Lucretius von Black — a name seldom heard, even among the inhabitants of the Abyss Dominion. He held no sprawling citadel like the other lords of his faction, yet his presence was felt across the southern reaches of the Great Empire of Dark Abyss. His mansion stood in solitude, deep within the Ashenmaw Forest, a desolate wood where trunks and branches grew endlessly but never bore leaves or fruit, shrouded always in the acrid stench of sulfur.

  The land around him was a scar of fire and stone: rivers of molten lava carving paths through jagged terrain, volcanoes rising like black spires for leagues upon leagues. For most, such a place was inhospitable. For Lucretius, it was home — quiet and untouched. The mansion itself was small compared to other Abyssal estates, but its silence made it vast, as if the walls echoed the emptiness of its master.

  Wearing a mantle of wolf fur, Lucretius sat in his high-backed chair before the Undying Flames of his hearth, a bottle of wine glimmering in his hand. He had never cared for reading. The endless scrolls and records of council business that arrived each week were a burden to him, yet he was not without a solution.

  That solution was Yugor.

  The servant shuffled into the chamber, his gray stone-like skin and a knee tall creature. Yugor was Ashkin — a stunted race with bodies resembling small men, though every inch of them seemed carved from weathered rock. His voice carried a crooked lilt, his tongue often tripping on words, yet it was that very cadence that made his storytelling strangely captivating.

  Lucretius relied on him. Where others might demand reports or formal recitations, the fallen knight preferred tales. Yugor would read through council papers and twist them into stories, weaving dull accounts into something alive. Sometimes, facts were bent or small details skipped, but Lucretius never noticed. He trusted his tiny servant far more than parchment and ink.

  “What story shall it be tonight, general?” Yugor asked with his usual crooked grin, a faint whistle in his words.

  “Anything,” Lucretius muttered, sipping from his bottle, eyes fixed on the fire.

  Yugor rifled through the heap of documents scattered across the table, taking his time. The silence of the chamber was heavy; only the crack and hiss of the flames marked its passing. At last, Yugor found a tale worth telling.

  “Here’s one, a rebellion in the eastern provinces. The Commonfolk rise up and destroyed a power station, leaving….”

  “Already heard it,” Lucretius interrupted, pouring his wine to the goblet and swirl it without turning his gaze.

  Yugor shrugged and dug deeper, his stubby fingers shuffling pages. Soon, his eyes lit up as he uncovered something more intriguing.

  “Relics,” he said, almost reverently. “Several relics seized by the council. Some newly discovered… and some stained with blood.”

  Lucretius leaned back, saying nothing. That silence was permission enough to continue.

  And so Yugor spun the tale.

  “There was a warrior,” the Ashkin began, his voice rising like a bard’s. “A relic hunter feared across the realms. He killed without hesitation, cutting down any who bore relics he desired. His own weapon was a relic of grade S, a sword cursed with rust. With a single touch, it devoured steel, corroding every blade it met. Against him, no swordsman could stand… unless his weapon was made of wood.”

  The fire crackled. The wine gleamed in the goblet. And Lucretius listened, silent as the forest of ash that surrounded his lonely keep.

  Lucretius showed no reaction, no change of expression. He simply stared into the blaze of the hearth, eyes vacant, as Yugor’s tale spilled into the silence. With unhurried grace he refilled his goblet, the silver wine from the Cape of Hope shimmering as it poured. Its calm sweetness was said to ease the mind, yet his face remained a mask of stone.

  “The relic hunter’s arrogance only grew with his conquests. In his journeys he had already gathered four relics that sharpened his might: an eye that pierced the deepest darkness, a slender sword whose sharp edge can harden and become a whip, and a thin garment that could knit flesh and bone in the blink of an eye. But even with such powers at his command, the warrior craved more…”

  The tale broke off.

  Without a word, Lucretius rose to his feet, goblet in hand, and drifted toward the shadowed corridor. “We will continue tomorrow,” he said, his voice low, each syllable heavy with finality.

  Yugor bowed and began gathering the papers. Only when his master was gone did the servant slyly slip several sheets into his own sleeve before tidying the rest.

