The Death Knight stood before him, black sword raised, the edges of its aura slicing through the shadows like liquid steel. Around them, the Abyssal Knights had fallen silent, as if sensing the climax of this duel.
Drax's stance was relaxed, almost casual, but his white eyes burned with intensity. Every scar, every fracture, every drop of blood he had endured was now coiled inside him, fueling the Abyss.
"You've trained well. Learned fast… but can you survive me?" the Death Knight asked, voice cold yet resonant.
Drax didn't answer immediately. He moved first. His jagged obsidian blade arced through the air, meeting the Death Knight's steel with a clash that reverberated like a shockwave through the chamber.
Drax's movements were smooth, flowing, and terrifyingly efficient. He didn't just fight—he integrated the Abyss into every strike, block, and maneuver.
He muttered quietly as he fought:
"You see, Abyssal Combat… it's not just strength. It's the essence in me reacting. Every hit I take, every strike I make… it trains me, adapts me."
The Death Knight lunged, his sword sweeping in a lethal arc. Drax rolled, pivoted, and struck—a series of blows so fast the eye could barely follow. Each strike fed the Abyss, each block reinforced his body.
Drax's explanation was simple:
"When you absorb essence… compatible essence, it grows inside your world. Your inner world expands. You evolve. Your body, your reflexes, even your mind… it all becomes part of the fight."
He struck again, and the Death Knight blocked, but Drax's aura flared. Shadows erupted around him, tendrils of black essence snapping like whips.
"Your essence… you can even create life in your world. Control it. And it can give back… abilities, strength, new ways to fight. That's why I move like this… that's why I can survive you."
The Death Knight's attacks became more ferocious. He struck with precision designed to kill. Drax absorbed, adapted, and countered with a fluidity that seemed impossible. Every blow honed his instincts.
Drax didn't speak much, letting action communicate his mastery: his strikes were faster, his parries cleaner, his counters unpredictable. Shadows extended from his body, latching onto armor and weapon alike. The Abyssal essence moved like living matter—coiling, striking, defending, adapting.
Finally, the two clashed sword against sword. The sound was deafening. Sparks of black and red essence flew in every direction. Drax ducked, spun, and countered. Each strike was more than force—it was analysis and absorption in real time, refining his combat instincts.
When he finally landed a decisive blow, the Death Knight staggered, armor cracking under the Abyssal energy. Drax didn't hesitate. He drove his jagged blade through the knight's chest, and darkness began to pour from the wound—not blood, but essence.
The Abyssal World responded immediately. The black tree in the center of his subconscious pulsed, branches stretching outward, absorbing the raw power of the fallen Death Knight. His world expanded—the walls of shadow receding, new terrain forming, rivers of black essence flowing beneath the crimson moon.
Drax muttered quietly:
"You're mine now. You'll live in my world… but not as you were."
The Death Knight's soul screamed, but the Abyss consumed, reshaped, and reformed it. Where once stood an armored knight of death, now there was a new entity—twisted, shadowed, obedient, and bound entirely to Drax's will. He gave it a name: Nocturion, the first lieutenant of the Abyssal World.
With the Death Knight absorbed, the Abyssal World's evolution granted new abilities:
Enhanced regeneration, accelerated beyond before.
Shadow manipulation capable of forming weapons, barriers, and even terrain.
Creation of underlings, souls reshaped and integrated into his dominion.
Adaptive combat instinct, a premonition of attacks before they happen.
Drax's gaze shifted upward to the black tree—the core of his inner world, the living heart of the Abyss. The Abyss was not a silent power; it was a spirit, ancient, infinite, and bound to him. It responded to his will, to his rage, and to his strategies. It fed on essence, grew with every challenge, and adapted to every threat.
All inner worlds had spirits. Fire had blazing phoenix cores. Water had seas with sentient currents. Gravity had planets in orbit. The Abyssal World's spirit was the black tree, its roots tangled in eternity, its branches touching dimensions unknown, the red moon and eye above watching like a sovereign judge.
Every expansion of the Abyssal World strengthened Drax physically, mentally, and spiritually. Every absorption gave him new abilities, new tactics, and more control over everything within his dominion.
The chamber fell silent. Shadows retreated to the corners. The Abyssal Knights were gone—their master transformed into Nocturion, now fully loyal under Drax.
Drax stood, breathing shallowly. His blade pulsed black and red, alive with energy.
"I'll rebuild my world," he said softly, almost to himself. "And anyone who stands in it… will bend or break."
He turned, looking at the gate through which he had entered. Ahead was still the unknown—the rest of the dungeon. But he was no longer a timid boy. No longer weak. No longer fearful.
The Abyss had claimed him. Shaped him. Given him dominion.
And now, he ruled the Abyss.