.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

No Dawn for the Damned The world was quiet, but the storm was rising. The air carried a strange stillness, a breath held before disaster. Clouds churned in the sky, thick and heavy, swallowing the moon in their darkness. A low rumble of thunder echoed through the empty streets, a distant warning of what was to come. Somewhere in the silence, footsteps pounded against wet pavement. A man was running—running from death. His breath came in sharp gasps, his body drenched in sweat and rain. He didn’t dare look back. He knew what followed. Death was coming. But how could he escape? How could anyone outrun the inevitable? Yet he tried. Selfish. Desperate. Clinging to life like it was something worth keeping. Behind him, Death did not run. He walked—slow, steady, certain. There was no need to rush. He had already won. He always won. The chase did not last long. The man’s foot caught on something unseen. A second of weightlessness. Then the harsh reality of stone and blood as he crashed onto the street, his body sprawled, his breath stolen by the impact. Life had tripped. And life had lost. Death stood over him, watching. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. And then—just the barest of gestures, so subtle it was almost unnoticeable. Time bowed to the master of disaster. With deliberate steps, he approached. The rain fell harder now, drumming against the pavement, against the trembling body beneath him. He leaned in, his presence swallowing the last traces of warmth in the air. One hand pressed flat against the man’s chest—bare, cold, merciless. The other hand held a dagger, its blade gleaming with something far worse than steel. Poison. But not just any poison. This was something ancient, something crafted for one purpose alone—to ensure death came not in an instant, but in agony. It burned not only through the veins but through the soul, devouring everything it touched, turning flesh to ruin and blood to fire. A toxin that did not just kill but destroy. And then—force. A single, sharp thrust. A wet, sickening splatter. The dagger tore through skin, through bone, through the last fragile defenses of a heart that had fought so hard to keep beating. Blood gushed out in violent bursts, spilling over Death’s hand like a final, desperate plea. And then—silence. For a moment, the dying man saw it. His own heart, still twitching, still clinging to life even as it lay cradled in Death’s palm. His final witness to his own undoing. A cruel, meaningless sight. Because life was always meant to surrender to death. Before life begins, death is already written. Death looked at the heart for a moment longer, then—a slow, crushing grip. A final, brutal end. The blood dripped between his fingers, but he did not flinch. He simply wiped his hands against his coat, smearing the remnants of what once was a life. Then, without a word, without a sound, he walked away. The night watched. The air carried the scent of blood and rain. But no one spoke. No one ever does.

.

.

The room was dimly lit, shadows stretching along the walls like silent watchers. The air was heavy, still. This penthouse was nothing short of a prison—one draped in luxury, yet drowning in darkness. He lay on the bed, eyes open, restless. Sleep was an illusion, just another trap he had no way of escaping. But tonight, it pulled him in. The illusion began. He was running—running through a dense forest, choked with darkness. The air was thick, suffocating, as if the trees themselves wanted to keep him trapped. Something was behind him. Watching. Waiting. Yet no matter how fast he moved, no matter how hard he pushed, he was getting nowhere. Then, the whispers came. Mocking. Taunting. Cruel. "Pathetic." "Run, run, little prey. It won’t change a thing." "You think you can escape?" "Fool. You were meant to suffer." "Go on, fall. You know it’s coming." His breath hitched. His legs burned. But his body was tired, weak, bound to fail. And then—he did. His foot slipped, and he hit the ground with a thud. The creatures stilled. A silence stretched through the forest, thick with anticipation. And then—laughter. Low, twisted, inhuman. This was the moment they had been waiting for. They descended upon him, clawed hands grabbing, shaking him mercilessly. He fought, thrashed, but there was no escape. His body was dragged across the forest floor, dirt and thorns cutting into his skin. Then—pain. A tree. Covered in thorns, each spike sharp enough to pierce through flesh. And they slammed him against it. A gasp. A choked breath. A sharp, unbearable sting. His own blood painted the bark, warm and wet, soaking into the ground beneath him. This was an illusion. It had to be. But the pain—it was real. Too real. Too much. Then—darkness. He didn’t know how long he was unconscious. When he came to, he was bound. Two trees stood tall on either side of him. Chains wrapped around his wrists, pulling him apart. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight. Then came the whip. A sharp crack. Then another. And another. The pain tore through him, every sting biting deep, setting his skin on fire. But he didn’t scream. He just took it. Letting every lash carve its mark. Letting the agony consume him. And then—he woke up. A sharp jerk. A ragged breath. His body was drenched in sweat, the ghost of pain still lingering on his skin. His hands trembled as he reached for the lamp, lighting the room in a dim, flickering glow. The nightmare should have ended. But something—someone—was still there. Through the rain-streaked window, he saw him. Death. Standing in the storm, watching. His presence was suffocating. His clothes, dark and gothic, looked as if they had been stitched from the night itself. But he did nothing. He spared him. And then, with slow, measured steps, he left. The man on the bed didn’t move. He just stared, silent, tears slipping down his cheeks. But his face—it was empty. Expressionless. Tears with no emotion. The night moved on. The world remained unchanged. But something had shifted. Two souls had crossed paths, and history would remember it.

