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[wutangursarang]

Every year, hundreds enter the Maze. Few return. None unchanged. The Thirty-Fourth Annual Death Maze Royale has begun: five hundred killers, mercenaries, witches, and warlocks hurled into a shifting labyrinth of steel and shadow. The rules are cruelly simple—survive, escape, kill the Maze Master, or be the last one left alive. The prize? One of the Seven Forbidden Spells—power so great it can twist reality, but only if the Maze has first unlocked ninety percent of your mind. And most who reach that brink are driven to madness. Among the doomed are two siblings who should never have been born. Lady Luck, the world’s first warlock, blessed with a gift that bends probability to her will. Problems vanish before her, treasures fall into her hands, and enemies crumble without her lifting a finger. She is the investigator, the survivor, the one the world calls lucky. And Samuel—her younger brother, the perfected child. Cursed with doom, trailed by disaster, feared even by fate itself. To his enemies he is Doom-Struck, a mercenary who leaves only ruin in his wake. To his sister, he is both protector and threat, a man whose brilliance and violence walk hand in hand. With him comes a tattered black bear that whispers secrets only he can hear. Inside Titan’s Maze, walls shift, gears scream, and steel itself takes breath. Every corridor is alive, every step another turn of a mind-breaking key. The Maze doesn’t just test the body—it pries open the brain, forcing those within to unlock power or collapse into insanity. Lady Luck wants survival. Samuel hungers for something darker. Together they walk the corridors, watched by the iron dragon that guards the center, stalked by rivals, and haunted by the question neither dares speak aloud: When the Maze finally forces their minds open, will they remain siblings… or become each other’s greatest enemy?

[wutangursarang]

When love turned to tragedy and a whispered vow shattered on blood-stained rooftops, she could have let the darkness consume her. But death brought neither peace nor an escape from the betrayal that tore her world apart. Now, lingering between realms, her presence is no longer bound by the frailty of life. As a spectral force of rage and sorrow, her wailing cries pierce the night, carrying the chill of a curse that can’t be silenced. Those who hear the banshee’s call know that vengeance is near, and her killer’s days are numbered. For she is more than a ghost—she is the wrathful bride, haunting his every step, promising retribution with every mournful cry that echoes from beyond the veil.

[wutangursarang]

I still feel the blade’s cold sting against my skin as I turn, straining to see the love of my life, Henry. His face is pale, stricken, his wide eyes fixed on me in horror. I’m haunted by the way his eyes looked just minutes before, filled with laughter and warmth, as we sat on the rooftop for our quiet picnic, a secret getaway above the city. Henry always made me feel safe, even if the world around us was chaotic. Up here, I could almost believe we were untouchable.

But then I saw a figure out of the corner of my eye, moving too quickly for me or Henry could register. Before I could scream, the figure struck Henry hard across the head, and he fell, his body limp and unmoving.

Everything went black after that.

My head throbbed as I heard distant murmurs, hoping I was just dreaming. Then I sensed someone approaching. Suddenly, a sharp, unrelenting tug from my hair as my head was yanked back, forcing me to look up, my neck exposed, every bit of my vulnerability laid bare. It took a moment for my vision to clear, but then I saw him—Henry, slumped over, blood trickling from his temple, his mouth forming words I couldn’t hear.

Then I heard a voice, smooth and cold. “Look at me,” the man said to Henry as if he were taunting him, enjoying every second of his twisted game. His voice was almost…friendly, as though he was talking about a trivial matter rather than holding someone’s life in his hands. And then I felt it—the quick, slicing movement against my throat, a line of fire spreading across my skin.

I forced myself to look up and saw him clearly for the first time. The man had caramel-toned skin and a calm, relaxed posture, tattoos from his neck down to his hand. His hands were surprisingly soft, and steady, not the hands of someone who’d know struggle. He was young, maybe only a few years older than me, but his eyes were devoid of any empathy as if this violence was nothing more than a minor inconvenience to him.

Through my fading vision, I caught Henry’s face, his eyes full of desperate fear, his lips moving as though he were trying to reach me. My breath came in shallow gasps, my vision narrowed, the sounds around me muffled, but I was aware of every moment.

Then the man spoke, an unsettling casualness in his tone. “Oops, my hand slipped,” he said with a mocking smile. “It’s hard for me to stay still, you know.” He stepped over to Henry, who was half-conscious, his body slumping, helpless. The man drove the knife into Henry’s leg with a sickeningly calm precision. Henry cried out, his voice strangled with pain.

