In the heart of Valemont City, near the towering Town of Silver Hill, Lamia stood at the grand entrance of the estate, before the huge silver gate that led into the glamorous buildings.
His eyes were on the people going about their business in the estates—their confidence, their wealth, their idle laughter. Men in suits, women in pearls, children chasing bubbles on the golden streets.
His dark eyes shimmered like an abyss, emotionless and ancient.
Lamia Alexandria was no longer a man. He was the vessel of death, the harbinger of an ancient evil that could no longer be contained beneath the earth.
He had returned.
He moved not with footsteps but as if floating above time and bone, his black coat trailing behind like the wings of a fallen angel. His hair, long and raven-dark, flickered in the strange wind that stirred around him though the air remained still for others.
The silver gate—renowned for its craftsmanship and divine blessings—shook violently at his presence. The runes etched into it from centuries ago began to flicker, their ancient protection weakening as if knowing who stood before them.
With a lift of his pale hand, Lamia whispered, "Ex morte, dominatio."
And the silver gate shattered.
A great sound echoed through the estate. It wasn't just the sound of metal giving way—it was as if the air itself had cracked. A scream that came from the earth, like the souls buried below were suddenly stirred awake.
The guards at the gate rushed forward, guns drawn.
But Lamia only smiled, eyes glowing coal-black. With one slow wave of his hand, the air thickened, bending with energy.
They burst apart. Flesh cracked, bones split like porcelain under pressure. Blood sprayed the cobblestones, sizzling upon contact with the cursed magic.
Panic swept through the estate. People screamed. Alarms rang.
But it was already too late.
Lamia began walking into the estate.
As he passed, he whispered a dark incantation in a language not heard for a thousand years.
"Necros exilium… caldran… veyoth…"
"Rise, daughters of the pit…"
The ground trembled. From beneath the tiled roads and garden beds, hands broke through—rotted, twisted, but clutching for air. Dead witches. Buried centuries ago by ancient covens after the Great Burning. Their ashes had been sown into the land to imprison their souls.
But Lamia was their god now.
He called to them.
And they answered.
Dead eyes opened in decomposed skulls. Fingers cracked as flesh reformed. Limbs twisted and groaned back into place. Black blood dripped from their mouths as they stood, forming a circle around him.
Inhabitants of Silver Hill screamed in horror, running for safety, but there was none.
The witches weren't just rising from the ground—they were possessing.
Each time Lamia pointed to a man or woman, the black smoke from the witches' mouths entered the victims' bodies. Flesh cracked. Jaws dislocated as their screams turned to laughter. Eyes rolled to the back of their skulls before glowing red. They began tearing their own skin apart, carving symbols into their flesh, smiling.
Children were not spared.
Mothers screamed as their sons and daughters dropped dead—only to rise again with hollow eyes and jagged smiles, humming the lullabies of ancient witchcraft.
Above them all, Lamia began to chant:
"Dominae tenebris… Aperite portas damnatorum…"
"In nomine noctis, exurgo…"
His voice echoed through the city—not just in sound but in soul.
All light dimmed.
Birds dropped dead from the sky.
The sun vanished behind unnatural clouds.
And then, from the peak of the Silver Hill Clocktower, he stretched out both arms.
Boom.
A wave of black fire surged from him, burning the sky, and sweeping across the estate. Every flower died. Every painting peeled. Buildings cracked. The glamour was over.
The glory of Silver Hill fell.
The possessed began marching behind him—doctors, socialites, athletes, even police officers—now reanimated soldiers of death.
An army of witches.
Some tore out their own eyes in tribute. Others walked with twisted spines, muttering forgotten curses in unison. Their chants summoned more from the deep.
"Mother of crows… deliver us."
"Worms of the fire… answer your king."
"Ashes to power… ashes to rebirth."
In a courtyard, a priest raised a cross and cried, "Begone, demon!"
Lamia smiled gently and waved again.
The man exploded, his insides splashing against the church walls like paint on canvas. The cross melted in midair.
No one was safe.
Lamia entered the Silver Hill Hall of Council—a place of power, wealth, and divine enchantments.
He walked through fireproof glass and sacred thresholds like mist.
The council screamed and ran.
But he lifted a finger and whispered:
"Let your tongues burn."
One by one, the council members began choking. Their tongues turned black, smoke rising from their mouths. They collapsed, twitching, whispering apologies to gods who no longer heard them.
Lamia approached the grand mirror of truth in the center of the council room and looked into it.
His reflection showed a thousand faces screaming, clawing from inside him.
His army surrounded the building.
He turned and declared, "This is no longer Silver Hill. This is a moment to embrace darkness, darkness will thrive and the truth will burn to the ground."
And the mirror shattered—unprovoked.
He walked out, standing at the city's balcony that overlooked Valemont.
The city stared up in confusion at the black fog rolling in.
His voice was low, but it traveled through the wind like a curse:
"from now on Great city of Valemont I would kill every Inhabitants of your glorious city, I would watch your heroes burn to ashes, their body turned to my dead witches warriors and as I intended every human race will be eradicated from the surface of the earth."
Lamia chuckled.
" Let darkness rain witches, it's time to take what's ours." Then he raised his hands to the sky and a deafening scream blasted through the like a lightening.
And amidst this disaster, a huge smoke began to drift through the sky, the glamorous Silver Hill has fallen, Valemont might not survive this attack, Lamia Alexandria is finally back with armies of deadly witches. What does fate has for the humans?