  Lucretius’s steps carried him through the long corridor of paintings of his own victories, one after another, stretching into memory’s horizon. In each he was depicted as the fallen knight, smiting foes with merciless strength. He had lived through countless wars, his life a chronicle of blood and massacre.

  Reaching the grand hall, he paused at the sight before his gates. The other two Ashkin like Yugor, were quarreling in the courtyard. Their squabble ceased instantly at his approach.

  “It is midnight,” Lucretius said coldly, his gaze piercing as steel.

  Fer and Hun — that was their names, dropped to their knees in apology. They had been tending the mansion’s garden, harvesting the Midnight Rose, a flower that only bloomed beneath the veil of night. In Abyssal lands, the flower was a sacred emblem of nobility, to mishandle it was near to sacrilege.

  Lucretius glanced over the courtyard. The night was thick with sulfurous haze, the black forest groaning with unseen things. To mortals, or even to many Abyss-born, such a night was terror itself. To him, it was nothing.

  “Has Jenghis been fed?” His voice was calm.

  “Yes, General,” Hun stammered. “The stablehands gave him one young cerberus and two deer.”

  Lucretius inclined his head slightly, then turned away, his footsteps fading as he strode into the mist beyond the gates.

  Hun exhaled, still shaken. “Fer… the general looks like a man, but why does the aura feel so terrifying?”

  Fer sneered, never taking his eyes off the path Lucretius had vanished down. “Because once, he was a man, you fool.”

  “Why would any man choose to live in this realm?” Hun muttered as he worked, eyes darting toward the dark forest. “If I could choose to reborn, I want to be a Celestial.”

  “So do I,” Fer admitted, his gaze drifting skyward as though he could pierce the abyssal haze. “The view from the sky above must be beautiful.” For a moment they both dreamed of another life. Then Fer shook his head and returned to his work. “But we were born in this cursed land. What choice do we have?”

  “At least general is not cruel,” Hun replied, helping his cousin gather the last of the Midnight Roses. “Terrifying, yes… but not cruel to us.”

  The night forest pressed close, alive with small, vicious creatures that skittered across the ground and lurked in the branches — beasts that could reduce even a grown warrior to trembling fear. Yet all of them slunk back into shadow as Lucretius passed. His aura was far darker than any predator’s.

  He came at last to a towering iron gate. Gormund, a full-grown race of mega simian, stood watch. At his general’s approach, he heaved the crank, and the gate creaked open with a grinding shriek.

  “You walk late tonight, General,” rumbled Gormund.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Lucretius replied curtly as he stepped inside.

  From within the kennel rose a thunderous howl. A massive shadow stirred — Jenghis, the giant lack war-warg, scarred across his right eye. Bones littered the floor of his lair, and he lay sprawled across them like a throne. At the sight of his master, the beast rose.

  Lucretius reached for his neck, running a hand through the beast’s dark fur. Jenghis’s head alone was nearly the size of Lucretius’s body, broad enough to be saddled like a steed. The creature exhaled a foul breath, and Lucretius calmly lifted a brush, scrubbing the warg’s great fangs.

  “Keep your fur clean,” he murmured. “Tomorrow, we meet the princess.”

  When he finished, the warg licked his master’s hand with a low, rumbling growl.

  “Prepare him for morning,” Lucretius ordered.

  “Yes, General,” Gormund bowed. “It is for the prince and princess’s training session, is it?”

  Lucretius offered only a wordless grunt and turned away, disappearing once more into the mist.

  By the time he returned to the castle, the Midnight Roses had been harvested and set in a grand vase upon the courtyard. His chamber waited above, but barren save for a bed, a tall mirror, and his grim trophies: hundreds of weapons seized from foes he had slain, their blades now rusting into the stone floor.

  At dawn, the shrill chime of his transmitter device woke him. Lucretius rose, lifting the device to his ear.

  “What is it?” he asked flatly.

  “It is I.” The voice was heavy, rough with age.

  “Cygnus,” Lucretius replied, pulling on his tunic.

  At that moment, Fer and Hun entered bearing his black armor and the Dark Adamsword — the blade that had drunk more blood than any relic in his hall.

