1 Chapter no.1 Prologue

Read advance chapters of all my works or want to support me .

https://www.p.a.t.r.e.on.com/Adamo_Amet

....

Join us on discord :

https://discord.gg/DXv2nkTB

••••••••••••••••••

Zhu Weimin did not consider himself a spotlight seeker. This, he had come to accept, was the inevitable shadow cast by his more illustrious twin, Lao. Zhu's world was one of quiet contemplation and steady, unseen effort. His successes, though not as flamboyant as Lao's, were deeply meaningful to him. But in the echoing halls of 2337 Maplewood Drive, these achievements were like soft-spoken verses in a grand opera – heard, but seldom acknowledged.

As he lay on his bed, the comforting hum of a Colorado evening outside, Zhu's mind wandered through the maze of expectations that had shaped him. His parents' eager anticipation always seemed to orbit around Lao, leaving Zhu in a celestial dance of trying to catch a ray of their attention. He sometimes felt like a moon, forever in orbit, reflecting light but never quite shining on his own.

Dinner time was a theatrical stage for Lao's accolades. Zhu often imagined himself stepping onto that stage, basking in the warm glow of his parents' pride. But each time, reality pulled him back, reminding him that he was just the understudy in this familial play.

"Second place isn't first, Zhu," his father's words echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of his secondary status. It was a painful chorus that seemed to define his existence within these walls. His efforts, his sacrifices, his dreams - they all seemed to fade into the background, like the distant stars on a city night.

He turned his gaze to the scattered books on his desk, each page a silent testament to his hard work. His notes in the margins were more than just scribbles; they were whispers of a young man trying to carve his own path, a path so different from Lao's effortless strides.

...

When I reached the age of understanding, the universe of 2337 Maplewood Drive had already crowned its sun - Lao.

Lao's early years were a vibrant canvas of mischief and color. After kindergarten, he would return home, a bundle of untamed energy, turning our walls into his crayon masterpieces. Our parents, captivated by his every move, seemed to orbit around his lively spirit. I watched, my own achievements tucked quietly in my pocket, trying to be the responsible counterpart to his boisterous charm.

"Today's stamp on my assignment, I'll show Mom tonight," I mused to myself, the small victory blooming like a secret garden in my heart. But, as fate would have it, that night never came for my little triumph.

"Lao! Hang in there, we'll get you to the hospital immediately!" The urgency in my parents' voices sliced through the house, a stark reminder of the fragility of my brother's health. In a whirlwind of panic and fear, they rushed out with him, leaving me behind with a neighbor's sympathetic glance.

Lao, my twin, had entered this world earlier than nature intended, his tiny frame a stark contrast to the robust champion he would become. Those early years were a testament to his struggle, a battle for health and strength that consumed our parents' world. The national karate competition trophy that now sat gleaming in our living room was a far cry from the fragile boy who had once clung to life with a tenacity that now defined him.

Maybe it was due to his frequent trips to the hospital, but Lao was never much for academics. In that realm, I found my haven, excelling where he stumbled. It was a quiet victory, a solitary badge of honor in the shadow of his more visible triumphs.

One week, my moment of pride was shattered. I discovered my assignment, the one adorned with the teacher's stamp of approval, defaced with Lao's crayon scribbles. My heart sank, the disappointment a physical weight in my chest.

"Did you do this...?!" I demanded, my patience fraying.

"Liar!" I confronted him, my voice a mix of hurt and accusation.

"It wasn't me!" Lao's denial was immediate, his eyes wide with feigned innocence.

In that moment, all I wanted was to show my parents something I had achieved, something that was mine. "I wanted... to show it to Mom...!" The words came out, a choked whisper of my inner longing.

"Then why are your fingers stained with crayon?!" His accusation was like a slap, an unfair judgment.

In a blur of anger and frustration, we clashed, shoving each other, the tension that had been building between us finally erupting. Lao's head hit the wall with a loud slam, a sound that echoed in the small room.

"What is happening?!" Our mother's voice, sharp with alarm, cut through the chaos.

