Chapter 3: Kit’s Startling Question

"LITTLE...SIAN..."

The whisper echoed inside his head, cold and foreign, yet feeling incredibly personal. Siron let out a small yelp and buried his face in his hands, trying to block out the horrific sound and vision. When he dared to look back at the mirror, there was nothing left. Only his pale, wild-eyed face remained, the strange handprints on the shower glass having vanished.

That night was a living nightmare. He couldn't sleep; every ordinary sound, the creak of a pipe, the hum of the refrigerator, the night wind, made him jump in terror. He turned on every light in the apartment, sitting on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around him, his eyes glued to the bathroom door. The word "Sian" spun in his mind. It was his childhood nickname, something only his family knew. Something his own hallucination shouldn't possibly know.

The next morning, Siron went to Aethifolt campus with a weak body and dark circles under his eyes. The bright, bustling outside world felt like a blessing, yet the anxiety still clung to his bones. He walked quickly through the student crowd, feeling as if every shadow in the corner of his eye could turn into something else.

"Shut up, you idiot," he snapped at himself, trying to gather the remaining shreds of his rationality. "You're not being followed."

"Siron?"

A familiar voice made him turn around. Kit, a classmate from high school, stood there with a wide smile and a backpack slung over his shoulder. His friendly face was a calming sight.

"Kit! I almost didn't recognize you," Siron said, trying hard to sound normal.

"You look... exhausted," Kit observed, his eyes scrutinizing with concern. "Didn't you sleep last night?"

"Ah, assignments. You know, first day and all," Siron lied quickly, diverting his gaze. "How are you? Long time no see."

They walked together, light conversation flowing. Kit’s presence was like a sedative. For a few minutes, Siron could almost forget the black shadow and the cold whisper. Almost.

As they sat in the cafeteria, the sunlight illuminated Kit's face. He paused for a moment, looking at Siron seriously. "Seriously, Ron. Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost."

Siron laughed, but it sounded fake and strained. "A ghost? Don't be ridiculous. I'm just... sleep-deprived."

Kit nodded, not looking entirely convinced. "Okay, if you say so. But if there's anything, anything at all, you know you can talk to me, right?"

A wave of emotion washed over Siron. He wanted to tell him everything—about his parents, about the curse, about the bathroom and the whisper. But the words got stuck in his throat. It sounded too insane.

"I know. Thanks, Kit," he said, offering a weak smile. "It means a lot."

They spent the rest of the break discussing lecture schedules and plans to meet again tomorrow. As they parted at the corridor intersection, Siron’s feeling of relief began to fade, replaced by a deepening unease. He was alone again.

He decided to go to the campus library, thinking that the quiet, academic environment might calm him down. The room was spacious, silent, and filled with the scent of old paper. He wandered through the tall book stacks, his fingers subconsciously tracing the spines of the books, looking for... something. Anything that could give him answers.

He stopped in the mythology and local folklore section. His eyes were drawn to an old, worn-looking book with a cover made of untitled leather. As if a magnet were pulling his hand, he reached for it.

The book opened by itself to a certain page. The illustration there made his blood freeze. It was a drawing of a handsome man with eyes shining like a predator, standing over a pile of corpses, with a dark, horned shadow shape stretching out behind him. Below the image was one word in ancient script that he somehow knew how to read: MORAT.

Siron's heart pounded. This was no coincidence.

He flipped the page, trembling. The text was full of archaic language, but one paragraph stood out clearly, as if highlighted by the sunlight streaming through the window.

"...and his vengeful soul shall never rest. Through the blood of the traitor's descendant, he shall find his form again. Only by voluntary bond or severing by the same blood can this chain of curses be broken..."

Blood. Voluntary bond. The words resonated in his soul. Did the "wrong ritual" he performed in his dream involve blood? Was that what brought him closer?

He felt watched. A cold draft swept through the area, even though no windows were open. He turned his head, looking across the quiet room, down the long aisle between the book stacks.

There, far at the end of the aisle, where the shadows gathered most densely, a tall, black figure stood.

No longer faint.

Not like a hallucination.

The figure was solid, dark, with the silhouette of curved horns and a pair of eyes glowing with a faint red light, staring directly at him.

Siron dropped the book, the sound echoing in the library's silence. He couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't breathe.

The figure raised one hand, waving slowly, its long, pointed fingers moving almost like a caress.

Then, quickly, the shadow moved closer, not walking, but gliding, silent and terrifying, closing the distance down the long aisle with unnatural speed.

Siron jolted to awareness, his body shaking. He had to run. Now.

He turned to flee, but his foot caught on something, and he stumbled, falling hard to the floor.

He looked up, his eyes wide with horror.

The black figure was now at the end of the aisle, only a few meters away, turning toward him. The red light of its eyes burned into his soul.

And from behind the bookshelf to his right, a library attendant appeared, whistling carelessly, pushing a book trolley straight toward...