Dylan remembered the voice.
Of course he did.
But not for love.
Not for the soft echoes of old laughter or the warmth of Alessia's smile.
He remembered it for the rage it ignited — the fury that never died.
It haunted him.
That voice, that night — they weren't just memories. They were his curse.
The flashbacks still hit him like bullets to the chest, ripping through whatever was left of the man he used to be.
It always started the same way:
The wedding hall.
The screams.
The moment she said, "I'm pregnant. It's ours."
He would wake — fists clenched, chest heaving, drowning in hatred that had outlived even its purpose.
That moment was the fracture, the place where Dylan Daniels had truly died — and something darker took his place.
But that moment also gave birth to the only feeling he trusted now:
Wrath.
The Hollow Strings: Tendrils of the Abyss
And now, as Dylan stood in the void beneath the black sea, he watched them move —
the tendrils.
Pulsing. Slithering. Breathing like living shadows.
They were not just weapons.
They were the will of the void itself.
Tendrils of Darkness — also called Hollow Strings — were creations of the abyssal entity that ruled the underworld Dylan now stood in. They served one purpose:
To dominate.
They pierced flesh not to kill, but to feed. They ensnared souls not to silence them, but to harvest their strength. They whispered into the minds of the bound, pulling secrets, memories, and hope — thread by thread — until only an empty shell remained.
"The tendril plunged into the sentinel's chest—not to kill, but to feast. Its glowing eyes dimmed as its essence trickled into the dark."
Effects of the Tendrils:
Siphoning Vitality: The longer the tendrils remain inside a victim, the weaker they become. Skin pales. Muscles atrophy. Voices fall silent. Stealing Memory: Victims forget who they are. Their names, their homes, even their purpose — all offered to the void like prayers to a god who only devours. Crushing Will: The final and most terrifying phase. Even if the body survives, the mind bends, until resistance becomes impossible. The victim becomes a puppet, dancing to a song only the void can hear.
Dylan Bound
And then — he felt them on him.
The tendrils slithered from the black sea like snakes, crawling toward him with wet, skittering sounds.
He tried to run.
Tried to fight.
But the first one wrapped around his ankle — and he froze.
Not paralyzed by force — but by despair.
The second tendril coiled around his chest, and Dylan felt a sudden, wrenching emptiness in his stomach — as if something inside him was being pulled out, unraveled thread by thread.
His memories began to blur.
Not the recent ones. No.
The oldest ones.
His mother's face.
His childhood bedroom.
The night he kissed Alessia for the first time in the rain.
Gone.
Fading.
Erased.
He screamed — not from pain, but from loss.
"NO! I don't belong to you!"
"Why me? Why is it always me?"
But the tendrils didn't care.
They cared only for essence.
And Dylan, for all his crimes and rage, still had a soul worth taking.
As he collapsed to his knees, bound by hollow strings, Dylan lifted his eyes — and there it was.
The Black Throne.
Upon it sat the cosmic figure — the voidborn deity, wings stretched like a fallen seraph, galaxies flickering beneath its skin.
It watched with something between hunger and amusement.
And then the voice came, sharp and full of glee:
"Welcome to the darkness, Dylan."
And the tendrils tightened.
Silence wrapped around the void like a burial shroud.
The hollow tendrils pulsed and constricted, feasting on Dylan's essence with hunger unmatched.
And then—
Dark, chaotic, echoing like thunder in a cathedral of shadows.
Dylan laughed.
His head bowed, hands covering his face, and a twisted smile growing beneath his fingers like a blooming nightmare.
"You really thought you could trap me with these… Doraemon gadgets?" he said, his voice warping with madness.
"Seriously? These hollow strings? This void? This little shadow circus?"
His body trembled not from pain—but from rage and amusement.
"By trapping me, you made your biggest mistake. Because once I get free…"
He slowly lowered his hands, revealing glowing crimson eyes and jagged black claws cracking through his fingers like an emerging demon.
"I will show you no mercy."
A chilling pause.
And then, with a smirk as cold as death, he whispered:
"Let's get started, shall we?"
The creature on the throne — a god of darkness for 500 years — tilted his head, confused.
A mortal? Laughing?
Then it happened.
The tendrils lunged to crush Dylan.
But in that precise, surgical instant — Dylan vanished.
"Void Slip: Misdirection."
Reality twisted.
Space buckled.
The tendrils, mid-lunge, pierced their own mass.
They stabbed into the void, through themselves, and began feeding — not on Dylan, but on their own essence.
"The tendrils lunged—Dylan vanished—and the darkness impaled itself, howling as it began consuming its own kind."
They convulsed and writhed in agony, choking on their own hunger, turning into screeching knots of self-inflicted doom.
The Counterattack
In the blink of an eye, Dylan was hovering above the creature's head.
Before the creature could react—
CRACK!
Dylan's clawed hand grabbed his skull and smashed it into the obsidian ground, sending ripples through the void like thunder in hell.
The creature was flung like debris, crashing far into the distance with the force of a black meteor.
The sentinels shrieked and charged at once.
But Dylan had changed.
He moved like a ghost of vengeance—blurring between them.
He didn't kill them.
He bullied them.
One by one, he slashed their knees. Broke arms with a flick. Tossed them into each other like rag dolls.
"You think I'd waste energy on corpses? Kneel."
They did.
Not from command. From defeat.
Broken. Shamed. Paralyzed.
The Throne Reversed
Minutes later, the creature limped back, body cracked, leaking starlight and black blood.
It stopped.
Its breath hitched.
Eyes wide with disbelief.
Because now — Dylan was seated on his throne.
Legs folded arrogantly.
Claws resting like blades over the armrests.
Eyes glowing like hellfire.
He wasn't just mocking him.
He replaced him.
The creature whispered, terrified:
"How… can a mere human… do this to me? Not in five hundred years… have I met such a monster."
The Final Declaration
Dylan leaned forward.
A shadow passed over his face — no longer mortal, no longer sane.
"Now, I am the king."
His voice echoed across the entire dimension.
"And you… you are my servant. Your throne, your army, your void — mine now."
The creature stumbled back, broken.
Dylan stood, one claw pointing directly at him, grin spreading like wildfire.
"You really thought you could defeat me?"
"Your only fault was letting the devil walk into your house. And now…"
"Welcome to the darkness—galaxy bird—or whatever the hell you call yourself!"
He burst into demonic laughter, the void shaking with his voice.
And in that moment, Dylan Daniels wasn't a gangster, a man, or even a monster anymore.
He was something worse.
Something final.