"Lao!" She rushed to his side, her maternal instincts in full force.

"What happened to you?! You have a huge bump!" The concern in her voice was for him, only him.

"It was... it was Zhu...!" Lao's voice, a mix of pain and accusation, pointed the blame squarely at me.

"Zhu! Why did you do it?!"

I stood there, my own emotions a tangled mess. Guilt, frustration, and a sense of injustice warred within me. "Because Lao..." I began, but the words wouldn't come. They were drowned out by her admonishment.

"You're his brother; you can't do these things!"

Her words, meant to chastise, felt like a dismissal of my feelings, my side of the story.

Four years had passed since that day, and now, at the age of 10, the chasm between Lao and me had only widened. Our relationship, strained and awkward, was like a bridge half-built, never quite reaching the other side. I still craved our parents' attention, a flickering hope in my heart, but it was like chasing shadows in the bright light of Lao's achievements.

Lao, with his newfound health, had blossomed like a star in the night sky, impossible to ignore. He was the school's karate champion, his trophy gleaming proudly on the mantelpiece, a symbol of his resilience and strength. His art, once confined to our walls in crayon, now adorned the school hallways, celebrated and admired by teachers and students alike.

In contrast, my own victories were quiet, almost whispered. A top grade here, a commendation from a teacher there, they were like soft ripples against the wave of Lao's accomplishments.

"Lao won another karate match today," my mother would say, her eyes shining with pride.

"And his painting won first place in the art competition!" my father would add, his voice filled with awe.

I stood there, my achievements clutched in my hands, invisible and weightless. "I got the highest score on the math test," I murmured, but my voice was a mere breeze in the storm of Lao's triumphs.

"That's great, Zhu," my mother would reply, her smile brief, her attention already turning back to Lao's latest feat.

In my room, surrounded by my books and my quiet dreams, I often wondered what it would take to step into the light, to have my moment in the sun. "Is it not enough?" I asked myself, the question a heavy stone in my heart. "Am I not enough?"

The realization was a slow, aching dawn.

"Dinner's ready," Zhu heard his mother call, her voice drifting up the stairs, a familiar evening ritual in the household.

Zhu let out a sigh, a soft exhale of resignation. The thought of another dinner, another showcase of Lao's exploits while his own accomplishments faded into the background, was exhausting.

"Let's just get this over with and go to sleep," he muttered to himself, a mantra of survival in the subtle battleground that was the family dining table.

Zhu's entrance into the dining room was like stepping into a familiar play where he knew every line, yet had no speaking part. The conversation, a symphony dedicated to Lao, paused momentarily at his arrival, before resuming its usual rhythm. Zhu slid into his chair, the cloak of invisibility settling comfortably around him.

"How was rehearsal, Lao?" his mother's voice was rich with interest, her eyes sparkling.

Zhu's fork scraped against his plate, a quiet accompaniment to Lao's animated storytelling. The air was thick with tales of Lao's exploits, a narrative Zhu knew all too well. Despite this, he ventured an attempt to divert the spotlight, if only for a fleeting moment. "I've been practicing a lot for basketball tryouts," he said, his voice tinged with a blend of hope and nervousness.

"That's nice, dear," his mother replied, her attention already drifting back to Lao. "Just make sure it doesn't affect your studies."

Zhu's words, like his presence, seemed to dissolve into the background. The dinner continued, each moment reinforcing the family hierarchy. Zhu ate in silence, his inner turmoil a loud contrast to his quiet exterior. His thoughts screamed for recognition, aching with the eternal question: When would there be room for his stories, his dreams, at this table?

Laughter erupted from Lao, his words light and carefree. "Basketball? You'll need to be quicker on your feet, Zhu," he teased, unaware of the sting his words carried.

Zhu's response was quick, a knee-jerk reaction fueled by wounded pride. "Watch me," he shot back, the bitterness in his tone uncharacteristic of him. The room fell into an awkward silence, the tension palpable.

Lao, realizing his mistake, softened his tone. "I'll be watching. You'll do great," he said, trying to mend the slight.

