Rain soaked the capital of Varyndel like a weeping god mourning its own creation, each drop a lament that struck the cobblestones with a hollow thud. The execution square, once a vibrant hub of laughter and trade, now pulsed with an oppressive silence, broken only by the rhythmic drumbeats of death that echoed through the gray shroud of the sky. Hundreds gathered under cloaks that hid half their faces—some concealing scorn, others trembling with fear—their breaths visible in the chill air, a collective exhale of dread. The storm seemed to mirror the turmoil within Kael Varian, the once-prince of the Varyndel Empire, now standing at the center of it all, wrists bound in iron etched with rune-sigils that suppressed his essence, their faint glow a cruel reminder of his stolen power.
A week ago, he had been heir to the throne, his name a beacon of hope in a fractured empire. Now, clad in the tattered rags of a traitor, he was prey—hunted not just by the axe but by the lies that had brought him here. The iron bit into his skin, a cold burn that fueled the fury simmering beneath his stoic facade. He scanned the crowd, his sharp eyes piercing the gloom, seeking the faces of those who had once bowed at his feet, who had toasted to his future with goblets of spiced wine. There, in the front rows of nobles, he found them: Lord Malrik, Duke of Emberhollow, a serpent cloaked in silk, his golden ring glinting like a predator's eye; and beside him, Kael's own cousin, Arien Varian, the new heir, his cool detachment a mask for the satisfaction lurking beneath.
"By decree of the Emperor, Kael Varian is hereby sentenced to death for treason, conspiracy with foreign powers, and forbidden sorcery," intoned High Judge Marek, his voice cutting through the rain from a ceremonial platform draped in black. Marek's impassive face, framed by a hood, refused to meet Kael's gaze—cowardice, Kael thought bitterly, mirrored by the silent nobles who averted their eyes. The executioner, a hulking figure in a red hood, stepped forward, his greataxe gleaming with a sheen that promised swift oblivion.
Kael's knees ached from kneeling, not from pain but from the restraint of a fury that threatened to erupt. He straightened as much as the chains allowed, his voice steady despite the storm raging within. "You all know this is a lie," he declared, the words carrying over the crowd like a challenge. No one replied—only the wind answered, whipping through the square with a mournful wail. "I bled for this empire. I uncovered the Shadow Cult in the southern provinces, their rituals staining the land with blood and shadow. I turned back the elven incursion at Blackridge, my sword breaking their lines. And now you call me traitor?"
Marek raised a hand, silencing the unspoken dissent, and the executioner hefted the axe. Kael's gaze locked on Malrik, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You're afraid. Afraid of what I found beneath the palace. Afraid of what it means." Malrik remained still, his expression unreadable, but Kael saw the flicker of unease in his eyes—a crack in the serpent's armor. "The real traitors sit in judgment," Kael added, his words a dagger aimed at the heart of the court.
Thunder cracked overhead, a celestial punctuation to his defiance. His mind lurched to his last memory before capture: the palace gardens, fragrant with roses and secrets. A woman with silver eyes—Seris—had appeared, her voice a whisper against the night. "Beware the black sun," she had said, vanishing into mist before he could question her. What did it mean? The thought lingered as the axe lifted, its edge catching the dim light.
Kael braced himself, expecting the cold kiss of steel, the burst of agony, the final heartbeat. But there was no pain—only a shattering, as if the world itself fractured. Silence enveloped him, deep and absolute, followed by darkness. He floated, weightless, not in air or water but in nothing—an impossible sensation of being unmade cell by cell while still conscious. His memories frayed at the edges, slipping away like sand through his fingers: his father's stern voice, his sister's laughter, the weight of his crown.
A whisper touched him, not a voice but a hunger, ancient and insatiable. *[Initiating Soul Reclamation Protocol. Subject: Kael Varian. Status: Executed. Essence Detected: Incompatible with Oblivion. Shadowbinding in progress…]* The words formed in his mind, unbidden, a cold intrusion that sent a shiver through his dissolving form.
Kael opened his eyes.
He stood in a gray wasteland under a fractured sky, ash falling like snow, the ground cracked with veins of black fire pulsing beneath jagged stone. In the distance, a tower spiraled into the clouds, its form bent and twisted as if resisting existence itself. "Where… is this?" His voice echoed strangely, hollow, as if it didn't belong.
