And that's how I died. 

Yes.

You read it right. Want the details? Sure. 

According to the legend, the symbol of Merlin, a construction of mirrored crescents adjoining a whole circle, primitive and powerful, had the capabilities to perform questioning acts. It is said that, if the symbol glows on a human, particularly a non-dark dweller, well... game up, dude, you're dead. This symbol had been created to eradicate normal mortals by the great merlin, the sorcerer of the dead, the reaper of mortals. 

Hold that thought. No, when I say Merlin, I mean the merlin. The day Amora starts on the bible is the day that "merlin" from Camelot becomes real. Medieval magic swords and flailing princesses? Oh, what has become of the dark reputations? And seriously, prominent dark dwellers existed way before that. Like, for example, that guy who invented the wheel also discovered an extremely rare series of fungi infected mushroom... although he didn't live to celebrate his success. Yeah, he was a dark dweller. 

There are infinite other examples such as Lady Chang Bolbonos, the inventor of spaghetti, or even some of those Ayurvedic rishis from ancient India. All of them were dark dwellers, but were sure as hell aware of the fact. 

The merlin, in other words Ladria Helliot, believed that dark dwellers were superior to humans and frowned upon the violent ways those mortals supposedly annihilated "witches". Funny thing is, they haven't exactly caught a real witch. So, of course she had to design a power wielding symbol capable of terminating any mortal on which it shone.  

To this date, I still can't figure out why she remained herself 'the merlin'. Why choose a stinking male name such as one of a fairy tale old man? (No offence, boys) Why not something like 'Helga the horrible' or 'Mathilda the magnificent' ? 

Three main ingredients were required to project the symbol on demand– 

[Le] [cœur] [d'un] [bien-aimé;] [à] [contrecœur], [le] [trésor] ðêos [l'âme;] [sciemment], [et] [la] [semence] [du] [travail] [acharné;] [volontiers].

Crappy language, in those days. Why anyone would want to jot down important instructions in olden French was something beyond my understanding. The literal meaning of those lines is The heart of a beloved; unwillingly, the treasure of the soul; knowingly, and the seed of hardwork; willingly. That's the first grade portion of any dark dweller school. 

Even with all those specified necessities, the symbol can't summoned... it just won't appear. Numerous attempts to stir that wretched this have all gone in vain, and yet, no one knows the damn reason. Also, that thing has never appeared after the death of Helliot. So, it's only fair if I gasp as softly as the loudest speaker in the universe when the symbol shimmered. 

Alright, back to death– the second the symbol gleamed in its full fury on Chase's forehead, he should have disintegrated into a million diminutive charred kebabs. And me and Amora were obliged to gape in horror and surprise, since any dark dweller who casts eyes on it usually hurts them pretty bad. 

Like I've clearly indicated, we do not follow rules. Chase definitely didn't perish while Amora probably got the full blast of the symbol, which I knew from the grunts of pain and irritation (wow) emanating from the woman. And the cussing. I was busy flaying alive in a pot of disgusting boiling soup. 

At least, that's what it felt like. First my eyesight gradually dimmed and shut off completely, rendering me blind. Then, the heat tethered from the notorious mark eroded my skin, the dermal layer snapping off bit by bit, like a door being unhinged. Invisible rays scraped off my flesh, leaving a combusted form of a human in their wake. Hair stuck to my drenched-in-sweat neck, which came onto a whole new level of disagreeable situations. My outfit entwined my flesh, which was also distressing. It was as if I was being grilled on a high flame barbecue; my body literally and figuratively set alight. 

Followed by the pain– oh, how I despise that part. My teeth chattered; maybe even popping out of the gums, eyes squeezed in their sockets and head hammered with a chainsaw. My limbs shook uncontrollably while I watched in fright as my skin burned step by step. Pretty sure I screamed like a double-crossed goat. I wanted the agony to end. 

And it did. It was plausible the torture lasted only a mere seconds, but to me, that felt like an eternity. Calm, soothing darkness followed the blazing heat– waves in harmony and sync. I felt at rest. I didn't want to get up; move and even slap someone. Just sleep. Nice. 

Breeze, from where I don't know, blew at me calmingly, instantly soothing my injuries. Soon, they begun to heal– the skin knitting itself together slowly; the flesh reforming in titbits and dried blood vanishing into nothingness. No worries. No troubles. 

Just as I nearly settled, a familiar grin shaped through the darkness, eventually moulding into a complete body. A pair of gleaming red eyes glinted in the black background. 

"Don't know me? Pretty sure we've me." He winked.  Even then, I didn't recognise who it was at first, and then it hit me. 

The same wicked smirk, no matter where he went. The atrocious, treasure fit for burying, outfit which was a combination of black, sleek jacket on a white buttoned shirt and neon blue trousers. Those same knee-length brown buckled boots with gold flecks of decoration. The air of superiority and ...was that confusion? Or pity? Or rage? I could never tell his emotions.  

Ugh. Atomic. 

Great. Just when I thought I was dead.