Their mother, ever the mediator, stepped in, oblivious to the undercurrents. "Lao, pass the rice, please." Zhu's retort died on his lips, his resentment simmering in the newfound quiet.

Later, under the night sky, Zhu sought refuge in the solitude of Maplewood Drive. The cool air did little to soothe his inner fire. "Why is it always him?" he whispered to the night, his frustration a tangible presence.

"You're chasing shadows, Zhu," a voice broke through his thoughts. Lao stood there, bathed in the soft light of the streetlamps. "I don't want to be the reason for your pain. I'm not the enemy."

Zhu, his emotions a tangled web of anger and longing, barely managed to meet his brother's gaze. "Not the enemy? That's not how it feels," he retorted, his voice sharp, cutting through the darkness.

Lao's earnest expression mirrored Zhu's hidden vulnerabilities. "I'm trying to understand, to be there for you," he said, his voice tinged with sincerity.

Zhu shook his head, cutting off any further words. "You don't understand. You can't. You've never lived in my shadow."

The gap between them was more than physical; it was a chasm of unspoken words and misinterpretations. Lao's attempt to reach out, "I want to understand, to help..." was met with Zhu's colder dismissal, "I don't need your help, or anything from you."

"I'm not giving up on you, Zhu," he said, his voice steady.

Zhu's frustration boiled over. "Just leave me alone, Lao!" he shouted, his words sharp as daggers.

"I'm going to the treehouse," Zhu announced abruptly, turning on his heel and sprinting away, seeking refuge in the one place that felt entirely his own.

Lao, undeterred, followed close behind. "Stop running away, Zhu!"

"Stop following me!" Zhu yelled back, his feet pounding against the ground, each step a futile attempt to outrun his brother's shadow.

"Zhu, listen to me," he pleaded, his voice laced with sincerity.

"I don't want to hear it!" Zhu snapped, his back turned, unwilling to face the brother who represented everything he felt overshadowed by.

"Zhu, please," Lao persisted, his tone gentle yet firm. "I know I can't fully understand what it's like to be you, but I want to try. I want to be there for you, as a brother should."

"We're twins, Zhu. We're supposed to be in this together," Lao continued, his words a bridge trying to span the chasm between them.

Zhu finally turned, his eyes blazing with a complex mix of emotions. "Together? When has it ever been together, Lao? It's always about you!"

Zhu, fueled by a tumult of emotions, dashed into the forest that cradled their treehouse – his sanctuary from the world, a place where his problems transformed into imaginary monsters he could conquer. The dense canopy of trees closed around him, a familiar embrace to his troubled spirit.

He leapt over the creek, agile and swift, a deer escaping the chaos of reality. Behind him, Lao's voice cut through the forest's stillness. "Wait for me!" he called out, but Zhu was relentless in his flight.

In a fleeting moment of pause, Zhu glanced back just in time to see Lao, less sure-footed, slip and tumble into the creek. For a heartbeat, Zhu's resolve wavered, his brother's vulnerable form a stark contrast to the image of strength and perfection he had always associated with Lao.

Lao could swim; he was strong. Why did he need Zhu's help? This thought cemented Zhu's decision as he turned away, ignoring Lao's cries. He ran deeper into the forest, each step a defiant proclamation of his independence, a desperate bid to escape the shadow that had defined his existence.

Lao's cries dimmed with distance, swallowed by the sounds of the forest and the pounding of Zhu's heart. The sanctuary of the woods, once a place of solace, now echoed with Zhu's internal struggle – the fight between his instinct to help and the deep-seated resentment that urged him to keep running.

Zhu's breaths came in ragged gasps, his legs pushing him forward, yet his mind was a tumultuous sea, waves of guilt clashing against the shores of his pride. He ran and ran, never looking back, leaving behind not just his brother, but a part of himself that still cared, still yearned for understanding and acceptance.

An hour later, the distant wail of sirens shattered the forest's tranquility, pulling Zhu back to reality. "Guess Lao hurt himself at the creek," he thought, a twinge of guilt nudging at his conscience.