*[Shadow Realm confirmed. Host essence linked. System initializing…]* More words etched themselves into his consciousness. *[Welcome, Kael Varian. You have been bound to the Shadow Devourer System. Objective: Reclaim your stolen fate. Main Quest: Ascend from the Shadow Realm. Consume. Grow. Return. Warning: Power comes at a cost.]*
A sharp pain lanced through his chest, forcing a gasp from his lips. He clutched his ribs, the agony fading into a strange warmth that spread through his limbs like molten silver. Faint, glowing glyphs appeared in the air before him: *[Level 0: Shadowborn Initiate. Essence Points: 0. Skills: None. Shadow Devouring: Available. Shadow Memory Slot: Locked (1/3)].* He staggered back, his mind reeling. A system? Legends spoke of ancient artifacts granting godlike power, spirits bound to chosen warriors—but this felt different, predatory, as if it owned him.
A shape formed from the mist behind him—tall, humanoid, wrong. Its body was made of tattered cloaks that moved like smoke, a rusted crown perched atop a faceless void. It lifted a hand, and Kael moved on instinct, ducking as it swung. He rolled across the cracked stone, his body responding with a speed that defied his weakened state. The warmth surged again, a power he didn't understand.
The figure attacked, and Kael snatched a jagged stone, driving it into the creature's side. The blow passed through, but the thing recoiled, screeching with a sound that clawed at his sanity. *[Shadow Essence detected. Devour? Y/N]* The prompt flashed in his mind. "Yes!" he shouted, desperation guiding his choice.
The shadow collapsed, its form breaking into wisps that flowed into Kael's chest like black wind. *[Shadow Devouring successful. +1 Essence Point. Skill Available: Phantom Step. Acquire? Y/N]* "Yes!" Pain burned into his legs, muscles tightening and reshaping, a transformation etched into his bones. Then it subsided.
*[Skill Acquired: Phantom Step – Blink forward in a shadow trail. Range: 3 meters. Cooldown: 10 sec.]* Kael stared at his hands, trembling. He'd killed a creature of pure shadow, absorbed it, gained its power. He looked up at the twisted sky. This was no death—it was something worse, a rebirth into a nightmare.
He walked for hours, the wasteland stretching endlessly, shadows trailing him—not his own, but others. Whispers followed, threading through every rock and crevice. He tested Phantom Step once, blinking forward in a burst of ink, but it left a ringing in his ears. *[Essence Points: 0. Next Level Requirement: 3 EP.]* He needed to hunt more.
Then he saw it—firelight, a flicker of hope in the desolation. He crept toward it, crouching behind a ridge. A camp emerged: three figures around a pit of blue flame. Not shadows—people. Two men—one bald with a jagged spear, the other younger and wide-eyed—and a woman in dark leathers, her hood shadowing her face. They ate something that steamed black, its scent acrid and unfamiliar.
Kael stepped forward, and the spear turned toward him in an instant. "Another stray," the bald man muttered. The younger one stood, shaking. "We—we saw your execution. In Varyndel. How are you—"
"I don't know," Kael said, his voice raw with truth.
"You're like us," the woman said, pushing back her hood to reveal silver eyes. Kael's breath caught. "Executed. Fallen. Woken up here."
She was Seris—the woman from the gardens. "You," he said, recognition dawning. "You warned me."
"You remember that," she replied, tilting her head. "What is this place?"
She motioned to the pit. "This is the edge of the Shadow Realm. A fracture of what lies beneath reality. We're not dead. Not alive. We're… in between."
Kael sat, his body screaming for rest, his mind racing. "I'm Kael."
"Seris," she said. "Jano," the bald one added, nodding to the spearman. "That's Leren," he finished, gesturing to the younger man, who waved shakily.
Seris leaned closer. "You have it, don't you?"
Kael frowned. "Have what?"
"The system."
He nodded slowly.
Her expression darkened. "Then you've been chosen."
"Chosen for what?"
She didn't answer immediately, standing to walk to the camp's edge. "The Shadow Realm feeds on regrets. On sins. But some of us… some are marked to climb. To rise back to the world."
Jano spat. "And most are eaten. We've seen people lose their minds in days. Become part of the darkness. Or worse."
Seris turned. "But if you're willing, there's a path."
Kael stood, resolve hardening. "I want out. I want revenge."
Leren laughed bitterly. "Then you better be ready to kill more than shadows, prince."
"You know who I am?"
"Everyone does," Seris said. "Word spreads fast here. And the Shadow remembers everything."
Kael stepped to the fire, the warmth a fleeting comfort. "Then let it remember this. I'm not done yet."
Seris smiled faintly—not friendly, not cruel, but a flicker of fate. High above, unseen by any, a black sun began to rise, its dark light casting an ominous glow over the wasteland.