Flying through the gray, apocalyptic skies, a stark, ebony crow cut a solitary figure. Its wings bore an eerie glow of dark orange runes that pulsated with each flap. Below, the land was nothing but a desolate wasteland, strewn with colossal swords of blackened steel that pierced the earth, and severed crow heads impaled upon their hilts, a macabre decoration to a forgotten battlefield.
The crow's sharp eyes surveyed the landscape, noting not just the decay, but also the haunting silence that enveloped it. Yet, this was no ordinary silence—it was thick, palpable with the suppressed whispers of the damned. As it flew, the atmosphere grew denser, a miasmic fog of despair curling around its feathers.
Soon, a new form began to dot the landscape—hordes of demons, their grotesque figures half-submerged in the ashen soil. They were diverse in their deformities, some with too many eyes, others with limbs that twisted in unnatural angles. Despite their fearsome countenance, these demons were not masters of this land, but its prisoners. Bound by heavy, rusted chains, they knelt in submission, heads bowed low.
The crow continued its flight, indifferent to the kneeling demons beneath. As it crossed over them, the air thrummed with a low growl from the captivated beasts, a sound that seemed to both question and menace. Yet, it was clear they held no power here.
Approaching the heart of this forsaken land, there appeared an imposing throne, crafted from bones and remnants of unidentifiable creatures. The throne stood alone, exuding an aura of cold authority, howling silently with the winds that whipped around it.
As the crow neared the throne, its body began to shimmer and distort, its feathers melding into flesh. The transformation was grotesque yet mesmerizing. Where once black feathers fluttered, now dark, tangled hair fell around the shoulders of a woman. Her skin was pallid, marked with black rot that seemed to writhe with life. One half of her body remained naked, revealing the sickly, corrupted flesh, while the other was grotesquely adorned with bones forming a rigid, protective layer.
Her eyes gleamed with the same dark orange light as the runes on her former avian form. Above her head floated a black halo, spinning slowly, radiating an ominous energy. The transformation complete, she seated herself upon the throne with an air of finality.
Before her, 6 figures—two men and one woman—knelt. They were the very picture of desperation, their bodies tense with anticipation of unknown fates. Their eyes did not dare to meet hers, fixated as they were on the cracked, barren ground.
They were Ji-Woo and Hanuel, Elder Mingxia, Protector Zhen, and Master Liang.
With a casual flick of her rot-covered fingers, the seated woman unleashed her will. At her command, the previously submissive demons surged forward in a frenzy, their chains breaking under the force of their newfound fury. They descended upon the kneeling figures with a primal ferocity.
They began to scream over and over, the sect leaders being mauled into the ground.
Ji-Woo thought, 'They said we'd be enlightened with power! Not pain!'
Hanuel thought, 'This is too much!'
As the mauling ceased, the sect leaders' figures rose, transformed. Their bodies were now covered in glowing orange runes similar to the ones that had marked the crow. They stood, reborn under the dark gaze of the woman on the throne.
With a voice that sounded like the cracking of bones, the woman began to recite scriptures unknown to any earthly religion, reciting scripture from the darkness deity runes, her words weaving through the thick air:
"By the decrees of shadows, borne through the vessel of carrion and bone, ye awaken. Risen through the darkness, ye are bound by the rune, sealed by the pact of obliteration's throne."
"Such is the will of the deep, where light dares not tread. Here, in the dominion of forsaken whispers, ye shall tread forth, rebirthed not in flesh, but in the essence of dread."
As she spoke, the land itself seemed to listen, the eerie silence now a dense blanket wrapping tighter around the scene. Her sermon spoke of renewal through destruction, of power through pain, and every word pulsed through the air like a palpable force.
"Embrace the dusk of humanity's lament, for in the end, all shall kneel before the void's sacrament."
Her declaration complete, the air around the throne crackled with dark energy, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of her words.
The newly reborn group stood resolute, a silent struggle flickering within their glowing eyes. Resistance pulsed through them, a final echo of defiance against the dark destiny they had been thrust into. The woman on the bone throne only smiled—a twisted, knowing smirk that crept across her black-rotted lips as she watched their futile rebellion.
