The world had not ended.
It had rotted.
An eternal twilight smothered the skies, ash-gray clouds grinding against one another like tectonic plates of despair. Sunlight—if it still existed—was reduced to a diluted ghost, barely strong enough to stain the clouds with a sickly pallor.
[SFX: LOW WIND HOWL • DISTANT METAL CREAK]
On a weathered stone ledge overlooking the collapsing spires of the Outer Districts, a boy sat alone.
Gaunt.
Hollow.
Unmistakably alive—yet already half-consumed.
His name was Orion.
Or at least, that was the name he whispered to himself during the longest nights, when hunger gnawed at his organs and silence pressed against his skull like a vice.
Pale skin clung tightly to sharp bones, stretched thin as parchment. His eyes were sunken—abyssal, lightless—ringed by shadows carved by years of sleepless torment. He looked less like a citizen of the city… and more like a remnant it had failed to erase.
In his trembling hands rested a steaming mug.
Not the gray synthetic sludge rationed to the slums.
But real tea.
Brewed. Aromatic. Warm.
A luxury reserved for the Elite Enclaves—harvested from guarded groves, traded in blood, favors, or secrets.
[SFX: SOFT STEAM HISS]
How had a wretch like him obtained it?
Cunning, perhaps.
Or pity—from a passing Awakened who had mistaken his hollow stare for latent potential.
It didn't matter.
In this world, mercy was a mirage.
Orion lifted the mug and drank slowly, savoring the bitter warmth as it slid down his throat, chasing away the cold that seeped from the cracked concrete beneath him.
Below, across a desolate plaza littered with rusted barriers and half-buried corpses of old machinery, stood the Citadel Outpost.
A monolith of reinforced steel and arcane plating.
Guards in obsidian armor patrolled its perimeter with mechanical precision, their eyes glowing faintly—touched by power granted by the Requiem Spell.
The Awakened.
Gods among men.
Chosen.
Enhanced bodies. Extended lives. Authority without question.
While the rest of humanity clawed at survival in the shadows, waiting to be forgotten—or consumed.
Orion watched a sleek hover-transport glide overhead, humming softly as it carried another privileged youth toward their mandatory evaluation.
A faint ache stirred in his chest.
Not envy.
…Resignation.
The Spell chose randomly, they said.
A curse disguised as salvation.
Those selected were dragged into visions of other worlds—Requiems, Nightmares that carved into the soul itself.
Survive, and you Awakened.
You gained an Aspect—a divine gift.
A Flaw—the price for wielding it.
And entry into the upper echelons of civilization.
Fail—
—and your body withered in the real world, brain scorched hollow, spirit erased.
Orion had turned sixteen months ago.
The age when the Spell's invisible tendrils began to search.
Yet nothing had come.
No dreams.
No whispers.
No pull.
Just hunger. Cold. Endless days bleeding into one another.
He snorted softly and set the empty mug beside him.
"Why bother dreaming of power?" he muttered.
"I'd probably get a Flaw that turns me into a perpetual loser anyway."
[SFX: LOW HUM—CUTS ABRUPTLY]
The world tilted.
Vertigo slammed into him like a physical blow.
The plaza smeared into gray streaks as his vision tunneled inward. A frigid sensation crawled along his spine, and something—not a voice, not a sound—pressed into his mind.
A compulsion.
An invitation.
No.
A command.
The Requiem Spell has chosen you.
Prepare for your First Requiem Trial.
[SFX: DISTORTED CHIME • BONE-CRACKING PRESSURE]
Pain detonated behind his eyes.
It felt as if shards of obsidian were being driven into his skull, grinding, burrowing deeper with every heartbeat. Requiem clutched his head and screamed—though no sound escaped his throat.
Reality shattered.
The Citadel.
The clouds.
The city's distant hum.
All of it was swallowed by a vortex of absolute darkness.
[SFX: HEARTBEAT—SLOW… THEN STEADY]
Cold stone greeted his back.
Orion gasped, sucking in air thick with damp rot and iron.
Chains rattled as he moved.
Dim torchlight flickered across ancient stone walls, revealing a cavernous chamber buried deep beneath the earth. Crude pillars clawed upward into darkness, and the floor was stained with something far older—and far darker—than rust.
Blood.
Despair clung to the air like mold.
He looked down.
Ragged slave garments hung from his frame.
Iron manacles bit into his wrists, linked to a heavy chain that snaked across the floor—connecting him to dozens of others.
Men. Women. Children.
Hollow-eyed.
Broken.
Waiting.
[SFX: DISTANT ROAR • METAL WHIP CRACK • SCREAMS]
From far below, guttural bellows echoed through the stone, followed by the wet snap of whips and cries that died far too quickly.
A translucent figure shimmered into existence before him.
An apparition.
Robed in flowing ether, its hood obscuring all facial features. Arcane symbols pulsed faintly along its form, etched in cold blue light.
[Welcome, Aspirant.]
[You have been transported to the First Requiem: The Forgotten Depths.]
[Role Assigned: Shadowbound Slave.]
[Objective: Survive the ascent. Escape the Mountain of Despair.]
[Flaw Assignment: Pending Trial Completion.]
[Aspect Revelation: Upon Awakening.]
The figure dissolved into motes of light.
Only a final system prompt remained, hovering before his eyes.
[Time until the Guardian awakens: 23:00:00]
Orion—no, the boy who would earn that name—stared into the darkness.
His heart thundered.
Not with fear.
But with a razor-sharp clarity that cut through the fog of despair he had lived in his entire life.
This was it.
The Nightmare.
A whisper slithered through the depths of his soul, cold and intimate.
This is where legends are forged…
…or broken.
He glanced at the other slaves.
A burly man with scarred arms murmured frantic prayers.
A young girl sobbed quietly, her chains trembling with every breath.
Orion tested his bindings—subtle. Careful.
Weak points.
Alliances.
Betrayals.
A faint smile curved his lips, unseen in the gloom.
"Let the requiem play," he murmured to the shadows.
"I'll compose my own symphony."
[SFX: DEEP SUBTERRANEAN ROAR—CLOSER]
As the Mountain of Despair stirred, the trial ignited—
—and with it, the birth of something far darker than the depths themselves.