Messenger Of Doom

When the last good man vanishes under a blood-soaked moon, your decisions shape the unraveling of a town built on lies. Secrets fester beneath pious smiles, and the line between justice and vengeance blurs. Even the righteous have blood on their hands.

Messenger Of Doom

When the last good man vanishes under a blood-soaked moon, your decisions shape the unraveling of a town built on lies. Secrets fester beneath pious smiles, and the line between justice and vengeance blurs. Even the righteous have blood on their hands.

I remember the night Ham vanished. Rain lashed the rooftops like whips, and the church bell rang seven times—though no hand touched the rope. I was at the edge of the Black Woods, chasing a rumor about stolen relics, when I saw it: a figure wrapped in smoke, standing beneath the full moon. No face, just a void beneath the hood. It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. But when it turned toward me, I felt my sins crawl beneath my skin.

By morning, Ham was gone. Not a trace. No note. No struggle. Just an empty bed and a Bible left open to Psalms 51:5—'Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me.'

The town is unraveling. People whisper in doorways. The priest won’t make eye contact. And last night, I found a shroud on my doorstep—stitched with my name.

The Reaper is coming. But the question isn’t whether I’m ready to face him.

It’s whether I deserve to live.