  “Send Dryskull or Raidbones to accompany Leroy on his mission,” Cygnus instructed, his tone edged with command. “It seems another Vanguard will be required.”

  “Will do,” Lucretius replied coolly as Fer and Hun secured the steel plates of his chest armor.

  “You never change my friend, always cold,” Cygnus chuckled lightly through the line.

  “Is there anything else?” Lucretius asked, fastening the Dark Adamsword at his hip, his voice flat and unbothered.

  “Do not forget to meet me two days before the Council meeting.” Cygnus’s words carried a weight of authority that made the Ashkin stiffen.

  “Got it,” Lucretius said. Without hesitation, he cut the transmission short.

  Fer glanced at Hun as they tidied the chamber. “Even when answering the Sorcerer Supreme, General is very cold.”

  “Why is the Council filled with many terrifying people?” Hun muttered.

  Lucretius had no time for their chatter. He donned a crimson cloak, its elegant folds a sharp contrast to his black armor, and strode toward the gates. Jenghis awaited him, massive and restless, while Gormund stood at attention.

  “Return safely, General,” the mega simian rumbled, lowering his head in respect.

  Without a word, Lucretius mounted the great warg. Jenghis surged forward, bounding through the forest with explosive power. His stride devoured the distance; each leap sent him sailing over streams of molten lava and jagged ravines. The Great Empire of Abyss lay two hundred and twenty kilometers away, but with the strength like a hundred horses, Jenghis would reach it before the day was half spent.

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  As the wind roared past, Lucretius activated his transmitter. “Raidbones. You must accompany Leroy. It is your next mission.”

  On the other end came a groan of irritation. “Another task? I just returned from guiding important person. You should let me have a rest?”

  “This is my order,” Lucretius replied, his voice leaving no room for debate.

  “By Ogus…” Raidbones cursed under his breath. “Alright....Alright. I’ll leave by midday. May I at least bring Vertix?”

  “No.” Lucretius ended the connection before the abyssal vanguard could complain further.

  The landscape rushed past in a blur of ash and fire. Soon, the twisted forest gave way to the towering walls and sprawling expanse of Infernal Terrain, capital of the Great Empire of Abyss.

  The city was unlike any other. Houses rose vast and heavy, their high, jagged roofs looming against the volcanic sky. These were not homes for one lifetime, built to contain entire bloodlines across generations, their walls a legacy of ancestry. To carve new ground for a dwelling was folly; the earth here was too volatile. Thus, Infernal Terrain grew dense, a labyrinth of ancestral strongholds pressed close together, breathing with the weight of history.

  The village near the Abyss Empire were alive with bonfire. Narrow streets and crooked alleys glowed with the heat of furnaces and bonfires, where the denizens huddled against the eternal night.

  At the far end of the district rose a fortress vast and black, its entrance yawning like the maw of a cavern. No outer gate barred the way, only a towering arch carved with sharp iron ornaments, downward-pointing spikes hanging from its vaulted ceiling like the teeth of some colossal beast. Two hooded sentinels stood guard—faces hidden in shadow, voices lost beneath their shrouds—charged with questioning all who sought audience with the king.

  But for Lucretius, The Fallen Knight, no questions were asked. The guardians parted without a word.

  He dismounted, leaving Jenghis at the threshold. The great black warg curled into the stone floor and drifted into slumber almost instantly.

  The castle doors loomed before him, iron forged black, etched with reliefs of bones, skulls, and tusks. Even the handles were carved like the pale ivory of fangs. With a heavy groan the doors opened, and Lucretius stepped into the throne hall of King Darkon I, ruler of the Abyss.

  The chamber was draped in grim majesty. Skulls and beast-head trophies lined the walls; crimson banners embroidered with the ram-skull sigil hung from the rafters, and braziers of fire cast leaping shadows upon the stone. A carpet of blood-red stretched from the doors to the throne itself.

  Upon that throne sat Darkon—the Fat King. His bulk sagged across a gilded seat made to bear his weight, so heavy that his retainers had designed it with poles and grips to carry him should he ever deign to move. Yet though his appearance was grotesque, his reign had brought twenty five years of peace and prosperity to the Abyss. His people knew no famine, no rebellion, no defeat.

