In the heart of a forsaken realm, buried beneath layers of rot and madness, stood a throne—twisted, ancient, forged from the bones of fallen kings and bound in the sinews of regret.
Upon it sat a figure draped in writhing black robes, shadows pulsing with malignant life around him. The air was thick with decay, the silence broken only by the low groans of something breathing within the walls.
Before the throne, a man knelt—body trembling, sweat soaking his tattered robes. He dared not raise his head.
The figure spoke, voice colder than death itself.
"Hmph. Trash. Failure after failure. Do you understand how many chances I've given you?"
"M-my Lord, I—I beg you," the man whimpered, forehead scraping the blood-soaked floor. "One last chance… please… just—one—"
"Silence."
The word was soft. But it fell like a guillotine.
