Fear wasn’t what ruled this place before. 

The Trumpets kept everything safe — but that was in the past. People hid inside their houses and most died due to starvation, dehydration or unknown illnesses. The skies were dark and red. The stars and sun vanished. The atmosphere was dark and heavy.

The air was unbreathable. I believe I was the only one alive —  please, to whoever is reading this…

Find the seventh trumpet. He’s the only one who can save this world. 

That was the mission entrusted to the church, especially to Chris – the head priest. He held the letter that was crumpled in his hands — it was written by a nameless journalist, when the Earth was in chaos.

Earth now returned to normalcy — it was hard to believe that the events written ever happened. The clarification of who wrote this continued to hang in the air — unclear whether it was true, or was someone with massive imagination wrote it. 

The only thing that plagued Chris’ mind like an echo was – if it was true, who wrote it? Secondly, in the books he read, The Trumpets were a necklace, so who was he?

The rain continued to roar, leaves and trees shook without care – and the oak wooden door creaked, as if someone knocked.

Matthias kept himself well hidden under his bed, trembling with chill as he only wore a tattered shirt, partnered with short baggy pants. One thing was clear: He was terrified of the storm.

He prayed it would pass soon; it reminded him of the screams that he heard from the cellar — where he was forbidden to venture by ‘mom’.

The smell of petrichor and cedarwood kissed his whole being, giving him a sense of comfort. He was wrapped in blankets as kept himself curled up — the storm soon stopped, and he fell to the abyss of nothingness. 

Henry Arkhold, the genius of the century — that’s what people called him. Some would know him as the greedy demon of the Archeko, seeking knowledge and riches from different areas no one dared to explore.

In the book he read – whoever could collect The Seven Trumpets would get whatever they wished granted. He could do whatever he wanted with his wealth however there was only one thing he wanted to have: 

The Seventh Trumpet.

He wanted to control the world – he was greedy and wasn’t it fitting for someone who had everything?

Oblivious that would slowly, but surely lead to his downfall.

The scales balanced, shifting up and down. The snapped threads had been tangled and became reconnected. The frozen cogs moved. It’s starting again.