Chapter 1

  First week after Altrons eruption

  The Hall of the Council of the Lower Realms was a place where light had no right to exist. The massive, cubic chamber lay so deep within the sub-structure of the Realms that the air itself felt heavy. It was permeated by the thick smell of burned, ancient bones, damp, mineral-rich stone, and concentrated, primeval mana residue.

  The black walls were made of obsidian, so smooth on the surface that they took on the appearance of frozen flames. These walls were traversed by veins of a viscous, dark red material that not only looked like blood but pulsed with a low-frequency hum, like the heartbeat of a gigantic, captive being deep within the rock. The ceiling was endless, an unattainable darkness, covered with slow-moving shadows that had no recognizable light source yet gave the perception that every being in the room was being watched.

  Dozens of thrones stood in a wide circle, each one a monument to the raw, concentrated power of its inhabitant. They were not crafted from ordinary material, but from extremely hard, magically reinforced substances:

  Some throne structures consisted of Nightmare Steel, an extremely dark, hard metal fitted with thorny, sharp edges, which radiated cold unease upon touch.

  Others were crafted from a glass-like, icy substance that looked like frozen, black water—a material harvested from the deepest, coldest domains.

  Still other throne structures consisted of a pulsating, organic material that had the texture of hard cartilage and mimicked the appearance of living, dark flesh that moved in slow waves.

  Some thrones were shaped from cold, luminous crystals that emitted a bluish, sharp light, reminiscent of compressed, frozen mana.

  They were the seats of the Gods and Fallen Kings of the Lower Realms.

  Beings whose names were only whispered in the old tongues of the damned. Some were humanoid, others grotesque monstrosities, and still others flickered between forms like dancing flame. No one spoke. No one moved. For they knew who was about to arrive.

  The massive gates at the end of the hall – forged from the ribs of a leviathan – did not open. Instead, the center of the room grew darker. The shadows there were blacker than darkness itself. They writhed, as if reality itself had become unstable at that spot. A sound emerged: not thunder, not wind – but the sharp inhalation of a room preparing for something unnatural.

  Then he appeared.

  At first, it was just an outline, drawn from smoke and memory. From it formed an upper body – upright, proud. The garments that adorned him were those of a human emperor: deep blue robes with golden stitching, a cloak of violet velvet so heavy that even magic could barely support it. But everyone in the hall knew it was just an illusion. A game. A statement.

  His face was that of an old man. Not a wrinkled caricature, but dignified, meticulously maintained. Dark, sleek hair, slicked back like that of a nobleman of old, a short beard, trimmed with razor precision. His eyes – black with a touch of violet – looked like two graves in which hope had been buried.

  Then came the cane.

  It was simple – at first glance. A straight rod of ebony, etched with engravings in a language no one should speak anymore. At its tip sat a small golden skull, its eye sockets glowing as if someone had trapped a sun within. When Altron took his first step, the echo struck every being in the room like a curse. It didn’t merely echo – it sliced. It sawed through memories, awakened fears long forgotten. Even the mightiest gods flinched, ever so slightly.

  To the gods of the Lower Realms, the entire figure was both laughable and a riddle. Was he emphasizing his age? His closeness to mortal existence? Why? Why display something so lowly? Why even appear?

  But all of that became irrelevant the moment he began to speak.

  For the first time in millions of years, they had all gathered. All Overlords, rulers, and gods of the Lower Realms had come to the throne hall of their king, to receive an unwanted guest. But not someone from the Higher Realms. No pure souls, no angels, no archangels, and certainly not the One True.

  No, the unwanted guest was one of their own—though none of them had counted him as such for a very long time.

  That guest was none other than Altron.

  And he began to speak.

  "My friends," he began, his voice smooth like warm wine – soft, inviting, deceptive. He spoke as though he truly wished to embrace them, as if this were a celebration, not a tribunal. No one in the hall returned his joy. No smile, no nod, not even the faintest hint of acknowledgment. Only rigid stares and a collective silence so heavy that even the shadows paused.

  "It has been a long time," he continued, his tone now gentler, almost melancholic. "And I would like to share my thoughts and plans with you."

  He took a few steps forward, the echo of his cane once more cutting through the tense stillness like the lash of a judge’s whip. Then he stopped, scanning every creature in the room with a mixture of interest, pity – and calculation. He looked into their faces, those without masks as well as those distorted by armor, flame, or madness, and even smiled at some deliberately. As though seeking allies among ancient enemies. But no one stirred.

  "For aeons we have lived in this realm of sorrow, of grief, of corruption." His voice grew firmer. Deeper. "Each of you has seen worlds burn once. Each of you has commanded armies, toppled gods, cursed kings. And what has it brought you? These thrones?" He gestured with disdain at the circle. "These rotting seats on a corpse of existence?"

