The wheels hummed like distant thunder.
Not the thunder of storms, but the dull rolling thunder of something ancient and ceremonial. Something that didn't belong to mortals, nor to the world Simon once knew. The carriage Simon rode in was carved from blackwood and lacquered bone, tendrils of abyssal mist clinging to its edges like hungry serpents. The interior smelled faintly of cold incense—spice, mineral, something metallic beneath the surface. Regal, almost suffocating.
Simon sat by the window, his posture straight but relaxed, chin tilted slightly upward. His face—no longer his own—wore the features of Orba. Not the true Orba, not the grotesque maw-filled beast of decay and rot he had slain, but a refined, noble reinterpretation of him.
The Girte Mask allowed it.
Simon's illusion of Orba was calm, towering, elegant, with polished black hair and sharp golden eyes—not the writhing horror the real Orba had been. The mask bent perception. Anyone with mana would see what Simon wanted them to see.
And Simon wanted to look like a king.
Eras sat across from him, back perfectly straight, hands folded over his knees like an attendant who had served centuries of monarchs.
The carriage rattled gently as it crossed a floating obsidian causeway toward the gathering point—the palace of Tisbet, one of the oldest strongholds in the Abyss. A seat of tradition. A place of diplomacy and veiled violence.
Simon inhaled slowly, deliberately. He could feel the void inside him, humming like a second heartbeat, calm and balanced. It numbed the flutter of nerves before they could find purchase. No fear. No haste. No fluttering anxiety. Just quiet clarity, chilled like winter morning air.
Still, even void-born calm couldn't extinguish all humanity.
This was it.
His first true appearance in front of the other Abyssal Kings.
Simon flexed his fingertips and felt the phantom echo of steel. Swords that weren't there. Possibility and violence lurking in the silence.
Eras cleared his throat softly, drawing Simon's gaze.
"Lord Orba," Eras said, tone respectful, but with that familiar shade of gentle caution he had adopted since Simon took the throne. "Before we arrive, it would be prudent to revisit etiquette."
Simon gave a slow nod, voice deep and resonant—shaped by the mask.
"If I say or do something wrong, correct me."
"I intend to, my king." Eras bowed his head mildly. "But it is better to avoid requiring correction in the presence of others."
Simon smirked faintly. "Understood."
Outside the window, abyssal sky shifted like spilled ink—tides of colorless smoke rolling across an empty horizon. Faint stars glittered with eerie violet sheen, like broken shards of glass scattered across the void.
Eras spoke softly, fingers tapping his knee once as he organized his thoughts. "Tonight is not merely a meeting. It is a Convergence. Kings gather to reaffirm order, exchange intelligence, and—should fate demand it—adjust the balance of power."
Adjust the balance of power.
A gentle way to say assassinations and coups could happen.
Simon leaned back. "What specifically should I avoid?"
Eras held up a slender finger. "First—avoid commenting on another king's power, military, or ascension method. It is considered a declaration of challenge."
Simon nodded.
A second finger. "Do not show overt curiosity toward higher-ranked kings. Curiosity implies ambition. Ambition implies threat."
Simon raised a brow. "Even casual interest?"
"Especially casual interest," Eras replied. "Abyssal kings are not accustomed to being 'curiosities'."
Fair point.
Third finger. "Do not interrupt ancient kings. They hold historical precedence."
"And if I do?"
"They will likely assume you intend rebellion or insult." Eras gave a gentle smile. "It would be unwise."
Simon exhaled. "Noted."
"And finally," Eras concluded, folding his hands, "do not speak of the mortal world unless prompted."
Simon blinked slowly. "Because I am… originally human?"
"No." Eras shook his head lightly. "Because mortals are viewed as ants. To give them attention signifies weakness of priority."
Simon chuckled under his breath. "So if mankind matters to me, I should pretend they do not."
Eras tilted his head. "They should not matter, my king."
Silence stretched.
Simon's eyes narrowed slightly—not irritated, merely thoughtful. The void inside him stirred, cool and steady. He didn't respond to that. Not yet.
Eras quickly bowed his head, as though realizing something. "Forgive me. I do not mean—"
"No offense taken," Simon replied calmly. "You are speaking from the worldview of your kind."
Eras hesitated. Then nodded in gratitude.
"Also, Lord Orba…" His tone shifted slightly—subtle tension. "There is one monarch above all who you must avoid provoking."
Simon leaned slightly forward. "The First Abyssal King?"