Zhu made his way back through an alternate route, hoping to avoid his parents' anger. As he approached the house from the back, he stopped dead in his tracks. His mother, surrounded by neighbors, was crying inconsolably, while his father and several police officers huddled nearby in a somber congregation.

Suddenly, his mother spotted him. She ran towards Zhu, her face etched with a mix of relief and anguish. "Zhu, are you alright?" she cried, her voice breaking with emotion.

"I'm okay, Mom," Zhu replied, his confusion mounting.

"Where were you?" his father asked, his voice heavy with worry.

"I was out jogging," Zhu lied, the words slipping out before he could think.

His father sighed in relief, "Thank goodness you're safe."

"What happened?" Zhu's voice was barely above a whisper.

His mother's eyes, swimming with tears, met his. "It's Lao... he went to the treehouse... he slipped in the creek..." Her voice faltered, choked by sobs. "He hit his head on a rock... and he... he drowned..." The words came out broken, each one laden with heartbreak.

Zhu felt the world spin around him. "What?" he stammered, his mind refusing to accept the words he just heard.

"Lao is dead?" The question hung in the air, heavy and unreal.

The truth, brutal and unforgiving, crashed into him. The brother he had just run from, the brother he had resented and yearned to outshine, was gone. The finality of it was overwhelming, a tidal wave of shock and grief that threatened to sweep him away.

His mother, still holding him, sobbed uncontrollably. Zhu stood there, frozen, as the reality of Lao's death – and his own part in their last interaction – began to sink in. The sirens, the crying, the police – they were all for Lao. His Lao. The brother he'd left behind in the creek.

He killed Lao.

....

In the wake of Lao's death, Zhu's world spun wildly out of control, each day a haunting echo of the brother he'd lost. The house on Maplewood Drive, once filled with the sounds of laughter and life, now resonated with the hollow notes of grief and regret.

His parents, caught in their own maelstrom of sorrow, turned to blame as their solace. The arguments were frequent, each word a dagger in Zhu's already wounded heart. He would retreat to his closet, the only place where he could hide from the world, curling into himself as he tried to shut out their voices.

"Why didn't you watch him more closely?" his mother's voice would shatter the silence of the house, sharp and accusing.

"I was working, you know how it is!" his father would retort, his own pain manifesting as anger.

Their words were a constant reminder of the day at the creek, a memory that Zhu replayed over and over in his mind, each time with a sharper sting of guilt. "Please just come back, Lao," Zhu would whisper into the darkness of his closet, his voice trembling. "I'll live in your shadow, I won't try to fight you. I can't be the glue that holds this family together. I'll remain in the shadows forever, just please come back."

But Lao wouldn't come back, and Zhu was left grappling with a reality too painful to bear. At school, he drifted through the halls like a ghost, his presence barely noticed, his grief a silent scream that no one heard. The basketball tryouts came and went, and Zhu didn't even pick up a ball. What was the point? Lao wasn't there to tease him, to push him, to be his rival.

Nights were the hardest.

Lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, Zhu's mind was a torrent of 'what ifs'. What if he had stayed with Lao? What if he had reached out his hand? What if he had listened, just once, instead of running away?

The guilt was a relentless beast, gnawing at his insides, leaving him feeling hollow and broken. "I should have been there," he would think, the words a mantra of self-blame. "It's my fault."

Zhu's parents' grief-stricken faces were constant reminders of the brother they had lost and the son who remained, yet seemed so far away. His mother's eyes, once bright and warm, were now pools of unshed tears. His father, always strong and stoic, moved through the house like a shadow of his former self.

"I'm sorry, Lao," Zhu would say into the empty air of his room, the words barely audible. "I'm so sorry."

He remembered the way Lao's laughter used to fill their home, the way his presence seemed to light up every room. Now, all that remained was silence, a void that Zhu couldn't fill, no matter how much he wished he could.

The realization that he was truly alone, without the brother he had always seen as a rival, hit Zhu with a crushing weight. The world continued to move around him, but Zhu was stuck, frozen in a moment of time that he couldn't escape, a moment that had taken everything from him.