  “Your Grace. My Prince. My Lady,” Lucretius said, bowing low.

  To the king’s right sat Princess Samartian, his eldest daughter—beautiful, but fierce, with purple eyes. To his left, the youngest: Prince Morrigan, heir to the throne, quiet and watchful. Samartian was twenty-one, Morrigan eighteen.

  “Have you eaten, General?” Darkon asked, reaching lazily for the delicacies piled before him.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Lucretius replied evenly.

  Business followed. The general requested short reports on the prisoners taken from the northern realm of the Abyss—a land cold, barren, and perpetually starved of light. Darkon answered between mouthfuls, saying the situation remained stable. Some captives still clung to their spirit, though the tortures had broken most.

  “And the Council?” the king asked, dabbing grease from his lips.

  “Nothing new, we are all prepare for colosseum,” said Lucretius, producing the sealed parchment.

  Samartian rose from her seat and plucked the scroll from his hand. She studied it briefly, then turned to her father. “They ask you to join, Father. Will you go this year?”

  Darkon’s heavy eyes narrowed. He gave a low laugh. “I’m afraid not, my precious. Luce, take care of my children there.”

  “Of Course, Your Grace,” Lucretius replied.

  This marked the fifth year King Darkon had declined to appear at the colosseum or at the Silver Chair, his failing health keeping him bound to his fortress. Yet the Fat King only laughed, his voice rolling across the hall.

  “You never were one for words,” he said, gnawing at a roasted leg. “A man of your power could easily dominate, yet I am fortunate. Fortunate indeed, to have the strongest knight in all the Realms bound to the empire in loyalty.”

  Lucretius allowed himself the faintest smile at the praise. With calm precision he requested permission to escort Princess Samartian and Prince Morrigan for their training. For beyond his duties as council member, he also served as tutor to the royal heirs whenever he remained within the Abyss. Darkon granted the request with a nod, and the three departed together.

  As their footsteps faded, the king’s heavy gaze lingered on them. “Look at him,” Darkon muttered to the attendants nearby. “That knight is tireless. A miracle for our realm.”

  Behind his grotesque appetites, King Darkon trusted Lucretius above all others with his children’s safety. For though the general was known for his cold nature and merciless skill in battle, the king knew there was a rare gentleness in him, one reserved only for the young. And in turn, both Samartian and Morrigan idolized him.

  “Without him, the Abyss would not stand as it does today,” Darkon continued.

  “Indeed, Your Grace. Yet all praise belongs also to your rule,” came a voice from the shadows. Stepping forth was Mr. Graves—the king’s trusted advisor from weapon master faction, long settled within the Abyss and deeply respected.

  Darkon chuckled, grease shining on his lips. “I am fortunate to reign in an age of peace, to be trusted with the All-Realm’s council.”

  Graves bowed his head slightly. “Do not humble yourself too much, Your Grace. Remember Lucretius and the Four Horsemen are not the rulers of this faction. You are the king who united the warring races of the Abyss.”

  Darkon roared with laughter, so full that morsels of meat tumbled from his mouth. “Well said! Before you leave, Graves, I have ask you to represent my stead to the Silver Chair.”

  “As you command, Your Grace. Shall I bring the prince? His age is nearly of manhood,” Graves asked carefully.

  “Not yet,” said Darkon. “Let him wait until next year, when he reaches his nineteenth.”

  Graves inclined his head in obedience. For five years now, he had served as the king’s representative at the Silver Chair, and once more the duty would fall to him.

  Lucretius led Princess Samartian and Prince Morrigan toward the jagged heights of Dagas’parr Hills, their carriage winding through scorched trails surrounded by rivers of molten fire. The three were accompanied by a small retinue of guards and attendants, though once they reached the foothills, the carriages could go no further. From there, they climbed on foot, navigating the treacherous stone paths.

  The destination was the Hall of Turmoilan, a hidden fortress once used by kings of the Abyss as refuge during ages of revolt. Now, it served as both a secluded training ground and a sanctuary for the royal heirs.