.

The morning unfolded in slow, muted shades of gray. Winter had cast its spell, leaving the world wrapped in frost and silence. Outside, the streets were coated in a thin layer of snow, footsteps fading almost as soon as they were made. The wind howled softly, slipping through cracks, whispering like a ghost in the cold air. Inside, the penthouse was dim, bathed in the faint blue light of dawn. The air was still, almost suffocating in its silence. He hadn’t slept. He never did. The blanket draped over his shoulders did little to chase away the cold. But it wasn’t the winter that made him shiver. His fingers curled around the edge of his sleeve, brushing against the scars that ran like forgotten stories over his skin. Faint. Silent. Permanent. He exhaled, watching his breath vanish into the icy air. Another day. Another endless cycle. Winter had come. But for him, it was always winter.

He finally moved, his body feeling heavier than it should. The cold clung to him, creeping into his bones, but he ignored it. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked toward the bathroom. The floor was icy beneath his feet, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and faint traces of cologne. Turning the faucet, he let the water run—scalding hot. Steam curled in the air, yet the warmth barely touched him. He stood under the stream, eyes closed, letting the water wash over him. But it couldn’t cleanse what lingered beneath his skin. The weight, the memories, the darkness—it all remained. After what felt like forever, he finally stepped out, droplets tracing paths down his bare skin before disappearing. He wiped the mirror with his hand, but the reflection that stared back felt distant, hollow. He turned away. Dressing was methodical. Black shirt, buttoned with precision. Black trousers, smooth and crisp. A dark coat draped over his shoulders, heavy yet fitting. Every thread spoke of control, of something put together—despite the cracks beneath. Finally, he fastened his watch, the ticking barely audible in the silence. Then, without a glance back, he left the room.

He descended the stairs with slow, measured steps. The house was silent, untouched by life, as if it existed only to shelter shadows. The faint creak of the wooden steps was the only sound accompanying him. Reaching the kitchen, he flipped on the dim overhead light. The cold of the tiled floor seeped through his socks, but he ignored it. He moved to the counter, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt, his fingers stiff from the morning chill. Cooking wasn’t something he enjoyed, but it was necessary. Something to keep his hands busy. Something to remind him he was still here. He grabbed a few eggs from the fridge, cracked them into a bowl, and whisked them with little effort. A pinch of salt, a dash of black pepper—simple, unremarkable. The pan heated on the stove, the faint sizzle filling the empty space as he poured in the mixture. An omelet. Easy. Effortless. While it cooked, he reached for bread, sliding two slices into the toaster. The hum of the machine, the warmth radiating from the stove—it was all mechanical, nothing more. A few minutes later, he plated his food. Omelet, toast, a cup of black coffee. No extravagance, no unnecessary effort. He sat at the counter, staring at the plate before taking slow bites. The food was warm, but it didn’t register. It was just fuel. Outside, the winter wind howled, rattling against the windowpanes. The sky remained dull, gray, lifeless—just like the morning, just like him.