In the quiet of the night, Zhu's tears would come, silent and unbidden. They were tears for Lao, for his parents, for the family they used to be.

....

The arguments between Zhu's parents grew more intense, the air in their home thick with recriminations and pain. Their words, once sharp and stinging, escalated into something darker, more desperate. Nights were filled with shouting matches that seemed to last for hours, each accusation more cutting than the last.

One particularly harrowing evening, the arguments turned physical. Shouts turned to shoves, and the sound of something breaking echoed through the house. Zhu, huddled in his closet, felt a new level of fear grip him. The world he knew was disintegrating before his eyes.

"Stop it! Just stop it!" he heard his mother scream, the terror in her voice piercing his heart.

"You're the one who always..." his father's voice was a low growl, full of bitterness and hurt.

The police arrived, their blue lights casting eerie shadows through the windows. Zhu peeked out of his closet, watching as officers stepped into their home, their presence a stark reminder of how far things had fallen. His parents were separated, each speaking to an officer, their faces etched with a mixture of anger, sorrow, and humiliation.

In the days that followed, the word 'divorce' began to circulate, a final nail in the coffin of what used to be their family. Zhu felt like he was living in a nightmare, one where each day was worse than the last.

He overheard his parents discussing custody arrangements, their voices hollow. "Zhu should stay with you; you have the house," his father said, a note of resignation in his voice.

"No, you take him. I can't... I just can't handle this right now," his mother countered, her voice trembling.

Zhu felt like an unwanted artifact, a reminder of a happier time that both his parents wanted to forget. The realization that he was being discussed as a problem to be solved, rather than a son to be loved, cut deeper than anything he had experienced before.

In his room, surrounded by the remnants of his childhood, Zhu felt utterly alone. "Lao, you left me here with this mess," he whispered to the empty walls. "I can't do this on my own. I can't fix this."

The sounds of his parents' arguing continued, a bitter soundtrack to his thoughts. Zhu buried his face in his pillow, his body shaking with silent sobs.

....

A month after the tragedy, the final gavel fell on Zhu's shattered family life. The divorce was finalized, and custody of Zhu was granted to his aunt. She was a kind woman, but her job as a nurse left her with little time, and Zhu often found himself alone, drowning in his thoughts in the quiet of her house.

"If Lao was alive, would our family still be together?" Zhu would ponder, staring out the window, watching the world move on without him.

"If I had died instead, would they still be fighting?" he wondered, his mind a labyrinth of 'what ifs' and regret.

"I wish I had died that day, not Lao. I wish..." His thoughts trailed off into a dark abyss, a place where he imagined a different outcome, one where he was the one who had slipped into the creek.

These thoughts consumed Zhu, gnawing at him day and night. The guilt, the pain, the longing for what was lost, it all merged into a desperate desire to undo the past, to bring Lao back and restore his family.

Maybe it was the naivety of a child wishing for the impossible, or perhaps it was the overwhelming guilt, but Zhu began to search for ways to bring back Lao from the dead.

"Maybe I can find a way," Zhu would whisper to himself late at night, his eyes red from crying and lack of sleep. "Maybe there's a way to fix everything."

.....

At 16, Zhu's life had settled into a routine that was as predictable as it was empty. Each day began the same way: he'd wake up in his aunt's house, a place that never quite felt like home. The mornings were quiet, a solitude that Zhu had grown accustomed to. He'd make himself a simple breakfast, usually just toast and scrambled eggs, eaten in silence at the kitchen table. His aunt, always busy with her nursing shifts, was rarely around, leaving Zhu to his own devices.

School was a blur of unremarkable days. Zhu drifted through the halls and classrooms like a ghost, his presence barely noticed by his peers. He participated in classes, answered when called upon, but never more. His grades were decent, but he never stood out, never drew attention to himself. The basketball court, once a place of ambition, now saw him only as a spectator, if at all.

