There was nothing in that continent resembling a world—no river finding its way, no wind carrying good news, not even a sun to ripen skins or give hope to growing crops. Everything there resembled an end, as if it remained when all else had perished. Its soil was black—not because fire had consumed it, but because countless souls had been slaughtered upon it, its grains soaked with dreams butchered at their cradle. The rocks sprouted from the earth like teeth from flesh, broken, intertwined, slanting as if they had long suffered and then ceased to try.
Beneath the ground, in depths without measure, slept veins of ancient magic. Not magic summoned or learned, but a curse older than languages. Sometimes it seeped out as green gases flowing from cracks, sometimes as glowing algae that wrapped around a traveler's foot, tempting them to stop. Whoever stopped, took root. Whoever took root, forgot who they were.
On the eastern mountain slopes, where the wind did not blow but oozed like mold, three men stood skinning a nameless creature. Its skin was like stone, yet the knife of one—a long blade with a black handle, fed by the blood of the innocent—passed through it as fingers pass through clay. The creature did not scream; it merely breathed, as if life had not yet been fully taken but was slowly leaking away. They laughed, and whenever one cut a part, the others heard a whisper emerging from the flesh.
"Didn't I tell you its flesh sings?" said the first, wiping the knife on his brow.
The second spat on the ground; fire flared at the spit's spot, then vanished without trace.
"Everything in this land sings. Even the soil screams when you walk on it."
The third was blind, yet the only one looking at the creature. And he smiled.
Farther away, where the earth held no ash of life, lived beasts. Not creatures hunted to be killed, but those left deliberately to grow, rot, and grow until they forgot they had ever been anything. At night, when magic fell silent, their crawling was heard. They did not attack, only passed—as if searching for something. A child. A heart. Something yet untainted.
Among the northern swamps, there existed a being known only as The Whisper. Its name spoken once would melt the tongue from within. But all knew it was there. Anyone passing felt their skin tighten, their eyes see only images from a past not their own.
The continent's inhabitants never gathered. No markets. No festivals. Each group dug its soil, guarded its fire, and awaited a knock at night. For those who knock in the night here are not guests but fate.
Once, there was a child. Found among the stones, he did not know how he came, nor did he speak. He walked at night alone, following a thread of white ash. When caught, his face melted before them, turning into tiny mirrors—each reflecting a scene from their coming death. They cut him into pieces, yet every piece became another child, each walking a different way. Since then, anyone seeing a child on this land runs, for children here are not born but sent.
In the far corners of the continent, there are inverted castles. Their architecture is not upward but downward. Their entrance begins at the edge of an abyss and descends, deeper and deeper until you forget you stand above anything. Each room is deeper than the last, and every door closes silently behind you. In one, it is said the Shadow's Ruler dwells. He never leaves, never speaks, never is seen. But his shadow moves along the walls like a black wind, and all who see it have their blood dry—not from fear, but from understanding. From knowing there is no escape.
One night, a star fell—or so people thought. Its sound was like a thousand flutes playing a single note. Two days later, a pit appeared in the heart of the plain, surrounded by four men crucifying themselves. No one forced them. They hammered nails into their hands and laughed. In the pit's heart was no stone, no fire—only an eye. A huge, black eye staring upward. It never blinked. It never vanished. It only remained.
The language spoken here is not language, but sounds planted in the mouth and harvested with pain. There is no word for "peace," or "hope," or "tomorrow." Only words like "slaughter," "bleed," "choice," "shackle," "eye," "sacrifice." Even the continent's name is spoken only at night, and whoever says it by day loses their teeth.
Markets, if they exist, open at dawn before the fog's light spreads. There, things are sold that are neither grown nor made: screams, tears, names, last breaths, stolen memories. A woman called "The Curse Bearer" sells your shadow to the highest bidder, saying whoever buys it inherits your fate. Some sell, some buy, and many never leave as they entered.
The dark continent is not a place. It is a punishment. A punishment for something never understood, never forgiven, never forgotten.