.

On the other side of the world, someone lay still, eyes closed but not really asleep. Sleep never came easily. He needed strong drugs just to shut his mind off, to escape the weight of his own thoughts. He was quiet—always. He didn’t waste words. He just watched, listened, and understood. After a while, he got up. The bed was barely disturbed, like he had never been there. Same routine. Same silence. He went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, letting it wash away the numbness before stepping into the shower. Once done, he walked downstairs. His cottage was something else—luxurious, dark, yet oddly inviting. A contradiction, just like him. It stood deep in the forest, away from the world. The forest, though, was different. Beautiful, untouched, a masterpiece of nature. Pure. He grabbed the cappuccino he had made earlier and the sandwiches from last night. No fresh cooking, no effort. Just enough to get through the morning. Walking outside, he settled in his garden. It was huge, open, surrounded by nothing but trees and sky. Peaceful. But the cottage behind him told another story—one of shadows, of something deeper, something darker. He ate in silence, taking slow sips of coffee. The morning went on, but nothing really changed. Just another day.

After spending some time in silence, he finally stood up, making his way to the garage. Without hesitation, he got into his car, started the engine, and drove away. He was someone undefined—unreachable, yet desired by all. A presence too dark, too precious, like a rare pearl hidden in the depths of the ocean. Even the finest artist, the most skilled painter, couldn’t capture him on canvas. His aura was pure darkness, yet his face held an ethereal charm. His eyes—blue, oceanic, but laced with stormy grey—were striking, too striking. They added to his mystery, but he never let the world see them. Black contact lenses covered their truth. It wasn’t just his eyes. His hair, naturally silver-white, was dyed into a deeper shade of black. He had his reasons, ones he never spoke of. God must have taken extra time crafting him—a creation too detailed, too carefully carved. He arrived at his destination—a massive garden, grand and full of life. The place was crowded, filled with people. They expected him. He didn’t belong to them, yet they made him feel as if he did. But he wasn’t ready to step out just yet. Sitting in his car, inside the dark garage, he kept his eyes closed. For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist. Only the silence remained.

.

..

.

The event was a club meeting in Germany, an exclusive gathering for the elite—a place where power, luxury, and influence intertwined. The club was known as “Schwarze Krone” (Black Crown), a name that carried weight among those who mattered. Only those with true worth in their eyes were allowed in. They played the game of power however they pleased. But among them, he remained different. Untouched. Someone who was always just… someone. The garden where the meeting was held was nothing less than grand. Perfectly manicured hedges stretched across the vast space, intertwined with marble statues that whispered of history. Tall lamps cast a soft glow over the cobbled pathways, and an enormous fountain stood in the center, its water flowing in a rhythmic dance. Everything about the place screamed wealth and elegance. He stepped out of his car, his presence shifting the air. Each of his movements was measured, controlled, effortless. The moment he walked towards the entrance of Helsing, the whispers started. Helsing wasn’t just a place—it was a domain of business, of secret deals, of decisions that shaped industries. Hidden behind its luxurious setting was a world where negotiations held more weight than any law. Fortunes were made and destroyed here. As he entered, all eyes were on him. Conversations paused, gazes locked onto his figure. They all watched, but no one dared to approach first.

