The darkness was not merely the absence of light—it was a living, breathing entity. It clung to the very air like a shroud, thick and suffocating. Each shadow seemed to ripple with intent, each breath of the world carrying a silent whisper that echoed in hollow tones. The sky above this realm was ink-black, void of stars or moon, a canvas soaked in despair. It was a realm untouched by sunlight, where light was not just absent but devoured. Even the ground, cracked and broken, seemed like the carcass of a forgotten world, scorched and swallowed by something ancient.
Amid this gloom stood a throne—a structure not crafted, but grown from the shadows themselves. Jagged, grotesque, and utterly unnatural, it spiraled upward like a mass of coiling roots and bones, whispering voices oozing from its very surface. Sitting upon it was a lone figure, cloaked in shadow, his hood casting his face in complete obscurity. Despite the stillness of his posture, there was an undeniable weight to his presence—like the throne was not merely his seat, but an extension of his very soul.
The air trembled when he spoke, his voice soft, yet imbued with a power that made the darkness itself quiver.
"He did survive," the figure murmured, the words curling into the void like smoke from a dying fire.
He did not sound surprised. Nor impressed. If anything, his tone hinted at amusement—twisted, low amusement—as though he had merely been watching the opening act of a performance he had written long ago.
Then, with a simple, effortless wave of his hand, the shadows that choked the space around him began to shift and writhe. Smoke curled inwards, coalescing into a humanoid form that slowly took on clarity—armor plating forming over it like crawling vines, a broad sword materializing on its back with a whispering hiss. The black mist gave way to steel, and standing before the throne was none other than the corrupted devil Hope had battled earlier.
But there was something different about the creature now. It bowed, not as a beast, but as a servant. No longer the raging, chaotic predator it had been—it was now calm, reverent, and entirely obedient.
The one seated on the throne leaned forward slightly, though the hood still shrouded his face. From this angle, just beneath the shadows of the cowl, faintly glowing eyes shimmered like dying embers. Though his face was hidden, the resemblance was unmistakable—the build, the posture, the essence. He was Hope's mirror, his antithesis, the flaw born from within.
He was the one Hope had seen in fragmented dreams—the figure that haunted him in his sleep, that stared back from broken reflections. This was not a stranger. This was the twisted projection of everything Hope feared, buried, or denied. His Flaw.
"I know I had to suppress your strength… so he could cross swords with you," the Flaw said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of venomous satisfaction.
The armored figure bowed its head deeper in deference. "Yes, master," it rumbled, its voice like grinding metal—dull, hollow, and strangely lifeless.
There was a pause. The Flaw tilted his head slightly, as though he were lost in thought, or perhaps already moving several steps ahead in a game only he understood.
"How did he perform?" the voice asked at last, each word dragging through the thick air like a blade across stone. "Is he combat-ready?"
The corrupted devil remained bowed. "Yes, master. He fights with his wits—just like you. He is observant, reactive. Calculative."
The Flaw sat back, fingers tapping idly on the armrest of his throne, as though weighing those words. His reflection—Hope—was clever, then. Not surprising, but still worth noting.
"He hasn't mastered combat," the creature continued. "But he improvises. Quickly. And effectively. He shows adaptability. Enough that he may already surpass others at his level."
"Hmm…" The Flaw's murmur was low, almost disappointed. Not in Hope, but in the reality of the situation. "Still not enough."
The words fell like a hammer.
"Physical prowess is a mere tool," the Flaw continued, his tone sharpening, "but the mind—the will—that is the weapon. If his resolve breaks, he is worthless to us. He must endure more. Pain. Doubt. Isolation. Loss. He must crack and rebuild himself, stronger each time."
A sharp breath echoed through the throne chamber, not from the speaker, but from the very shadows themselves—like the realm was inhaling his decree.
"He will face turmoil unlike anything he's known," the Flaw finished, his words final, absolute. "We will test him. Again and again. Until there is nothing left in him but fire and steel."
The corrupted figure nodded solemnly, head still bowed low. "Yes, master."
Then, without another word, the creature began to fade. Smoke slithered up its limbs, unraveling its body into wisp-like threads. The tendrils of darkness that had once given it form now swallowed it again, pulling it back into the void from which it had come.
And within seconds, it was gone—leaving only the throne, the twisted sovereign, and the darkness that seemed to stretch on forever…