Deep underground, where the dark continent stretches like a rotting corpse beneath a sky that knows no dawn, an endless tale of pain and destruction is woven. The land there knows neither mercy nor time. Life neither begins nor ends. It simply... is.
When you wander there, you hear nothing but the wind whispering like lost souls that never found rest or forgiveness. Beneath those winds emerge different sounds—sometimes evil laughter piercing the silence, sometimes screams bursting into the air like knives.
On cracked earth grow black trees without leaves, their branches spider-like limbs reaching to grasp all that draws near. Among those trees move blind creatures with strange shapes and faded colors, tongues emitting strange sounds—part screech, part whisper. They attack only when hungry or threatened, but their mere presence is enough to ignite terror in those unaccustomed to such beings.
Deep in the forests, groups of ruthless highwaymen gather—the guardians of darkness—laughing over their victims' corpses, exchanging harsh jokes filled with hidden threats, plotting to kidnap children from nearby villages. One night, around a blazing fire, one hoarsely said:
"I heard that children here, if captured, will fetch a price in the Shadow Market... even the Shadow's Master cares for them."
Others laughed with hoarse voices:
"If the Shadow's Master wants them, he won't pay with money... but with blood."
Plans were made coldly, atop heads of children unaware they were mere pawns in a game far bigger than their lives.
In the barren plains, where nothing grows and only dust passes, strange creatures meet. One resembles a wolf, but larger and fiercer, its eyes glowing red. Called "Soul Cutter," it eats not flesh but swallows souls.
On a cold night, screams erupted from a village. The Soul Cutter arrived, leaving behind darkness deeper than night. It seized a child in its jaws and made corpses dance around it in a whirlwind of terror and blood.
But the continent is not only beasts and darkness. There are sorcerers, mastering killing arts and curses, gathering in secret places, using victims' blood in spells beyond human understanding. One known as "The Enchanted" had glowing blue eyes at night. It is said he tried to open a gateway to another place but failed and was swallowed by darkness.
Above the continent, the sky held no stars—only black magic spirals spinning slowly, as if staring at what lies beneath, watching, judging.
In that world, there is no room for dreams or safety. Everything is bound by blood and darkness. The dark continent's story does not end but repeats each day—with new screams, new victims, new sorcerers seeking power, and highwaymen leaders laughing at children's tears.
That continent is not just land but a living curse—unceasing, unforgiving. Everyone who steps into it knows what awaits is only the end.
...
In the dark heart of the continent, where breath is barely drawn, on the edge of a frozen lake no one dares approach, stood a faceless man.
He resembled humans only in stature, but his face was a black mirror reflecting only the abyss. It is said he is the ruler's messenger—or perhaps a shadow of the shadows themselves, no difference.
He carried a small box made of bones and fine wires, emitting a muffled moan when opened. Inside the box swirled red mist, devouring any light trying to escape.
The man advanced to an abandoned village, where ruined houses and withered plants lay. There, on a doorstep, he found a broken doll.
He did not smile but raised the box and threw it into the fire. Sharp screams rose from the smoke, mingling with the wind slipping through the rubble.
At that moment, far away in the shadows, came an unearthly echo.
"The time has begun..." whispered the shadow beside him.
This was not just a proclamation but the beginning of a new storm.
A few miles away, deep in a tangled forest, dark sorcerers gathered in a flaming circle, their hands raised to the starless sky, chanting ancient, embalmed names meant to pierce the veil between worlds.
Among them stood a little girl, appearing ordinary but bearing a single eye on her forehead, glowing with cold blue light.
One sorcerer said in a trembling voice, "Her eyes see what must not be seen, and her heart beats only with fear."
But she smiled—her smile like melting ice.
"Let the darkness devour everything... for I was born of it."
Meanwhile, in the barren plains, where no human foot has ever stepped, rose the cries of kidnapped children, echoing between black mountains and feeding the dark continent's powers.
And there was... a dove. Deformed but alive, hovering in the gray sky, as if carrying a hidden secret.
It was the last remnant of hope, or perhaps the final illusion in a merciless world.