Deep within an ancient forest where the air itself seemed to weigh heavy with age, the trees rose like pillars of stone. Their trunks were vast and gnarled, their bark a weathered grey that drank in the dim light seeping through the thick canopy. Moss clung to every surface, and the occasional distant cry of unseen creatures echoed through the stillness.
Beneath one of the largest of these titans—an immense tree whose roots curled across the earth like the bones of some buried leviathan—lay a figure. At first glance, it might have been mistaken for a discarded husk, a lifeless remnant of prey claimed by the forest. But a closer look revealed it was a man.
He was slender and short, his skin pale beneath streaks of dried blood, his black robes torn and caked with mud. This was Zatiel.
Once, not long ago, Zatiel had been an apprentice of the Zanabi Tower—an institute feared and respected across the land for producing some of the most formidable Magi in existence. He had been taken in because of his extraordinary magical talent, talent so rare that older apprentices had whispered about his potential with envy and malice.
In his early days, Zatiel had dreamed as so many others did. He had pictured himself weaving spells that could shatter mountains, taming storms, and striking down terrible beasts in battles that would echo through history. He had imagined honor and camaraderie among those who shared the path of magic.
But the truth had revealed itself quickly.
The world of Magi was not a place for dreams—it was a crucible for predators. Magi were pragmatic to the point of cruelty, valuing only power, knowledge, and results. For apprentice Magi, that ruthlessness was sharper still. They would betray, maim, and even kill without hesitation if it meant securing an advantage.
Concepts like morality, loyalty, and friendship were luxuries long since discarded by those who walked the path.
Zatiel had learned this too late. His innocence had marked him as prey. He had trusted when he should have been wary, hesitated when he should have struck first. And so he had found himself here—bleeding out beneath the silent gaze of the ancient forest, with nothing to show for his years of struggle but pain and regret.
A bitter smirk twisted his cracked lips.
So this is the end. How pathetic.
Each shallow breath rasped in his chest. His limbs felt distant, foreign, as though they belonged to someone else. Yet his eyes—faded though they might seem—still held a coldness, unnatural in one so young.
It was not the detachment of resignation.
It was the coldness of something darker—something that lurked far beneath the surface. A chaotic madness hid there, veiled but potent, and it burned like an ember even as his heartbeat weakened. Somehow, that madness seemed to stir now, lending his failing body the faintest spark of strength.
He was moments from closing his eyes for the last time when a sound, mechanical and alien in this place of moss and shadow, whispered into his mind.
[Bip… The minimum threshold of spirit has been reached. Initiating memory upload.]
The voice was strange, yet disturbingly familiar—like an echo from a dream he could not fully recall. But before he could even wonder what it meant, the agony began.
It was not the sharp pain of a wound. It was worse. It was as though invisible hands had pried open his skull and driven a brand of molten iron into the deepest recesses of his mind.
"Aaahh—!"
The scream that tore from his throat was dry, broken, stripped of force by blood loss and exhaustion. His entire body trembled as if wracked by seizures, each breath scraping like shards of glass through his lungs.
Seconds dragged like hours. Minutes stretched into eternities.
At last, the pain began to recede, though the echoes of it throbbed behind his eyes like aftershocks.
[Bip… Loading of memories from the first level completed. The next level of memories will begin when the next threshold is reached.]
Zatiel's chest rose and fell in shallow motions. He lay still, so still that he might have been a corpse. The forest around him seemed to pause in eerie silence, as though the ancient trees themselves were listening.
Then, slowly—deliberately—he opened his eyes.
The coldness within them had deepened, no longer the frost of a wounded boy but the glacial stillness of something far older, far more dangerous. A shadow of boundless malice glimmered in those irises, and the faint curl of his lips became something otherworldly.
When he spoke, his voice was no longer that of a dying apprentice.
"I…" His tone was a low whisper, resonating with power and memory that should not belong to this frail form. "…I, Zatiel, Abyssal Lord… Ruler of death and destruction… Nightmare of Dys… have finally—AWAKENED!"
The forest seemed to recoil at the declaration. The air thickened, and somewhere far off, unseen creatures fled into the distance. Even the ancient tree above seemed to groan softly, its bark creaking as if under pressure.
Zatiel's gaze sharpened to a razor edge. A presence now burned in his mind—a presence he knew as well as he knew his own soul.
"A.I. Chip," he commanded, his voice like a blade sliding free of its sheath, "scan me."