The world was a blur of ash and silence.
When he finally stirred, the sky above him was no longer the vaulted ceiling of the Emperor's hall but a torn canvas of gray clouds drifting lazily across a pale horizon. The cold air bit into his lungs, sharp and unforgiving, carrying with it the scent of rot and distant smoke. He blinked, the edges of his vision hazy, and only then did he realize he was lying in the dirt, half-buried in dust and gravel.
They had thrown him away.
The chains were gone, the circle broken, the jeering voices of his siblings replaced by the hollow stillness of the borderlands. He shifted, and pain knifed through every bone. His body felt… wrong. Heavy, unbalanced, as though it belonged to someone else.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright. His hands trembled against the ground, pale fingers etched with faint black veins that hadn't been there before. When he caught his reflection in a puddle of stagnant water nearby, the sight froze his breath.
A stranger stared back at him.
His skin had paled to a near ghostly shade, crisscrossed by fine, pulsing lines that glowed faintly as though inked by fire itself. His eyes, once dull and unremarkable, now burned with an eerie glow—irises fractured with the sigil of the Nether Codex, shifting like a living brand.
For a long moment, he only stared. Half of him wanted to recoil, to claw away the image in the water, but the other half… the other half felt a pull. A strange satisfaction, even pride, that something within him had finally awakened.
Then came the voice.
Awake at last… little vessel.
He flinched, clutching his head, but the sound was not from without. It resonated deep inside his bones, a whisper that was both gentle and cruel, like silk wrapped around a blade.
"Who… who are you?" he rasped, his voice hoarse.
I am what they tried to bind. What they tried to kill you with. I am the Codex, child. A book written in hunger, etched in flame, sealed away until now. And you—forsaken one—you are my reader, my bearer, my prison, my freedom.
His chest heaved, thoughts colliding. "I should be dead…"
Yes. The voice was amused, like a chuckle echoing in an empty tomb. But you clung to life, even when all called you worthless. That stubborn ember saved you—and gave me form. Now, you are neither corpse nor prince. You are something new.
He staggered to his feet, swaying. The barren land stretched endlessly around him—cracked earth, skeletal trees, and jagged hills gnawed by wind. This was no longer the empire's heartland. They had cast him into the borderlands, a wasteland where exiles, beasts, and raiders fought over scraps.
A cruel laugh echoed suddenly across the rocks.
He turned sharply, every nerve in his body sparking. A band of outlaws had spotted him—half-starved men clad in scraps of armor, eyes glinting with malice.
"Well, well," one sneered. "Look what the borderlands spat out. A crippled wretch."
Another laughed, brandishing a rusted blade. "Wait, don't you see? That's the Emperor's runt. The one they said wasn't even fit to serve at court!"
The laughter grew crueler. "Exiled already? Ha! What a gift. Kill him, boys. Maybe his corpse will fetch a price."
Their words pierced him, sharper than the knives they carried. He wanted to deny it, to shout that he was no longer the forgotten shadow they mocked. But his body—trembling, weak, broken from the fusion—betrayed him. He could barely stand, let alone fight.
The outlaws closed in.
His pulse thundered, fear coiling like a snake in his gut. He had never been a warrior. He had no sword, no training, no power except the burning curse inside him. His breath came ragged, his knees buckled—until the Codex whispered again.
They will kill you. They will cut your throat and leave you for the crows. But it does not have to end here.
The prince's chest tightened. "…What choice do I have?"
Devour them, the voice purred. Take their essence into you. Feed me, and I will give you strength. Refuse, and you will die here, nameless, forgotten, just as they always said you would.
The outlaws' footsteps crunched closer, circling him like wolves around wounded prey. His heart pounded against his ribs, torn between terror and the burning temptation curling inside his skull.
Die as nothing… or kill, and survive.
His fists clenched, black sparks flickering faintly across his veins. His lips parted, a whisper escaping, more to himself than to the Codex.
"…I will not die here."
The outlaws lunged.
The first outlaw rushed in, blade raised high. The prince's body moved before his mind caught up, as if the Codex had pulled invisible strings through his limbs. His hand shot out, trembling but swift, and caught the man's wrist. For a heartbeat, the outlaw's grin remained—but then black sparks crawled from the prince's fingertips into the man's flesh.
The laughter twisted into a scream.
It was not a scream of mere pain. It was the sound of something being torn away, ripped out from marrow and soul. The outlaw's eyes rolled back, body convulsing as a dim, ghostly light seeped from his mouth and chest, streaming into the prince's hands like smoke dragged into a flame.
The prince staggered, choking as heat flooded his veins. His trembling muscles tightened, his wounds sealing faster than breath. The Codex hummed in his skull, pleased.
Yes. Yes! Feed. Take what was theirs, make it yours.
The outlaw collapsed, a husk of pale, withered flesh, eyes wide and empty.
The prince stared at the corpse, bile rising in his throat. His stomach lurched, horror gnawed at the edges of his mind—yet beneath it all, a rush of savage exhilaration pulsed through him. He had never felt this strong before. Never this alive.
The other outlaws froze, fear flickering across their faces. But fear quickly gave way to rage.
"Monster!" one spat, charging with a howl. "Cut him down before he does it again!"
They fell upon him as a pack, blades flashing. His body should have failed him, but the Codex's stolen strength surged like fire in his blood. His eyes burned with that eerie glow, tracking every movement. He dodged one slash, too slow on the second, and steel grazed his shoulder—yet even as blood spilled, the wound knitted itself shut with black fire.
He struck back, wild and desperate. His fist, guided by instinct not training, caved in a man's jaw with bone-cracking force. Another tried to stab him from behind, but the Codex whispered: Behind you. He twisted, driving his elbow into the attacker's chest. The man crumpled, and again, the Codex urged: Devour.
The prince hesitated only a breath before letting it happen. The black veins along his arms flared, and the outlaw's essence poured into him. This time he welcomed it, and the rush was intoxicating.
The battlefield was chaos—shouts, steel, blood spattering the dirt. His thoughts spun between horror at what he was becoming and the undeniable truth: he was surviving. Every scream fed him. Every kill steadied his legs, sharpened his senses, made him less the forsaken weakling they had mocked and more… something else.
When the last outlaw fell, twitching as his soul was pulled into the Codex, silence descended again.
The prince stood among the bodies, chest heaving, his hands stained black and red. His reflection shimmered in a pool of blood at his feet—demonic eyes, veins alive with flickering light. He had devoured them all.
He wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream. But what escaped him instead was a whisper, hoarse and trembling:
"…I'm alive."
The Codex's voice purred with satisfaction.
Alive, yes. Stronger, yes. And this is only the beginning, little vessel. Do you see now? You cannot live without me. Without hunger.
His knees buckled, and he fell among the corpses. The stink of death pressed around him, and yet beneath it, there was power thrumming in every inch of his body.
He pressed his palms into the dirt, shaking, caught between revulsion and awe.
He had killed. He had fed. And part of him—too large to ignore—wanted more.
The Codex whispered, softer now, almost tender:
You have tasted the first truth. Kill to survive. Devour to grow. From nothing, you may yet become everything.
The prince closed his eyes, trembling. He thought of the Emperor's hall, of his siblings' laughter, of the jeers that branded him unfit even to be a servant.
They had cast him away. They had chosen him as sacrifice. And yet—he still drew breath. Stronger than before.
When his eyes opened again, they burned brighter.
"I won't die as nothing," he murmured. "If this is what it takes… then I'll survive."
The Codex chuckled in his bones, like pages turning in a book no mortal should read.
Good. Then let us write the next chapter in blood.
And the borderlands, vast and merciless, stretched before him.