  A murmur rippled through the rows. A scraping sound, as a clawed foot slid across stone. Not a protest – but the awakening of anger.

  "What if it could end?" he asked, and in his words now lay something else. Hope. Or rather: its dangerous imitation. "What if the Lower Realms no longer had to be our prison? What if we... could begin anew?"

  Most of them knew where he was going. The reaction was palpable: gods with glowing eyes twitched. Muscles beneath stony skin tensed. An ancient being of light and void slowly licked its teeth. The rage was there – vibrating, but still under control. Only very few continued to listen calmly. And yet they all listened.

  "If I have the power to rise…" he said, now with a flicker in his voice, a dangerous spark, "…then we all do."

  A whisper spread through the room like a cold current.

  "We. have. the. power."

  He stepped forward once more.

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  "We have the power to enter the world of mortals. Not as shadows. Not as whisperers in dark dreams. No. We can stand in their midst. In their light. And shatter it with our own hands."

  His voice grew louder, vibrating, a tremor embedded in his words. The obsidian walls seemed to quiver in response.

  "We have the power to wipe them out."

  He raised both arms, the robe slipped back slightly, revealing hands both ancient and strong, marked with rune-like scars. His silhouette grew, as if something inside him was rising – a force barely kept in check.

  "We can march our legions through the golden gates. We can desecrate the heavens, devour the light, silence the harps. We can tear every name from the chronicles of purity."

  His gaze now burned, his pupils glowing red, his voice thunderous.

  "We can defeat Heaven!"

  Then, with all his might, from the depths of his being, he shouted:

  "AND OVERTHROW THE ONE TRUE!"

  The words echoed like a curse, like a trumpet call from another world. They crashed against the walls, cracking the obsidian, causing blood to seep from certain runes. Even the shadows recoiled.

  And then – nothing.

  No reaction. No applause. No cheers. No hissing, no rebuttal, not even mockery. Just icy, relentless silence. A silence that was ancient. That judged.

  Altron slowly lowered his arms. His chest rose and fell heavily. His gaze swept across the rows. Whatever he had expected – it did not come. Some eyes were full of rage. Others full of fear. A few… were thinking.

  But no one spoke. No one rose.

  Only on one throne was there movement. The one at the center.

  It was the highest, the deepest, the oldest. Not built, but shaped – from black mist, coiled like smoke from burning faith, laced with silver-shimmering figures. Souls. Souls that screamed. Not loudly, not like mortals – but in a soundless, eternal whimpering that slowly dissolved the mind. They were trapped within, layered like glass in cold fire, their suffering a foundation of living pain.

  And upon that throne sat he.

  Nimrath. The Lord of all Sorrow. The Master of Darkness and Shadow. The god of all that is considered evil, wrong, sick, or corrupted in every dimension.

  His name was spoken only in whispers – or not at all. Not even the other gods dared look at him directly, unless they had no choice. His presence was not a pressure, but a descent. A sensation like stepping into a lake of poisoned memory and being slowly pulled downward, into something that would never see light again.

  His armor was completely black. No shine. No pattern. No emblem. Only darkness – so dense that even light forgot it had ever existed. It wasn’t forged. It was born.

  Impenetrable, even to the most powerful weapons of the Lower Realms. Even madness dared not cling to it. The helm that concealed his head was simple, yet archaic. Two short horns curved backward like the tips of an ancient beast’s bone – blunt, yet full of meaning. No face was visible, no breath could be heard – and yet everyone knew he saw them. Always. Then he rose.

  The souls in his throne screamed out – this time audibly. The mist around him thickened, tightened, grew viscous like flesh wrapping protectively around his form. The air trembled. The shadows retreated. Even the foundations of the throne room groaned.

  And in a single moment…

  …every other god fell to their knees.

  Every monstrosity. Every cruelty. Every tyrant, every witch queen, every flaming warlord, every ancient being that had survived for millions of years – bowed. Some trembling. Some reverently. Some from fear, some from duty. Only one did not move.

  Altron. He remained standing. His gold-ornamented cane firm in his hand. The madness in his eyes now burned brighter, nearly glowing – yet his gaze was calm. Unwavering. Fixed directly on Nimrath. An act of open defiance. An act of blasphemy. An act of will. And then Nimrath stepped toward him. His walk was slow, like darkness itself – not hurried, but certain. Each of his steps made the floor beneath him weaken, crumble, reform. The walls trembled. The room grew smaller. Altron’s robe began to flicker at the edges, as though invisible teeth were gnawing at it. But he did not flinch.

  Then, directly before him, Nimrath spoke.

  Three words. No roar. No whisper.

  But they pierced the Lower Realms like a spear of truth.

  “SHUT. YOUR. MOUTH.”

  The words tore through the room like thunderclaps.