After school, Zhu's real passion, or perhaps obsession, began. For years, he had been consumed by a singular goal: to find a way to resurrect Lao, to bring back the brother he'd lost, and with him, the family that had shattered that day at the creek. Zhu had scoured every source imaginable, from the farthest corners of the internet to the darkest depths of the dark web. He'd delved into legends and myths, pored over scientific theories and fringe hypotheses. He spent countless hours researching, his room a testament to his desperate quest, with books and papers strewn about in chaotic order.

He'd explored every possibility, no matter how improbable or outlandish. Rituals from ancient texts, spells whispered in hushed tones on obscure forums, experimental scientific procedures on the fringes of credibility – Zhu had tried them all. He'd even ventured into the world of psychics and mediums, sitting in dimly lit rooms as they promised to connect him with Lao, for a price. But nothing worked. Lao remained gone, and with him, the hope of reuniting his family.

Each failure only deepened Zhu's sense of despair, but he couldn't stop. The guilt that had taken root in his heart five years ago had grown into an all-consuming force. It drove him, even as it drained him. The idea of giving up, of accepting Lao's death and moving on, was unthinkable. It would mean facing the reality of his loss, the finality of it, and Zhu wasn't ready for that. He wasn't sure he'd ever be.

His evenings were often spent in solitude, immersed in his research. He'd sit at his desk, surrounded by the flickering light of candles, as he read yet another book or scrolled through another webpage, always searching, always hoping. His aunt worried about him, he knew, but she didn't understand. She couldn't. This was something Zhu had to do, a path he had to walk alone.

At night, in the quiet before sleep, Zhu would lie in bed and imagine a different world, one where Lao was still alive, where their family was whole. In these fleeting moments of fantasy, he found a bitter comfort, a temporary escape from the pain that was his constant companion.

But each morning, he'd wake up to the same reality: Lao was gone, his family was broken, and he was alone, lost in a quest that seemed as endless as it was hopeless. And so, Zhu continued, trapped in a cycle of grief and guilt, searching for an answer he knew in his heart didn't exist.

.....

Late one evening, as Zhu navigated the shadowy corridors of the dark web, he stumbled upon something unusual – a PDF file ambiguously titled 'The Book of the Dead,' known in various circles as the Necronomicon or Liber Mortis or Al Azif or Grimoire of the Damned or Das Totenbuch or Le Livre des Ombres.

Zhu, having already trawled through every conceivable version of the Necronomicon available online, was initially skeptical. Each attempt had proven fruitless, the texts nothing more than fabrications or the stuff of horror fiction. However, something about this particular file felt off.

Sitting in the dim light of his room, absentmindedly eating chips, Zhu scrutinized the file's description. Unlike the other versions he'd seen, adorned with grandiose promises and theatrical language, this one was starkly plain, almost mundane in its presentation. Its simplicity was unsettling, out of place amidst the usual dark web flair for the dramatic.

Curiosity piqued, Zhu clicked on the file. The text that loaded was unlike anything he had seen before. It wasn't written in any recognizable language; instead, the screen was filled with what appeared to be a single, intricate symbol. Bizarrely, Zhu found that he could understand it, the meaning of the symbol unfolding in his mind as though it were written in his native tongue.

The symbol translated to 'How to Make a Deal with the Devil.' Zhu's heart raced. The concept was absurd, the stuff of legend and myth, yet he couldn't tear his eyes away. The symbol seemed to pulse with a strange energy, its intricate lines and curves drawing him in. The text promised a ritual, a way to bring back the dead, but at a price that was ominously unspecified.

Zhu's rational mind screamed at him to close the file, to dismiss it as another dead end, but the part of him that had spent years searching, hoping against hope, urged him to read on. The promise of bringing Lao back, of undoing the past, was too tantalizing to ignore.

He knew the stories, warnings about deals with the devil. But the pain of his loss, the guilt that had consumed him, it overshadowed everything else. If there was even the slightest chance this could work, he had to take it.

Zhu delved deeper into the text, the room around him fading to a blur as he absorbed every word. The ritual was complex, requiring items that were not easily procured and actions that seemed both bizarre and ominous. But the risk seemed inconsequential compared to the potential reward.