Those who are called heroes - Shabir Ullah Khan - Wattpad

Those who are called heroes

Reads 594
Votes 48
Parts 10
Time 2h 1m

Reads 594
Votes 48
Parts 10
Time 2h 1m

On the 13 date of the morgath calender,when the blood moon was its full power. The world was thrown into a state of chaos and destruction. When monsters and mythical creatures emerged from the depths of the ancient ruins. slowly devouring through the land. Mankind rebelled but were no match for the ferocity of these creatures. kingdom after kingdom they fell. kings and emperors failed there people. Failed by there rulers the people turned to their gods. But the gods did not care for the mortal realm for it was beneath them to help such primitive and love based creatures, but some gods saw the agony and pain of the mortals and took pity on the people and arose among them warriors with extraordinary power. These so called "heroes". fought the foul abomination and gave mankind a fighting chance. now the once great kingdoms and empires in a desperate struggle for survival and power turn to the Guilds of these heroes for help. For centuries these guilds formed the defense against the creatures of past but then everything changes when a certain guild tries to uncover the truth behind the tragedy of the blood moon. This is an epic saga of these heroes blocked in their quest at every turn by both monsters and the very people they are desperately trying to save.All Rights Reserved

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The world does not know pain. Not yet. The stars hang too peacefully in the sky, the air is too clean, and the people-they breathe too easily. They laugh, they love, they dream. They do not know what true suffering is. Max Morbarius will teach them. He was once a man. Once fragile, once weak, once breakable. But pain reshaped him. They tore him apart. They drowned him in agony. They thought death would claim him. They were wrong. Something ancient whispered to him from the abyss. Something hungry. Something that found his agony... beautiful. It did not offer salvation. It did not grant peace. It tore his soul from his corpse and stitched it into something monstrous. Now, he does not kill for justice. He does not kill for revenge. He kills because it makes the world scream. He moves like a shadow through the night, his presence an infection, a creeping plague of fear. He does not just slaughter his enemies-he peels them apart, nerve by nerve, bone by bone. He drinks their suffering, paints the walls with their entrails, carves their sins into their skulls. Their agony is his masterpiece. Their blood is his baptism. But he is not the worst thing that crawls from the dark. There are others. Things lurking beyond human understanding. Eldritch horrors with endless mouths, gods that demand rivers of suffering, nightmares that fester and grow in the rot of his carnage. And they whisper to him. They watch him carve, rip, and mutilate. They want more. They are waiting for him to unleash his true form, to let go of what little remains of his soul, to become the thing they always knew he could be. The Red King of Ruin. The Harbinger of the Fleshstorm. The Father of Agony. And when he finally lets the madness consume him... The world will not be reduced to ashes. It will drown in an ocean of screaming, writhing, bleeding flesh. Because death is not the end. It is only the beginning.

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Slide 1 of 8

"The Crimson Requiem: Liturgy of the Damned" cover

Awakened Prophecy: My sacrifice (Book 1: Awakening series) cover

THE EPIC CONQUEST (Eng Ver.) cover

Daffodils and Hyacinths (Book 3 of the Forgotten Truths Series) cover

tales of perdolia cover

Project Eclipse: Light cover

Manufactured for sin (Blood of the Gods) cover

Blood and Thunder cover

"The Crimson Requiem: Liturgy of the Damned"

The world does not know pain. Not yet. The stars hang too peacefully in the sky, the air is too clean, and the people-they breathe too easily. They laugh, they love, they dream. They do not know what true suffering is. Max Morbarius will teach them. He was once a man. Once fragile, once weak, once breakable. But pain reshaped him. They tore him apart. They drowned him in agony. They thought death would claim him. They were wrong. Something ancient whispered to him from the abyss. Something hungry. Something that found his agony... beautiful. It did not offer salvation. It did not grant peace. It tore his soul from his corpse and stitched it into something monstrous. Now, he does not kill for justice. He does not kill for revenge. He kills because it makes the world scream. He moves like a shadow through the night, his presence an infection, a creeping plague of fear. He does not just slaughter his enemies-he peels them apart, nerve by nerve, bone by bone. He drinks their suffering, paints the walls with their entrails, carves their sins into their skulls. Their agony is his masterpiece. Their blood is his baptism. But he is not the worst thing that crawls from the dark. There are others. Things lurking beyond human understanding. Eldritch horrors with endless mouths, gods that demand rivers of suffering, nightmares that fester and grow in the rot of his carnage. And they whisper to him. They watch him carve, rip, and mutilate. They want more. They are waiting for him to unleash his true form, to let go of what little remains of his soul, to become the thing they always knew he could be. The Red King of Ruin. The Harbinger of the Fleshstorm. The Father of Agony. And when he finally lets the madness consume him... The world will not be reduced to ashes. It will drown in an ocean of screaming, writhing, bleeding flesh. Because death is not the end. It is only the beginning.