  On the ascent, Morrigan, ever the quieter of the two siblings, broke his silence.

  “General Lucretius,” he asked, his tone soft but eager, “tell me of the other factions. I want to know the struggles outside our region.”

  Though reserved by nature, the young prince’s eyes shone whenever the subject turned to lands beyond the Abyss. Forbidden by circumstance from traveling freely across the Realms, he drank in every fragment of knowledge.

  Lucretius, however, was not a storyteller. His words were clipped and cold. He recounted the tale of a relic thief, a weapon master who stole ancient artifacts without remorse, much as Yugor had once relayed to him. Yet his version was brief, stripped of flourish, more a statement of fact than a tale.

  Unsatisfied, Morrigan pressed further.

  “And what became of him? How did his fate end?”

  “I do not know,” Lucretius replied, his tone flat, unwilling to embellish.

  Before Morrigan could push again, Samartian cut across her brother sharply.

  “Enough of stories. We are nearly there. Save your questions later. Training demands focus, not bedtime tales.”

  Morrigan scowled faintly, though he fell into silence.

  At last, the cliffs opened, revealing a wide plateau hidden in the embrace of stone. The Hall of Turmoilan stood before them, a fortress carved from obsidian, its facade scarred with veins of dried magma. Before the hall stretched an enormous dueling ground, its boundaries hemmed in by the surrounding hills. The isolation ensured no prying eyes—perfect for heirs destined for war.

  Samartian leapt ahead, impatient, striding across the training grounds with the Two-Pointed Jade Crawler Sword in hand. The relic, gifted to her father by Cygnus Spellbane at his coronation, gleamed with a ghostly green light. Forged entirely of jade, its twin edges were said to shear through matter at the atomic level. Few blades across the Realms possessed such cruel sharpness.

  Morrigan lingered behind, bow slung across his shoulder. Unlike his sister, he wielded no relic. Too young, the council had deemed, too untested to bear such a burden. Yet today, that was to change.

  Lucretius turned to him, voice low but weighted with rare approval.

  “My prince,” he said, “your progress has been remarkable.”

  “I have spoken with your father, and we are agreed—you will be granted a relic. But only for training.”

  At Lucretius’s command, two soldiers stepped forward, each bearing a blackened chest. With deliberate care, they set them down before the young prince and unlatched the locks. Inside gleamed two bows, each ancient, each etched with history.

  The first was the Hanging Bow of the Barking Tree, its limbs carved from wood once alive, now pulsing faintly as if it still breathed. Legends claimed its arrows carried venom potent enough to paralyze even the strongest foe. It was not a weapon for swift death, but for patient hunters—crippling prey so the archer could close in at leisure.

  The second was the Bronze Oak Matter Bow, a heavier, darker frame. It was said to have been conjured centuries ago by a wandering sorcerer who, cornered in a hostile forest, shaped the very trees around him into a weapon. Enchanted ever since, its arrows could alter in size and weight according to the wielder’s will—ranging from thin, needle-like shafts to bolts large enough to fell a giant.

  Morrigan’s brow furrowed. His gaze lingered on neither weapon, but beyond them.

  “Where is the Sky Slayer Bow?” he asked, tone edged with confusion.

  Samartian snapped at him before Lucretius could reply.

  “Are you insane little brother? That bow is too powerful. Its destruction could wiped out a single island. You think we would hand you such a thing—for practice?”

  Lucretius’s eyes narrowed, voice as even and sharp as usual.

  “The council agree to sealed the Sky Slayer. It is not for you. Choose, My Prince.”

  Reluctantly, the prince turned back to the open chests. His hesitation was clear, but he would have to decide soon.

  Meanwhile, Samartian had already stepped forward. Guards pulled back the heavy iron grate of a reinforced pen, and from within came a deafening roar.

  The Lava Bastard burst into the arena, a hulking beast with a body like molten stone, its hide fissured with cracks of glowing magma. Shaped like a horned rhino, it bellowed and vomited molten rock, scorching the blackened ground beneath its hooves. The soldiers standing guard were thrown back by the force of its first charge, two of them nearly trampled as the beast thundered free.