He ascended the stairs in an elegant, effortless stride, his presence untouchable, his mind detached. Why would he care? He never had to. The building stood at the heart of the vast garden—a masterpiece of architecture. The exterior, a seamless blend of neoclassical and gothic design, loomed with its tall, arched windows and grand stone columns. It wasn’t just a building; it was a fortress of power. Chandeliers glowed softly through the glass, casting golden light onto the marble floors inside. At the very top of this structure was the meeting room, a space where only the strongest could sit. The club, Schwarze Krone, had only eight members—the rulers of wealth, control, and influence. Every year, the rankings shifted based on the losses and profits they gained. One fall, one mistake, and there was no return. It was an unspoken rule—once you were out, you were out forever. Yet, despite all this, he remained. Always. The last pillar. The eighth member. No one had ever been able to take his place. Because of this, he had more enemies than anyone else. Ruthless, scheming rivals who wished to see him fall. But at the same time, there were a few—three, maybe four—who stood beside him. Supporters? Maybe. But trust? That was a luxury no one could afford in this place.

.

.

Somewhere else, in another part of the world, power rested in silence. A presence so dark, so profound, that it felt almost untouchable. Here, in the heart of South Korea, another force existed—ruthless, observant, and entirely his own. He carried his own pain, buried deep beneath the surface, unreadable to those who tried. Stepping into the garden, he exhaled, his breath barely visible in the crisp air. He moved with quiet certainty, his every action precise, controlled. Sliding into the driver’s seat of his sleek black car, he started the engine. The deep hum of the vehicle echoed in the stillness, a sound of understated power. There was something about him—a presence that demanded attention yet rejected it at the same time. He was defined in every way possible, yet no single definition could truly capture him. His dark brown eyes, deep and unreadable, carried a chill that sent shivers through anyone who dared to meet his gaze. An introvert to his core, he never understood how the world recognized him. But he knew. His very existence knew. Tonight, he had to visit Noctis Manor, a place that carried its own weight in history. The mansion was a fortress. Massive, imposing, and impossible to overlook. Its dark stone walls stood against the sky like a monument to power itself. Gargoyles lined the rooftop, their stone faces frozen in eternal grimaces. The iron gates, tall and heavy, bore intricate carvings—symbols of those who had walked these halls before. As he moved inside, the air was thick with something unspoken. The silence of the place wasn’t empty—it was heavy, filled with the weight of old legacies. His steps echoed in the vast halls as he approached the main chamber. There, two families resided together. The Jeons and the Kims—both bound by history, power, and something far more dangerous. He stepped forward, offering a respectful yet distant greeting to his parents. A night had just begun, but here, darkness never truly ended.

.

.

If loyalty existed in the color white, then salt would be everyone's cure.

Sometimes life serves in the way , you never expected yet you hope everyday with the memories you behold regardless how they affect you. This is the tale of two existence bound by nothing yet to be bounded by fate. One acknowledges the other intends to forget or ignore. But the most cruel thing , a series of revenges , an agonized past , remorseful history till now , no way of repentance. It is karma .

However it is yet to be discovered. Hold tightly and find out the answers ; what , when ,who , whom, whose ,how ,where etc

.

.

.

Well if you want an introduction of characters then please comment . I know l am lazy but try to understand cause my surrounding environment is hella chaotic and l have to do home chores to do and pursue my study further .

Your corporation is required

I'll update after my exams .

.

.

.

He goes upstairs and reaches his room. The dim light casts soft shadows across the space. He freshens up and changes into something comfortable, throwing a black coat over it. A habit, just like the waist chains he never stopped wearing. It started in his teenage years when a friend gave him one, and since then, it became part of him. There’s no real difference between his past and present self—only unspoken words that still linger. After that, he comes downstairs and settles on the couch, finding comfort in his own company. He’s used to solitude, even in a room full of people. Unless someone disturbs him, he remains undisturbed. The Kim family isn’t originally from this place. They don’t belong to these stone walls, yet their bond with them runs deep. An incident changed everything. A misunderstanding led to a clash, one death, and one loss. The weight of it forced them to leave Busan, the place where it all happened. They moved to Seoul, rooting themselves deeper in business and life. They all started over. Yet two people still hold onto the truth—one denied it and met death, the other accepted it and disappeared. And then, there were those who longed for the missing. His mother’s voice breaks his thoughts. She calls him, and he responds by making his way to the kitchen. She asks if he wants a warm drink or juice. He simply declines. Then, unnoticed by everyone, he settles on the kitchen counter—watching, yet unseen.

