Andre opened his eyes to a world that defied every law of nature. He was standing in a bizarre, haunting forest where the sun never rose, yet it wasn't truly night—only a perpetual, suffocating gray twilight. The trees were twisted like skeletal fingers reaching for a sky that offered no hope.
There was no wind. No rustle of leaves. No distant cry of a bird. The silence was so absolute it felt heavy, pressing against his eardrums. Then, the smell hit him—the cloying, metallic scent of ancient decay and stagnant earth. The smell of death.
"Where... where am I?" Andre whispered, his voice sounding thin in the void. His confusion quickly sharpened into a jagged edge of rage. He tightened his grip on his hilt, his knuckles turning white. "I can't believe I lost that coward, Maurice. He was right there! My vengeance is slipping through my fingers... but he won't get far. I'll find him, even if I have to tear this godforsaken place apart."
Determined to find a way out, he began to trek through the gloom, each step crunching ominously on the brittle, blackened soil.
Chapter II: The View from the Bone Throne
High above, in a citadel crafted from shadows, the Lord of Death sat upon his throne. He felt a ripple in the fabric of his domain—a foreign heartbeat. A cold, thin smile played on his lips.
"So," he murmured, his voice echoing like stones grinding together. "The boy is here. A lost lamb wandering through my garden of bones. But... something is wrong. I feel no power from him. Has that overwhelming, suffocating energy simply vanished?"
From the shadows at his right hand, his loyal advisor stepped forward. "My Lord," the advisor bowed low. "The power the boy unleashed before was sealed. It appears to be bound by the Seven Gates of Symbols etched upon his neck. When the power surged, the seals reacted, dragging it back into the abyss of his soul. It will not emerge again until only one remains to claim it—either the Demon Lord or this boy. Only one of them can fulfill the prophecy of your vision."
The Lord of Death slowly sheathed his blade, the sound of steel on leather cutting through the air like a final judgment. "Then we must force their hand. We must see which one of them truly owns that power."
Suddenly, the floor of the Great Hall cracked open. From the Pit of Souls, a group of spectral warriors emerged. Leading them was a man whose presence commanded immediate respect—the same man who had once tried to save Rose.
"The First Ancients," the Lord of Death noted, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "It has been millennia since you walked these halls. Especially you... the one who left to save that girl, only to watch her end her own life in the end. What drives you to emerge now?"
The warrior did not speak. He gripped his sword and gestured for his kin to advance toward Andre's location. Then, he turned to a massive obsidian mirror that reflected the forest below, watching Andre with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
The Lord of Death let out a haunting laugh. "Ignoring me to watch a mirror? You, who once ruled the world... what has caught your eye? Is it the boy's hidden potential, or something even I cannot see?"
Chapter III: Frost and Friction
In the Realm of Ice, the atmosphere was far from silent. The air was thick with tension and the biting cold of a blizzard.
"Oliver! Report!" the Lord of Ice barked, his breath hitching in the freezing air. "Have you found a trace of them?"
Oliver, standing amidst the swirling snow, shook his head. "Nothing, my Lord. I cannot sense a single spark of energy from Andre or Maurice. It's as if they've been erased from existence."
The Lord of Ice groaned in frustration. "Are you broken? You found them twice before, and now you're useless? Do I need to take you to a mechanic for repairs?"
Oliver's expression remained as cold as the ice around them. "I am not a machine to be 'repaired,' Sir. Their signatures didn't just fade; they vanished instantly. They aren't in this realm anymore."
Julian interrupted the bickering, his face grim. "Sir, there is no sign of them. If Andre is gone, we've lost our only lead. We can't squeeze information out of Maurice about the Lord of Death's plans now. This is a disaster."
The Lord of Ice sighed, his gaze softening for a brief moment. "The information is secondary. Finding Andre is what matters. He is the key." He then glanced back at Oliver. "Still nothing?"
"I'm working on it," Oliver snapped.
"Definitely broken," the Lord of Ice muttered.
"FOR THE LAST TIME," Oliver growled, "I AM NOT A MACHINE!"
Chapter IV: The Blade of the Wind
Back in the dark forest, Andre's instincts screamed. He spun around, drawing his sword just as a group of silent figures emerged from the mist.
Their leader, a man with eyes like flint, didn't say a word. He simply gestured for Andre to surrender.
"I don't know who you are," Andre spat, his stance shifting into a combat ready position, "but if you want me to go quietly, you're going to have to break me first!"
The leader's subordinates stepped back, giving their commander room. The man took a deep, controlled breath. Suddenly, the air around him began to swirl. With a blur of motion, he swung his blade.
Andre barely had time to blink. A razor-sharp gale sliced through the air, grazing his cheek and drawing a thin line of blood. But the true horror was behind him—the trees the wind had struck didn't just fall; they disintegrated into fine dust.
Cold sweat broke out on Andre's brow. If that hit me directly, I'd be nothing but ash. His survival instinct took over. He didn't think; he ran.
He bolted through the undergrowth, his heart hammering against his ribs. Behind him, the leader signaled the hunt. The warriors moved with terrifying grace, closing the gap. Andre found himself cornered by one of them and engaged in a frantic clash of steel. The enemy's movements were simple, yet carried the weight of a mountain.
Desperate, Andre channeled his own wind magic through his blade, creating a localized blast that blew the warrior back and gave him enough momentum to launch himself deep into the darkness of the woods.
Chapter V: The Dragon's Throne
Gasping for air, his lungs burning, Andre stumbled upon a hidden cave. It looked different—older, more ominous. He rushed inside, seeking cover, but the tunnel opened into a massive, cavernous hall.
At the far end stood a throne carved into the likeness of a colossal, terrifying dragon. Seated upon it was a figure draped in shadows, watching him with eyes that seemed to hold the weight of eternity.
"Who are you?" Andre demanded, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to remain steady.
The figure leaned forward, the very air in the room turning ice-cold.
"I am the one you seek to kill," the voice boomed, resonant and terrifying. "I am the shadow that haunts the dreams of the living. I am the Lord of Death."