Eras shook his head.
"The Eighth."
Simon's gaze sharpened. "Rusnumalung."
Eras swallowed. "Yes. He is… dangerous. All abyssal kings are formidable, but Rusnumalung is a natural predator of ambition. He sees hidden things. Motives. Futures. Threads of intention." Eras paused, voice lowering. "Rumor says he can perceive truths even gods cannot."
Simon remembered the strange sensation days ago—like someone brushing against the edges of his existence. The void inside him had quivered, not with fear, but with defiance. Like two opposing currents meeting and refusing to blend.
"So if he looks too closely—"
"He may sense you are not Orba," Eras whispered.
Simon tapped the armrest, thoughtful. "And yet… he will not see me clearly."
Eras blinked. "My lord?"
Simon gave no explanation. Instead, he smiled faintly beneath the mask—something sharp and private. "Continue."
Eras obeyed. "You will be seated at the ninth position. Speak only when addressed. And if challenged—"
Simon finished, voice like cold steel, "—I kill them."
Eras shook his head quickly. "Not kill. Withstand. Answer without submission, yet without escalation."
A diplomatic tightrope. Lovely.
Simon rolled his shoulders once, feeling illusion-skin shift like silk. He looked like Orba. He sounded like Orba.
But he would not act like Orba.
Orba was a coward. A parasite. A creature that crawled in shadows and feared every throne around him.
Simon did not fear them.
He feared only losing control of his own path.
"And what if someone surprises me?" Simon murmured.
Eras smiled gently. "Then I hope your strength matches your confidence, my king."
Simon returned the smile. But there was steel beneath it.
"It does."
The hum of the wheels shifted pitch. The carriage slowed.
A whispering wind rushed past, laced with murmurs—voices like souls trapped in eternal fall. The abyss had no breeze, yet this felt like one: an ambient current of ancient wills, brushing against the living.
Outside, colonnades of obsidian spiraled upward like frozen lightning. Between them, rivers of purple flame flowed like molten constellations, lighting a pathway to something vast and impossible.
Simon leaned forward slightly in his seat.
There it was.
Tisbet.
The Palace of Kings.
A fortress-palace of dark stone, spires reaching like jagged fangs toward the starless heavens. Towers layered upon towers—thirty-two levels, minimum. Each one carved with runes that pulsed like sleeping hearts. Bridges arched between them like black veins, carrying ghostly light along their length.
A city of whispers.
A monument to ambition.
A cathedral where tyrants breathed and fate shivered.
Eras spoke in a reverent hush. "Tisbet. Where the abyssal monarchs gather to shape balance. Where alliances are born and disappearances are quietly accepted."
"And where kings measure each other," Simon murmured.
"Yes," Eras whispered. "And kill, when needed."
The carriage slowed completely.
A gong sounded in the distance—deep, sonorous, vibrating through marrow and thought.
Simon closed his eyes briefly.
Void pulsed once, quiet and sure.
A heartbeat without emotion.
A promise of control.
He exhaled. "Mask?"
Eras nodded. "Stable."
"My illusions?"
"Flawless."
"My presence?"
Eras hesitated, then smiled. "You… are terrifyingly calm, my king."
Simon smirked. "Good."
The door opened with a soft hiss. Abyssal guards in obsidian armor bowed deeply, not to Simon the man—but to Orba the illusion.
Simon rose.
Not as a human.
Not as a swordsman.
Not as a wanderer in a world he barely understood.
But as a king walking toward destiny he would carve from everyone who thought they already owned it.
He stepped out of the carriage.
Above him, the thirty-two floors of Tisbet loomed like layered history. Some corrupted. Some shining. Some broken. All terrifying.
Eras followed, slightly behind, hands folded, face composed in perfect servant ceremony.
Simon felt dozens—maybe hundreds—of presences in the air, like wolves watching from shadows, curious if the new scent meant prey or predator.
He began walking toward the entrance path, cloak trailing behind him like a slice of midnight.
Eras spoke so only he could hear.
"Remember, my king… tonight, you are Orba."
Simon replied softly, voice low and unshakable.
"No. Tonight, I am what Orba should have been."
A new thunder rolled across Tisbet's highest spires—silent, but felt.
And Simon walked forward.
Toward the night of kings.
Toward unseen predators.
Toward an abyssal stage where one mistake meant annihilation.
He did not tremble.
He did not falter.
The void inside him whispered—Let them watch.