The sealed stone door shuddered under his hand. Runes carved into its surface bled light like liquid obsidian, each pulse echoing inside his chest as if it were his own heartbeat. The air grew heavy, suffocating, yet his body moved of its own accord.
With a final groan, the door split apart. A wave of black heat spilled outward—not the heat of ordinary fire, but something deeper, more ancient. The torches behind him flickered violently, as though cowed by this new flame.
Inside, the chamber stretched wide, but it wasn't empty. At its center, suspended in midair above a shattered altar, burned a black flame that gave no warmth yet promised annihilation. Its light bent the world, swallowing color, casting shadows that moved where no body stood.
His followers dared not step in. Some fell to their knees, clutching their heads as if voices clawed at their skulls. Even Lira, ever defiant, stood rigid with her bow half-raised, her knuckles white.
But he… he felt drawn. Not by compulsion, but by something older than memory, something written into his very blood. The Codex stirred violently inside his soul, its endless pages whipping as though caught in a storm.
Then the whispers began.
Not words of men. Not the cries of demons. But a chorus of both—agonized, triumphant, begging, cursing. Voices layered across centuries, fragments of a power too vast to belong to any single being.
His vision blurred.
And suddenly, he was no longer standing in the ruin.
He stood upon a battlefield that stretched to infinity. Mountains crumbled in the distance. Rivers of fire clashed with seas of blood. Armies of gods, demons, and things without names roared as they collided.
At the center of it all was a throne of bones.
And upon that throne sat a figure cloaked in flame darker than night. His face was hidden, but his presence was undeniable—overwhelming, suffocating, yet enthralling. When he raised his hand, gods screamed. When he spoke, demons knelt. He was a being who devoured not only flesh but the meaning of existence itself.
The Nether Monarch.
The whispers became words, resonant and absolute:
"I ruled not through mercy. I devoured. Gods, demons, mortals—they bled the same. To bow is weakness. To consume is eternity."
The Prince's knees trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of possibility. For an instant, he felt the Monarch's power as if it were his own: the might to crush empires, to silence heavens, to drag eternity down and feast upon it.
And then—he saw the Monarch's end.
An army of divine light. Chains forged from the marrow of dead gods. Blades carved from pure faith. The Monarch stood alone against them all, devouring to the last breath. Even as the chains pierced him, even as his throne cracked, even as his Codex shattered into fragments, he did not kneel.
"Remember this, heir who dares to grasp my shadow. This Codex is no book. It is hunger given form. It will feed you. It will destroy you. It will make you king, or it will make you monster."
The vision shattered.
The Prince collapsed to his knees in the chamber, drenched in sweat, gasping like a drowning man. The black flame still burned above the altar, and the Codex pulsed faintly inside his chest, quiet now, as though it too had remembered its origin.
His followers looked at him, wide-eyed. They hadn't seen what he had seen, but they knew something had changed. His gaze was sharper, darker, more resolute.
He clenched his fist.
The Monarch's voice still echoed in his mind, but instead of fear, he felt fire in his veins. Yes. To bow is weakness. To devour is eternity.
He thought of his siblings, of the empire that cast him aside, of the sneering nobles who mocked his blood. His lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile.
"I will inherit this legacy," he whispered. "Not as a shadow… but as a new dawn."
Behind him, a rumble shook the ruin. The black flame flickered, as if mocking his oath. Stone cracked. From the altar's shadow, bone and crystal knit themselves together.
A beast, colossal and unnatural, rose with a roar that made the chamber quake. Its hollow eyes burned with crimson light, and its claws tore grooves into the ground with every step.
The Guardian of the Ruin had awoken.
The outcasts screamed. Some fell back, others raised their weapons out of desperation.
The Prince only stood, his eyes never leaving the monster.
"Good," he said, his voice low, a growl more than words. "A test worthy of the Monarch's heir."
And with that, the flames around him surged—black, hungry, alive.
The chamber's black fire writhed as if in anticipation, shadows stretching like fangs across the walls. Dust rained from the vaulted ceiling as the Guardian pulled itself fully into being. Its bones were not white, but dark as obsidian, carved with symbols that pulsed with the same hateful light as the flame above the altar. Veins of crimson crystal laced its ribs, glowing like a mockery of a heart that should never beat.
It was not alive. Yet it moved.
The Prince's outcasts stumbled back, their breaths ragged. One man whispered prayers to gods who had long since abandoned him. Another dropped his weapon, trembling as if his bones might crack under the Guardian's roar. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down on their chests, daring them to stay.
But the Prince… he did not move back. He only stepped forward.
For the first time, the whispers of the Monarch's vision did not frighten him—they guided him. This was no senseless beast. This was a trial. A seal left behind by one who had devoured even gods. To flee was to remain prey forever. To fight was to claim the right to ascend.
His heart pounded, not from fear, but from recognition. He could almost hear the Monarch's voice again: To bow is weakness. To devour is eternity.
The Guardian's hollow eyes locked onto him, and the ground cracked beneath its claws. It roared, the sound shaking dust loose from the ruin's ceiling like the last breath of a dying world.
Somewhere behind him, Lira shouted his name. He didn't turn. Couldn't. If he looked at her, at their fear, he might hesitate—and hesitation meant death.
Instead, he raised his hand. Black fire crawled up his arm, licking his skin but never burning. The Codex pulsed once in his chest, as though testing his resolve. Then, a whisper—not from the Monarch this time, but from the Codex itself.
"Devour or die."
The Prince bared his teeth. His lips curved into something between a snarl and a smile.
"So be it."
The Guardian lowered its skull, crystal fangs gleaming, preparing to strike. The chamber seemed to hold its breath. Every shadow twisted, every rune trembled, the black flame flaring brighter as if eager to watch blood spill.
And in that silence, in that single heartbeat before collision, the Prince whispered a vow—not to his followers, not even to the Monarch whose legacy loomed over him, but to himself.
"I will not bow. Not to gods. Not to demons. Not even to the chains of fate."
The Guardian lunged, and the ruin exploded into chaos.
Cliffhanger held tight for the battle