THE SEAL OF ASHVALE: The flesh is his prison. Blood is its key

This book isn’t a haunted house story. Houses are just shells of wood and plaster. This is a record of the desecration of flesh. There are no heroes coming to save the day. Heroes are the first to die, their hopes the tastiest meal. There’s no mystery to solve. There’s only a massacre to witness.

Picture an entity that doesn’t want your soul. Your soul is an abstract concept, useless. It wants your terror, your pain, the scream that breaks in your throat when you see the unthinkable. It feeds on that. It’s its sacrament. It moves from body to body not like an infection, but like an artist switching brushes, leaving the old one broken and useless. It reanimates the dead not to build an army, but to use them as tools, as set pieces for its theater of atrocities.

It all started with a demolition crew. Ordinary men, with ordinary names, who thought they were tearing down an old building. Instead, they broke the door of a cage. They shattered a seal with their ignorance and woke it with their blood.

What you’re about to read is a chronicle of the hours that followed. It’s the story of Ashvale’s fall. Don’t look for meaning. Don’t look for a moral. There’s only one: when hell decides to rise, it doesn’t send legions of horned demons with wings.

It sends a smile on the face of a man you know.

And it hands you the tool to destroy everything you love.

Turn the page, if you dare.

But know that the silence, afterward, will never be the same.