His voice cut through the noise like a blade through silk.
Ulykart did not need to raise his tone.
He simply spoke — and centuries of authority rolled in every syllable, forcing silence to settle once again across the atrium like a suffocating blanket.
Simon kept his posture composed, hands loosely folded, expression neutral.
Inside, however, his thoughts churned like a storm beneath still waters.
Arkal... abandoned the abyss? And provoked a revolt?
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't fiery.
It was worse — casual, dismissive, like a king tossing away his crown because he had grown bored of its weight.
Every abyss lord reacted differently.
Some clenched fists.
Some whispered to themselves.
Some smiled — wicked, thrilled by the hunt that had just been announced.
Others trembled, realizing the chaos that was about to flood existence.
Simon watched, quietly measuring each one.
Not because he intended to fight for the throne — heaven forbid he even pretend — but this information was power, and in this room, power was survival.
He kept breathing slow and steady. Slow enough that Rusnumalung — who still stared at him from across the hall — would find nothing out of place.
Rusnumalung's eyes hadn't left him once.
A deep, ancient gaze, heavy with age and depth, like staring into the hollow of a mountain older than time.
He still doubts me.
Good. Doubt means uncertainty. Uncertainty means hesitance.
Simon did not flinch. He simply lifted a goblet, sipped the dark wine, and placed it down again without a sound. Precise, calm, measured. Orba-like. Regal without arrogance. Detached without appearing cold.
If he gave even a flicker of discomfort, a tremor, a tell — he'd be exposed.
Ulykart, standing on a raised marble dais, continued, his scarlet cloak pulsing faintly like living flesh under the torches.
"Arkal," he declared, "has grown weary. Peace disgusts him. Mortals bore him. Even the demons and beasts offer no thrill."
He paused, letting the tension breathe.
"He has chosen to abdicate."
Gasps again — sharper, louder this time, no longer restrained.
Karuel leaned forward in her seat, chin in hand, expression intrigued, golden eyes glimmering with hunger — but not for violence. For change.
Feje, meanwhile, blinked twice and whispered loudly,
"Wait wait, boss first king wants to quit job? Great! I'd also quit if paperwork tasted like dust."
Someone near her snorted. Another rolled their eyes. Ulykart ignored her entirely.
"He will not step down peacefully," Ulykart continued. "He invites challenge. Blood. A duel to claim the throne."
That was the moment the room changed.
The atmosphere wasn't tense anymore — it sharpened.
A predator's silence.
A battlefield's quiet before the first scream.
Whispers surged — some desperate, some eager:
"Impossible, who could—"
"A duel? With Arkal—"
"He's unstoppable—"
"Unless—"
"Unless some idiot actually tries—"
Simon kept staring forward, expression blank.
Inside, he weighed the danger of this revelation.
A throne in chaos invites plots.
And plots expose shadows.
This place just became far more dangerous.
He needed to remain unseen — ironically, while wearing a face everyone recognized.
Ulykart lifted his hand and the voices died instantly.
"Your reactions entertain me," he murmured. "But do not misunderstand."
His crimson eyes swept the chamber, cold as a frozen ocean trench.
"This is no opportunity."
He leaned forward just slightly — and that slight motion felt like the abyss leaning with him.
"This is a death sentence for the unworthy."
A chill crept through even the proudest abyss lords.
"Arkal will not fall easily. Should you challenge him… understand that failure means erasure. Body, soul, legacy. Forgotten forever."
A few lords gulped.
Feje raised her hand cheerfully.
"So if we lose we go poof?"
Karuel face-palmed hard enough the sound echoed.
"Yes," Ulykart answered without emotion. "Poof."
Simon couldn't help the ghost of a breath that nearly became a laugh.
He turned it into a controlled exhale instead.
This isn't just power politics.
This is abyssal natural selection.
Ulykart then added quietly, "And Arkal expects a challenger."
Silence again — heavy, expectant.
Rusnumalung's eyes narrowed, deepening the wrinkles etched into his somber face. His horns shadowed him like a crown of mourning.
He whispered, voice barely audible even to those near him,
"This… is the cycle once more?"
A cycle.
Simon committed that word to memory.
Has this happened before? Is this how abyssal succession works?
Ulykart continued, tone calm, unhurried:
"He will not chase you. He will not demand you kneel.
He merely waits.