  Walls cracked. A fissure split the ground, radiating from Nimrath’s feet to the center of the throne hall. Blood rose from the gaps. The shadows recoiled, flickering wildly, and even the souls in the throne fell silent for a moment.

  But Altron…

  …did not move.

  His gaze remained steady. His madness undiminished.

  He stood – like an idea that could no longer be erased.

  Nimrath’s voice grew louder.

  “NO ONE OVERTHROWS MY SISTER!”

  His voice was no longer just sound. It was law.

  It burned itself into every mind, ripped memories from the past, showed every being in the room images of her – the sister. Her. None dared to think her name. The statement was not aimed solely at Altron. It was a warning. A threat. A divine pronouncement from a god beyond the very concept of threat.

  Then Nimrath turned to all.

  “WHOEVER DARES TO JOIN THIS DELUDED FOOL…”

  His voice sank – softer, but more menacing. Deeper. Personal.

  “…WILL BE DAMNED TO WORSE THAN ALL DAMNED SOULS AND SINNERS COMBINED.”

  A quiet tremor filled the throne hall. Not a quake, a shattering. The room barely held together.

  Something simmered beneath the surface of reality, a premonition of the punishment Nimrath meant. Not a punishment of death. But of un-being. Of erasure.

  And in that silence… in that trembling void… Altron stood. Still. Smiling. Not out of defiance. But conviction.

  And as Nimrath slowly sank back onto his throne, the massive armor creaking silently, the weight of his presence flowing back into the heart of the hall, the tension also ebbed. Not relief – never that – but the sticky silence after a judgment that had only been postponed. The other lords and gods dared to breathe again. Some leaned back. Others stared at the floor. Only one did not.

  Altron.

  He still stood there, one step from the center of the circle, unmoving, upright, like a caricature of pride.

  Then he spoke. Solemnly. Slowly. His voice an echo of past triumphs and future threats:

  “On my next visit…”

  A murmur rippled through the room.

  “…on my next visit I will stand again in this throne hall. With a power you can only dream of. Unstoppable. And with the army of a thousand realms behind me.”

  He paused, his fingers brushing calmly over the head of his cane.

  “And then… then you will—”

  “ENOUGH!”

  The voice did not come from the circle. It did not come from Nimrath. It came from everywhere. Like a lament through all dimensions. Like a verdict spoken from the rift between life and nonexistence.

  At the same moment, it was there. The scythe.

  With a metallic hiss it materialized at Altron’s neck. No contact – but close enough that even the smallest movement would have carried him beyond all return. No blood. No cut. It aimed at the soul. And he knew it.

  Time itself seemed to hold still for a single breath.

  Then he stepped from the mist:

  A gaunt, composed body, wrapped in a long, pitch-black cloak that did not flutter in the hall, but flowed – as if made of shadows that feared death itself.

  The skull that stared out was bare, perfectly polished. But its teeth – they were pure, matte gold, arranged in a way no natural being could possess. And in the eye sockets: red-glowing light. Not fire. Something much older. Concentrated wrath, frozen in eternity.

  Ulthanox. This time not as an avatar. Not partly, not without his full power as before. Not as he appeared to mortals and most gods. This time wholly, with all his power. And he held nothing back, but showed it proudly to the entire hall.

  Altron and he stood face to face. Their noses only inches apart. So close that Altron could feel the cold breath beneath the mask, like a wind from ancient graves brushing against his skin.

  Yet he showed no sign of fear. He even grinned.

  “Still wearing that ugly thing, huh?” he asked with feigned amusement, as if nothing had happened. As if this were an old game between old acquaintances. The blade at his throat didn’t seem to bother him. On the contrary – it seemed to entertain him.

  Ulthanox did not answer immediately. Only a grinding sound came from his scythe, as if it demanded the word itself. Then he whispered – softly, yet infinitely piercing:

  “I do not wear it.”

  His voice was like stone scraping over stone.

  “It is part of me.”

  A breath of silence. Then his voice sank even lower, until it almost vanished:

  “And you… leave. Now.”

  The last word was not a command. It was a farewell. Not negotiable. Not deferrable. A line drawn by a scythe. Even Altron flinched for a heartbeat.

  Then one last smile. Not joyful. More like the smile of a man who knows his time was not wasted. Who knows he has not won – but has been seen.

  He did not even turn fully. He spoke loudly, into the entire hall, with theatrical dignity:

  “It has been an honor.”

  Then he dissolved – into black smoke, like a burned memory. No light, no portal. Only smoke that coiled and faded, leaving behind a dark, echoing laughter that vibrated in the stones for minutes after.

  Silence returned. Ulthanox lowered the scythe.

  The mist settled again.

  Nimrath sat silent. But the shadows around his throne quivered, as though being swallowed by his own wrath.

  Then, very quietly, without looking up, he said only:

  “Next time… he will not leave.”