes averted. They rarely spoke to one another, let alone to Jack. To them, he was an outcast, a reminder of the darkness that lurked just beyond their doors. Jack ignored their stares and made his way to the church, his sanctuary and prison.
The old church loomed before him, its steeple cracked and its stained-glass windows shattered. The cemetery beside it was overgrown with weeds, the graves marked by crumbling headstones. As Jack stepped inside, the air grew colder, and the faint scent of decay lingered in the shadows.
"You're back," a voice whispered, echoing through the empty nave.
"How was hunting?" another chimed in, its tone mocking.
"You look tender and appetizing," a third voice hissed, sending a shiver down Jack's spine.
Jack ignored the voices, as he always did. They were part of the church's nightly ritual, a chorus of unseen entities that tormented him after dark. He walked to the pulpit, where his meager belongings lay: a sponge for a bed, a threadbare blanket, and a single pillow. It wasn't much, but it was home.
He set to work preparing the rabbit, skinning it with practiced ease. He poured its blood into a small container and severed its head, the act as familiar as breathing. Holding the head and the container of blood, Jack walked to the church entrance and placed them on the ground. It was an offering, though he wasn't sure to whom or what. All he knew was that it kept the voices at bay—most of the time.
Returning to the pulpit, Jack lit a small fire using broken pieces of wood from the church pews. He roasted the rabbit meat, the smell filling the empty space as he ate in silence. When he was done, he drank from a water bottle and extinguished the flames. Darkness enveloped the church, and Jack lay down on his sponge, pulling the blanket over himself.
As the last light faded, the church came alive.
"Praise be to God," a deep, resonant voice intoned, as if leading a sermon.
"To Him the glory belongs," another voice responded, its tone dripping with sarcasm.
"Follow Him and redeem yourselves," a third voice sneered, followed by a chorus of laughter.
Jack lay still, his heart pounding. The voices were accompanied by flickering lights—pairs of glowing eyes that hovered in the darkness. They moved around him, their whispers growing louder, more insistent.
"Who will die for you?" the lead voice demanded, its tone shifting to one of mockery. "Who will save you now?"
Jack clenched his fists, his instincts screaming at him to stay silent, to pretend he couldn't hear them. He had learned the hard way that acknowledging their presence only made things worse. He felt cold hands brush against his skin, their touch sending waves of nausea through him. Still, he didn't move.
"Is he awake?" one of the entities whispered, its breath icy against his ear.
"Can he hear us?" another asked, its voice dripping with malice.
"I'm hungry for flesh," a third growled, its words sending a chill down Jack's spine.
"We must eat him," the lead voice declared, its tone final.
Jack's body tensed, but he forced himself to remain still. He focused on his breathing, slow and steady, as the entities circled him. Their hands clawed at his blanket, ripping it away, but he didn't react. He knew the rules: don't move, don't speak, don't let them know you're afraid.
The night dragged on, the voices growing louder and more frenzied. But as the first light of dawn crept through the broken windows, the entities began to retreat.
"Run," one of them hissed.
"We must return," another muttered, its voice fading into the shadows.
By sunrise, the church was silent once more. Jack lay exhausted, his body trembling as he finally allowed himself to breathe. He knew sleep would come, but it would bring no rest. His dreams were filled with nightmares—visions of his parents, the ritual, and the entities that haunted him.
As he drifted off, one thought lingered in his mind: *Why am I still alive?*