His mother sat beside him, gently running her fingers through his soft, chocolate-brown hair. His head rested on the kitchen table, face buried in his arms. She placed a soft kiss on his hair, then on his temple, her hand moving in slow, comforting strokes over his back. A mother’s love is irreplaceable. When her child is in pain, anxious, or disturbed, she feels it more than anyone else. She carries them for nine months, enduring pain equal to having her bones broken twelve times, yet she bears it with love. She nurtures, heals, and watches them grow. Losing her is losing the one person who would hold all your grief without asking for anything in return. The world is cruel, but a mother softens its edges. Respect her. Treasure her. Because once she’s gone, there’s no going back. In the living room, someone else made his presence known—his older cousin. They were never close. At six, he was sent to boarding school, learning to live with distance, unfamiliar with warmth. The cousin entered, greeted his parents and his own, then settled onto the couch, chatting with the elders. He was well-respected, a responsible man managing his father’s company. Respected and admired—someone who carried both authority and kindness.

Vilgor stood up, moving his hands with practiced ease to grab the coffee machine. Every movement was precise, elegant. He prepared the coffee smoothly, without a wasted second, and poured it into a cup. Yet, he didn’t take a sip. Instead, he made another cup, his hands steady as he switched off the stove and started preparing ramen noodles and pancakes. Every step was done with calm professionalism—efficient, clean, almost mechanical. Years in boarding school had shaped him this way. Cooking wasn’t something special for him; it was simply another task to be done right. When everything was ready, he walked over to the kitchen counter, where his mother was already seated. She smiled at him, surprised but pleased. It was a rare sight—her son cooking. But what else could be expected from someone who spent his childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood in an environment where self-sufficiency wasn’t a choice but a necessity? He served her pancakes drizzled with honey and a glass of milkshake, then sat across from her, holding a steaming bowl of ramen noodles. His untouched coffee sat in front of him. Just then, his cousin entered the kitchen. For a moment, he froze, eyes widening. He hadn’t seen Vilgor in years. And yet, there he was, sitting casually at the table—a presence both familiar and distant.

Vilgor just glanced at him and continued eating his ramen. His cousin was in awe for a bare second due to his attitude because, according to him, they were close family members, and he should have greeted him or even hugged him. His mother frowned too. There is something that everyone in their lives has noticed, especially those who live in joint families. Even if a family is very harmonious and religious, cousins always have a silent competition—like if you are in school, then taking good marks; if in sports, then winning more points, trophies, or certificates; any academic or extracurricular activity, they are always ready to claim superiority. The family may be harmonious, but parents also encourage or compare their children with their cousins and pester them to attain higher than what the others have achieved. This results in mental pressure, anxiety, and distance, but still, we always compromise and answer with love and devotion—a bond that family blood always holds.

.

After finishing his meal in utter silence, his mother left outside because someone had called her. Vilgor went straight to his room and grabbed his car keys. His motive was to take a long drive. Even though he had come back after a long time, he still didn’t want to let go of the breath of freedom. The evening was at its peak, and he was over-speeding. Thankfully, the route was mostly unidentified, and other wealthy figures also spent their time there in the evening rain, enjoying themselves on those roads. The night continued, and he finally reached his penthouse. After changing and freshening up, he went to his office to wind up his previous work while continuing with other projects.

.

~~On the other side of the world, someone was lost in agony, yet he found a strange sense of comfort in it. The past moments played before his eyes like a film—vivid, unrelenting. Memories are the most beautiful yet the darkest things one can hold. And for him, they always led back to the same person. His love ~~

.