Aeron staggered into his quarters, every step a reminder of the madness he had unleashed in the arena. His body screamed in protest, as though it had been torn apart and crudely stitched back together. He collapsed onto the cot, the thin mattress doing little to dull the ache in his bones.
The flicker of a single candle painted long shadows on the walls, and those shadows seemed to move with intent, watching him, whispering. His breath came ragged, and though the roar of the crowd was gone, its echo still thundered in his mind.
The fight had marked him—not just his flesh, but his very soul. Something had shifted inside him, a primal fracture that would not mend.
He reached for the book. The cover pulsed faintly, as though it too had tasted the madness.
"What happened back there?" Aeron whispered, voice hoarse.
The book shimmered into being, its pages turning on their own, as if it had been waiting for this moment.
"You have glimpsed the abyss," it intoned, calm yet chilling. "The Death Law is vast. What you wield is a shadow—an echo of its true depth."
Aeron's brow furrowed. His hand trembled against the cover. "And deeper?"
"Enter the Death Land, and see."
The air grew colder. The pull was irresistible. The room dissolved, swallowed by darkness.
---
He stood in a realm that was not a realm, under a sky that was not a sky. The Death Land stretched before him—ashen plains, endless and broken, bathed in a twilight glow that never changed. The ground pulsed faintly, as though veins of dying light throbbed beneath its surface.
The air was wrong—heavy, suffocating, thick with whispers that gnawed at the edges of his mind. Every step sank slightly, the soil soft and damp, like the flesh of something long dead.
Then the pain began.
It lanced through him like fire and ice all at once, searing and numbing, tearing him apart only to force him back together again. His body convulsed as shadows wrapped around his limbs, seeping into his flesh, carving themselves into his very bones.
Visions slammed into him—his past life, the sterile cold of labs, the scalpel in his steady hands, flesh peeled back with calculated detachment. Only now, the same knowledge surged back not as science, but as instinct, twisted and hungry.
The shadows whispered louder, pouring forgotten truths into his veins. He was being unmade, remade, broken, and reforged by the will of death itself.
And then—silence.
The pain ebbed. Aeron straightened, trembling, and realized he was changed. His reflection shimmered in a pool of blackened water at his feet:
His skin, obsidian-dark, seemed to drink the light.
A single horn curved from his brow, sharp and cruel.
A long, sinuous tail swayed with quiet menace.
His eyes no longer held color—only an abyss, a reflection of void itself.
Terrifying. Beautiful. Irrevocable.
The whispers receded, leaving behind not emptiness, but power.
A soft ding rang in his mind.
New Skill Acquired: Death's Gaze
Petrification: The target freezes, immobile for 5–7 seconds.
Silence: Their voice and will are stolen, unable to cast spells.
Vulnerability: Their form weakens, taking 20–30% more damage from all sources.
"The gaze of death itself," the book whispered, its voice threaded with pride and warning. "This is but a fragment. With the right offerings, its true form will awaken."
Aeron's lips curled into a faint smile, though his chest was tight. This power was intoxicating… and terrifying.
The Death Land dissolved, reality rushing back. He was once again in his cold, dim room. The transformation lingered—his skin, his horn, his tail. He flexed his hands, feeling how much stronger, how much other they had become.
A gnawing hunger twisted in his stomach. A tray of food had been left at his door. He sniffed it carefully—no trace of death energy. He devoured it in silence, the act grounding him momentarily.
When it was done, his gaze fell on his modest wardrobe. The thought escaped him before he could stop it.
"Hey, Booky… do you have a wardrobe section or something?"
To his surprise, the book shimmered once more.
"Yes."
Aeron blinked. "…What?"
The silence that followed was deliberate, mocking. He chuckled low, shaking his head. "Of course you do."
---
Far above, in a grand chamber of the academy, a council gathered. Tapestries of ancient battles lined the stone walls, and the firelight flickered across the solemn faces of those present.
One of them unfurled a scroll.
"The candidates."
Names were read, each one echoing with potential. Each one a future piece on the academy's board.
The final name was spoken with deliberate weight.
"…Aeron."
The word hung in the chamber, heavy with silence.
The figures exchanged glances and curiosity.
...
The name was no longer just a name. It was a storm on the horizon.