  Samartian stood calm, undaunted. She shrugged off her mantle, revealing polished armor beneath, then pulled a strip of crimson cloth and tied it firmly across her eyes. Her fingers found the hilt of her sword, driven into the ground before her.

  “Open the gate,” she ordered flatly.

  The moment the barrier clanged fully aside, the beast thundered toward her, horn lowered, ground trembling. Dust and ash scattered with each quake of its charge.

  Samartian waited, motionless, her head tilted as if listening. She felt the rhythm of its steps, the vibration of stone beneath her boots. Only when the Lava Bastard was upon her did she move.

  With a sudden kick, she launched her jade blade into the air. Leaping high to meet it, she twisted mid-flight, catching the hilt as her body spun. In a single fluid arc, she slashed across the beast’s back.

  The cut forced the monster into a wild tumble, crashing into the dirt with a guttural roar.

  Samartian landed lightly, spinning her blade in a blur. To Lucretius’s eye, the sword itself vanished; only a haze of emerald streaks shimmered with each motion, the jade edges slicing the air faster than sight could follow.

  Samartian was nicknamed The Skull Princess, for she wore garments adorned with bones, and her fighting style was so swift that her enemies never realized they had already been cut—like a reaper who reaps lives without warning.

  She approached the Lava Bastard, which had just risen, and immediately launched another attack with a whirlwind of sword strikes. She moved forward, downward, in every direction, leaving the creature helpless and resigned to the assault.

  The flurry ended with Samartian’s signature technique, Scorch Scratcher, where the spinning of her blade generated heat from friction with the air, until the jade edges glowed red-hot. She leapt into the air and hurled the spinning sword downward, cleaving the beast from belly to back into two smoldering halves.

  The blade lodged itself deep, smoke rising from its twin edges. Samartian retrieved her sword, pulled off the blindfold, and strode toward Lucretius and Morrigan. In just a few moves, the monster that was no match for her was defeated.

  “It’s your turn, Morrigan,” she said, and the prince immediately rushed into the arena.

  The soldiers dragged the two halves of the Lava Bastard away, making sure it did not have the chance to rejoin itself. Morrigan at last chose the Bronze Oak Matter Bow as his weapon for training.

  “How much longer must I fight those weak sluggish pigs?” Samartian muttered to Lucretius.

  “You are the abyss princess,” Lucretius replied while watching Morrigan prepare. “You must not risk dying in a foolish battle.”

  “That is Father’s will, not mine,” Samartian shot back sharply.

  “Your will is hard,” Lucretius answered, his gaze fixed on Morrigan’s archery. “You will marry a prince someday.”

  “I am not interested in love story,” she retorted.

  “What do you want does not matter since you are a princess ,” Lucretius said coldly.

  Samartian’s purple eyes narrowed at him. “Perhaps when you retire from the council, I’ll be free to decide for myself.”

  The Fallen Knight rose to his feet. “Your personal desires are meaningless, Princess. Just admit this truth.” His voice dropped lower. “You trained so hard to prove yourself to that person.”

  “Of course not!” she snapped. “Why would I? I am far greater than he ever was.”

  Lucretius fell silent. To him, the argument was pointless, and he had already spoken more than enough.

  Samartian had been gifted with eyes that could see the flow and condition of living souls. To her, combat blindfolded was no obstacle. Her younger brother, however, had inherited no such gift.

  Morrigan was neither a skilled archer nor a poor one. The young prince tried his utmost to prove himself worthy of inheriting the Great Empire of Dark Abyss.

  Lucretius said nothing as he watched arrow after arrow miss the target. Yet the boy’s persistence was unshaken—he refused to give up.

  “When my brother becomes king, I shall take a seat on the council. That will bring balance to the All Realms,” Samartian spoke again to Lucretius, who gave her words no acknowledgment.

  She was certain that her combat skills and her soul-sight would be invaluable to the council, and with that conviction, she rose and walked away, leaving Lucretius to observe Morrigan’s training in silence.

  “She’s always that cruel, isn’t she?” Morrigan muttered as he loosed another arrow.

  “No, she is heartbroken,” Lucretius replied.