Within a separate pocket dimension, surrounded by the endless tapestry of the cosmos, stood a vast round table of obsidian and silver. Around it were throne-like seats, each occupied by a figure from one of the great races of Magedom.
To the left sat a dwarf—stocky, broad-shouldered, with a neck thick as a tree trunk. His long, fiery red beard spilled over a breastplate etched with runes, and his short hair bristled like a flame. His eyes gleamed with boisterous confidence.This was Daryl the Warhammer, an Emperor Mage famed for combining body reinforcement with earth magic, crushing his foes in brutal close combat.
To Daryl's right sat a woman clad in a flowing black gown—like a dress of mourning. Her skin was pale, almost grey, her eyes as black as the void, and her long, straight hair shimmered like onyx. Her expression was cold, her presence chilling.She was Dragoth the Permafrost, a demoness who commanded the higher element of Ice, freezing armies and shattering them like glass.
Next came an elf—a being so graceful he seemed out of place among them. His skin was nearly luminous, his features ethereal, and his medium-length pale brown hair framed eyes of tranquil green. Yet behind that warmth lurked something… twisted.This was Ze'ron the Elemental, a master of nature's spirits, who could call forth spirit golems to fight in his stead. Those who gazed too long into his eyes learned that his serene demeanor masked an unholy delight in suffering.
To Ze'ron's right sat a towering beastkin, his body corded with muscle and covered in black fur. His head was that of a great wolf, fangs glinting under the dim cosmic light. His crimson eyes burned with unrestrained hunger.He was Samiel the Unsated One, known for fighting barehanded with body reinforcement magic. His claws were his blades, his bloodlust his weapon.
And finally, seated beside him, was a human with long white hair and fierce, crimson eyes—the unmistakable Marcus Vaelgrim, though here he was known by another name: Marcus the Burning Flame. His mastery of fire magic was legendary, capable of turning battlefields to ash.
These five were the commanders of The Thrall of the Abyss—a cult born from desperation and ambition. Each led their race's branch of the organization, united by a single goal: to destabilize the world and offer it to the Abyss in exchange for power.
For all their strength, each of them had reached their limit—a wall in cultivation that no amount of effort could overcome. The Abyss promised them more: longer life, greater power, eternal respect. And the price, the sacrifice of their world, was one they were all willing to pay.
The meeting began when Marcus spoke first, his tone sharp and laced with disdain.
"My fellow commanders, I bring troubling news. Lightborn—yes, that Lightborn—has announced to the world that he now has a daughter. It seems the cold-hearted bastard has found his paternal side." His lip curled. "He may soon discover what I—what we—did to Elenora. If that happens, he will seek retribution."
A distorted laugh rippled through the chamber. It came from Ze'ron.
"Pray tell," the elf said with mocking warmth, "what does your little family scandal have to do with us? It seems your pride and your ancient traditions have finally come home to roost."
Daryl threw back his head with a booming laugh. "Aye, Ze'ron's right! Hah! What's that got to do with our grand design, Marcus?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. He couldn't afford to lose composure before these creatures. He forced himself to calm before answering.
"Do not forget," he said evenly, "that Lightborn is a threat to our cause. His light magic alone could unravel the blessings we've received from the Abyss. And his power—he's been a Great Mage for fifteen years. If he's advanced even a step closer to Grand Mage…" Marcus trailed off, letting the implication hang. "I don't need to finish that sentence, do I?"
A tense silence followed. Even the air itself seemed to dim.
Finally, Samiel rumbled in his deep, gravelly voice. "So you plan to draw him out… and turn the hunter into the hunted?" His grin exposed sharp, gleaming teeth. "Heh. I like it."
Marcus gave a thin smile. "Exactly. If he moves against my family, we'll be ready. We'll unite our branches and strike while he's exposed. Use this… misstep of mine to eliminate a dangerous wildcard before the Great Descent begins."
For the first time, Dragoth the Permafrost stirred. Her voice, soft and hollow, sent frost creeping across the surface of the table.
"Let us hope," she whispered, "that this is nothing more than your paranoia, Marcus. Even with the blessing of the Abyss, facing that man now would be… unwise."
The others fell silent. When the demoness spoke, it was usually worth listening. She was the oldest among them—and none had forgotten that wisdom often came with age.
Marcus, however, only smiled—an arrogant, gleaming smile.
"Caution noted," he said coolly. "But if Lightborn truly comes, he'll find himself unprepared for what awaits. Ready your forces. If he strikes, we will show him what it means to defy the Thrall of the Abyss."
He leaned forward, his crimson eyes glinting with pride. "Remember who we are. We are destined for greatness—for power, for respect. Lightborn is nothing but a stepping stone on the path to our ascension."
For a moment, the cosmic expanse around them shimmered with dark energy. Each of them saw visions of the future—of themselves reborn as beings of unimaginable might, ruling over the ashes of their world.
Then, one by one, they touched the obsidian pendants at their waists. The air rippled, and each vanished in a swirl of black mist—returning to their domains to prepare for what was to come.
In the silence that followed, only the faint whisper of the Abyss remained… laughing softly, as if amused by the arrogance of mortals.