Michael Knight Chronicle, p1

Here lies a lie so vile, so deeply rooted, so base, rotten, and wicked that from this insult grew a cruel, vulgar tale of the destruction of humanity, the disappearance of clarity, Divine devilishness, and the green filth that fueled the steamroller crushing cheap prose and unsophisticated poetry of the depths.

Here lies a lie with long legs, bony hands, an empty gaze, the stench of corpses, a gloomy atmosphere, a bitter sweetness, naive naivety, and blissful ignorance. The lie of the original, the lie of pioneers lost in the thicket of metaphors and hypocrisy. The lie of the first and the last verse. The lie of the journey, the lie of the harbor, the lie of the lighthouse and the safe haven. The lie of creation, imagination, magic, and vast horizons.

And beneath this layer of dust, dirt, imperfections, triviality, artificial ecstasy, feeble pathos, and rotting flesh lies the truth. The truth about history, about man, about the city. The truth about murders, the monster, and the nightmare. The truth about madness, about whispers, dread, pain, and suffering. The truth about the First Chronicle. The truth about Haven City. The truth about Michael. The truth about… me. The truth that I have returned to tell my story once more, but this time without lies. So, what is the true story of Michael Knight?

One thing remains unchanged in this tale – each of us harbors a bastard under our skin, crawling from our wounds like tainted plasma when hearing the approaching Apocalypse, because nothing is trivial when it concerns you directly.