Darkness.
It wasn't the kind that blinded—it was the kind that watched.
The kind that breathed, whispered, waited.
Marcus fell endlessly, tumbling through the void like a feather in a storm. His body burned, his blood screamed, and his mind flickered between waking and nightmare. All around him, fragments of light drifted—faces, echoes, memories not his own. Children crying. Bells tolling. A woman's hand reaching for him before fading into ash.
He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Only silence, infinite and cruel.
Then, through that endless fall, something began to take shape—a door, massive and ancient, made of black stone and bone. Runes pulsed across its surface like veins of dying fire. As Marcus neared, the symbols ignited, one by one, until the entire gate roared to life.
The whisper returned.
"Welcome home, child of ruin."
Marcus crashed against the cold ground.
He groaned, pushing himself up. The world that greeted him was wrong.
The sky was beneath his feet, the earth above his head. The air shimmered like glass, twisting gravity itself. In the distance, suspended upside down, hung the castle—the same one from his nightmares.
It loomed in impossible silence, its spires reaching downward like daggers poised to pierce the void. Water flowed upward, torches burned with black flames, and from every window spilled whispers too faint to understand.
Marcus whispered, "So this… is the castle that haunts me."
His voice echoed strangely—twisting, splitting into three tones that spoke together.
"Yes."
"It remembers you."
"It built itself from your sins."
Marcus stumbled backward, clutching his head. "Stop… stop it…"
But the whisper laughed—a chorus now, layered, inhuman.
"You are within yourself, Marcus. The inverted castle is you. Every stone, every scream, every drop of blood—your soul made solid."
Lightning tore across the sky above—or below—illuminating the massive gates ahead. They creaked open, slow and dreadful, revealing a long corridor lined with statues.
Each statue was a man—or something that once was. Faces twisted in agony, eyes carved hollow. Some wore crowns, others armor, others chains. All of them knelt, facing a throne at the corridor's end.
Marcus stepped forward, each footstep echoing louder than it should.
The air was heavy with memory. He could feel their sorrow bleeding into him.
As he passed the first statue, it spoke. Its lips did not move, yet its voice seeped into his skull.
"Heir of darkness… every Lord before you knelt here."
Marcus stopped. "Lords?"
The second statue whispered, "Each chosen by the curse. Each devoured by it."
A third voice, deeper, followed: "We are the forgotten Kings beneath the Crown."
Marcus's fists clenched. "I'm not like you."
"No," said the first. "You are worse."
The torches along the corridor flared violently, their black flames twisting into ghostly figures—shadows of knights, kings, beasts, all kneeling toward the throne.
Marcus forced himself forward, toward the end of the hall. His heartbeat pounded like drums.
There, upon the throne of bone and iron, sat a figure.
It was tall—too tall, cloaked in darkness that seemed to swallow the light itself. Its hands rested on the armrests, skeletal yet regal, and where its face should have been was only a void of swirling red mist.
Marcus felt the weight of its gaze pierce through him.
He spoke, his voice trembling:
Marcus: "Who are you?"
The figure's reply was like thunder and whisper at once.
"I am what remains when gods forget mercy."
Marcus took a step closer. "Are you… the Lord of Monster?"
A low chuckle echoed.
"I was. Before the curse devoured my name."
Marcus swallowed. "Then what do you want from me?"
The shadow raised its head slightly.
"To finish what I could not. To break the cycle—or to perfect it."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "Cycle?"
"The curse rebirths itself through blood. Every era, one bearer rises—the strongest, the most broken—and the world burns anew. You are its latest vessel, Marcus. You are both its weapon… and its key."
Marcus's voice turned sharp. "Then tell me how to destroy it."
The throne room fell silent. Then, slowly, the shadow leaned forward.
"Destroy it? Foolish child. You are it."
The ground cracked beneath Marcus's feet. The statues began to scream. Their stone skin split, revealing eyes of molten light. The corridor shook as shadows bled from the walls.
Marcus stumbled back, shouting, "No! I'm not your puppet!"
The shadow's laughter roared through the castle.
"Then prove it."
The throne vanished, replaced by a swirling pit of light and darkness. From its depths rose monstrous forms—wolves with human faces, armored knights without heads, things made from the pieces of his nightmares.
Marcus drew his sword, his breath ragged. "If this is my curse—"
He raised the blade, black fire erupting along its edge.
"—then I'll carve my way through it."
The beasts lunged.
Steel met nightmare.
The corridor of the inverted castle filled with screams, fire, and the echo of a man fighting not to save the world—
but to save whatever was left of himself.
And high above, unseen through the storm, the broken moon pulsed once again.
To be continued…