The man chuckled, his tone light, almost amused. “Honestly, she was too good for you,” he said as if we were all just sharing a casual rooftop chat. “I don't know her yet, but I’m positive you didn’t deserve her.”

My heart twisted, hearing him speak about me like I was an object, something he could appraise without a second thought. I wanted to scream but couldn’t. Henry had saved me in ways no one else had, in ways I couldn’t even fully express. He was my rock, my laughter, my safe place. It was just me and him, we had no one else. But my body was failing me. My mouth wouldn’t move, my limbs were numb, and all I could do was lay there, trapped in this nightmare.

Henry’s tortured cries cut through the haze of my fading consciousness, grounding me for one last moment. I fought with everything I had, feeling a spark of strength surge within me, a final desperate attempt to protect him. I tried to lift my arm, to move, to do something, but it was like fighting against my body. My muscles felt like lead.

The man approached me again, his footsteps slow and silent. He knelt beside me, brushing a strand of hair from my face which felt like a mockery of tenderness, his eyes flickering with an unnatural green hue. His gaze was chillingly calm, a predator savoring his final moments with prey.

I felt the last of my strength drain away, and the world around me grew dim. But through the blur, I saw him turn back to Henry. I watched, powerless, as he drew his blade into Henry’s neck with a sickening slowness, dragging it down to his stomach, then placing his hand inside him. For a second I saw a bright light thinking I died. The light faded but I could feel my heartbeat stuttering, each beat filled with helpless rage.

I tried to scream, to make any sound, but the gash across my throat only pulsed in agony, silent. Yet somehow, as though he could sense my silent scream, the man turned his head, his face deepening as he watched me.

He pulled me up brush my face and stare at me.

I could see his face flooded with anger like I never seen before.

And then, as if this wasn’t horror enough, he took Henry, still tied to his chair, and with a forceful kick, I could hear the crack from multiple rib breaking by how hard he kicked him. The force sent him plummeting over the edge of our twelve-story apartment complex.

Rage surged through me, raw and feral, consuming the last fragments of my consciousness. The world around me was swallowed in red. Every nerve felt seared by a fury so intense it numbed everything else. This wasn’t just grief—it was something deeper, more primal, a hunger to destroy the one who had taken everything from me. I wanted him to feel the hollowness he had inflicted, to burn with the pain he had carved into my heart. I felt stripped and barren, like a landscape after wildfire. And he had torn that all away.

Then he turned back, glancing over his shoulder. Our eyes gazed at each other, and at that moment, I closed mine, unable to bear it. A bright flash seared into my mind, almost blinding, like a jolt that tore through my senses

When the light finally faded, I opened my eyes, squinting against the brightness. I was in the middle of a street, bathed in daylight. Cars zipped by, and people bustled around me, their voices muffled as though underwater. Confused, I took a step forward and felt nothing beneath me. I looked down, only to see my feet hovering inches above the ground.

A horn blared, and I turned just in time to see a car coming straight at me. Instinctively, I braced for impact, but it passed through me as if I were made of smoke. I reached out, grasping at the air, trying to make sense of this impossible feeling. In a panic, I tried to run, to escape, but my body drifted upward, weightless, like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze.

I was floating.

Reality seeped in, slow and cold. I looked around, watching people pass by, oblivious to my presence. I saw my reflection in a nearby shop window—or rather, the lack of it. There was only the empty street where I should have been standing. A sickening realization gripped me as I finally understood: that I was dead.

And yet, the fury hadn’t faded. If anything, it burned brighter, unrestrained by the limitations of a mortal body. The man who had taken her, taken everything, was still out there, untouched by the hollow existence he’d left me to. My existence had changed, but my purpose hadn’t

[wutangursarang]

[wutangursarang]

When love turned to tragedy and a whispered vow shattered on blood-stained rooftops, she could have let the darkness consume her. But death brought neither peace nor an escape from the betrayal that tore her world apart. Now, lingering between realms, her presence is no longer bound by the frailty of life. As a spectral force of rage and sorrow, her wailing cries pierce the night, carrying the chill of a curse that can’t be silenced. Those who hear the banshee’s call know that vengeance is near, and her killer’s days are numbered. For she is more than a ghost—she is the wrathful bride, haunting his every step, promising retribution with every mournful cry that echoes from beyond the veil.