And if none rise?"
His lips curved — but it wasn't a smile. It was something colder, darker, like wind brushing against a tomb.
"Then he remains king, and the abyss rots in stagnation until one of you gathers the courage to face him."
Karuel's tail swayed behind her seat like a cat scenting prey.
Feje whispered loudly to her,
"Should we fight him? You fight, I cheer?"
Karuel didn't answer.
Her gaze sharpened, calculating, reflecting not madness but ambition controlled like a drawn bowstring.
Simon watched her — briefly — before returning to his neutral expression.
Karuel… is dangerous in a way Feje is not.
That carefree posture hides sharp instincts.
But his attention drifted back to the one who mattered most in this moment —
Rusnumalung.
The ancient abyss lord still stared — not with anger anymore, not suspicion, but something else entirely:
Fear.
Confusion.
Recognition — not of Simon, but of the impossibility of Orba.
"Orba stands here…" Rusnumalung whispered. "And yet Orba has already died."
Simon froze internally.
He knows. He suspects. He feels the truth even if he cannot prove it.
He didn't move. Didn't react. Didn't breathe too sharply.
He simply blinked — slowly — like a creature with all the time in the world.
Quiet. Calm. I am not hunted prey. I am a king among monsters.
Rusnumalung rubbed his forehead — slow, weary, as though the world no longer made sense.
"Then who sits in his shape…?" he murmured to himself. "Who walks with a dead man's bones?"
Simon shifted his gaze subtly away, just enough to dismiss without seeming threatened.
That subtle refusal to engage — ironically — soothed suspicion.
Predators doubted those who tried too hard.
Confidence — or the illusion of it — was a shield.
Ulykart lifted his hand again.
The chamber fell into complete stillness, like the abyss itself held its breath.
"Now," he said. "Before I continue — those who dream of the crown, step forward."
No one moved.
A long, painful beat passed.
Then — not a warrior — but a foolish young abyss noble took one hesitant step.
And immediately regretted it as every other gaze speared him like knives.
He coughed weakly and stepped back.
Feje clapped enthusiastically. "Brave! Stupid, but brave!"
Karuel sighed.
Ulykart did not mock. He simply nodded.
"Honesty is admirable. Surviving ambition is wiser."
He then stretched his palm outward — and the torches dimmed, as though the shadows bowed to him.
"This meeting is not solely to announce Arkal's challenge."
His voice hardened.
"It is to address the growing fracture in our world."
Murmurs flickered again like sparks.
Ulykart's eyes gleamed crimson.
"Our hierarchy trembles. Our influence weakens. Our dominion fades."
His voice deepened — not loud, but heavy, as though spoken from the depths of time itself.
"Something stirs beyond the abyss."
Simon's heartbeat spiked — but his face remained unreadable.
Something beyond the abyss? Another power? Another world?
Ulykart continued:
"The humans grow bolder. The gods whisper again. The ancient pacts tremble."
Gods?
Simon almost turned his head — almost — but controlled himself.
So there are gods still moving in this world. And abyss lords fear them.
Ulykart concluded:
"You were gathered not only for succession."
He lifted a hand, fingers like talons carved from obsidian.
"But because war may return — on a scale unseen since creation."
Gasps again — but quieter. This news didn't shock; it chilled.
Karuel rose slightly, tail flicking.
Feje leaned forward, eyes wide as if watching a festival performance.
Rusnumalung did not react — only exhaled shakily, dread deepening in his hollow eyes.
Simon felt something knot inside him.
War. Gods. Succession. And I'm in the middle of it disguised as a corpse.
He kept chewing a bite of food like nothing mattered — like Orba might have — detached, mildly amused, eternally unimpressed.
Ulykart finally raised both arms.
"And now—"
His presence thickened, shadows rising around him like serpents.
"We begin."
A ripple of power swept the chamber.
Torches flared.
Mana pulsed like a heartbeat across the marble.
"Sit," Ulykart commanded softly.
Every abyss lord obeyed.
Even Karuel.
Even the playful Feje.
Even the silent, trembling Rusnumalung.
Even Simon lowered himself into his seat — controlled, elegant, unhurried.
The ceremony had begun.
He exhaled a slow, steady breath as the hall darkened and Ulykart prepared to reveal the true reason they had been summoned.
Whatever happens next… I just need to survive it.