The sect leaders all began to scream, holding their heads as it was filled with horrific images, and their noses bled.
Elder Mingxia screamed, "Stop this!"
Protector Zhen screamed, "We didn't ask for this!"
The woman on the throne sighed, "You are all resisting its power. You have begged me for power, and yet you resist it. That will not cut it."
Ji-Woo exclaimed, "We wanted more to defend our sects from demon invasions, not against ourselves and these memories!"
Hanuel agreed, "This was a mistake!"
Master Liang said, "We agreed to join…but not under these circumstances, it's like something's taking over me!"
The woman responded, "And now you shall pay for that. You were to receive the blessing of the darkness deity and gain power, fully placing you in the ranks of the demon sect. But that's done now. All because you can't accept that there's always a price to pay."
Beneath the crust of the forlorn wasteland, a subtle rumbling began, growing into a cacophonous roar. From a jagged fissure that tore open at the base of the throne, a platform rose. Upon it stood a little girl, no older than ten, her small hands gripping a gargantuan scythe that seemed to hum with malevolent energy. Her eyes, innocent once perhaps, now swirled with a deep, unnatural darkness. She was Hana, the chosen executioner.
The woman on the throne smiled, "My daughter.."
Elder Mingxia screamed, "Hana…? Hana?! This is where you ended up after you ran away?!"
Hana didn't say a word.
Elder Mingxia continued, "We had to! I couldn't let you see that brat Joon transform and he would've ended up killing you! I did what I did to protect you! But the other two, Hanuel and Ji-Woo, killed his parents, and they came to us for help because they were too strong. But I didn't want to! I'm on your side!"
Ji-Woo responded, "You bitch…"
Elder Mingxia continued, "Y-You see?! We were forced to help them!"
Protector Zhen yelled, "Are you all really doing this right now?!"
Hanuel said, "Us killing Joon's parents…we didn't force you or any of you to do so. You saw us as a means to destroy our similar rivals, so Joon's parents were the start of our relationship…The Heilong sect situation…the Ashura Beasts…and the Yecha tribe, we used each other to get to them! We both saw an opportunity in this!"
Elder Mingxia chuckled to Hana, "He's lying, honey, they're all lying.
As the sect leaders continued to tremble with the vain effort to resist, Hana approached them, her steps methodical and unchildlike. With a swift, chilling efficiency, the scythe swung through the air—a blur of gleaming metal that whispered promises of oblivion. One by one, their heads fell, the ground greedily drinking the blood that poured forth. The land itself seemed to shudder with delight at the brutality, the sky darkening ever more, as if closing in to witness the macabre spectacle.
But Ji-Woo and Hanuel were left alive.
Ji-Woo said, "Why…?"
Hana replied, "Joon will kill you both. Not me."
"Tch! Do it! Get it over with!"
Hana walked away, and she grabbed the hand of the woman on the throne, saying, "I killed them, Mother."
Mother kissed her forehead, "Good girl. We will lock these two away until the time is right for them to die, and when Joon finds us. Remember, the only way to truly be free is to find it. And Joon is your way to your own freedom."
"Yes, Mother."
"So the more souls you take, the more you kill…"
"The more I'm free.."
"That's it."
Around Hana, figures cloaked in shadows converged, forming a circle of devotion. Their hands reached out, touching the child with reverence, transferring whispers of dark energies into her small frame. Above them all, the air twisted and writhed as a form began to coalesce—vast, ominous, barely visible yet undeniably present. It was the deity of darkness, a being shaped from the nightmares of the damned, its form a festering silhouette of power and terror, edges flickering like the flames of an umbral fire.
"Sovereignty is claimed not by the frail-hearted but by those who dare to wield the scythe of eternal night," Mother continued, her voice a serpentine hiss that slithered through the air, entwining with the raw energies summoned by the ritual. "Behold the ascension of the dark, the rise of the void's child, harbinger of silence and despair."
The dark deity above seemed to pulse with approval, its form gaining solidity with every word of scripture spoken by Mother. The cult members surrounding Hana chanted in a low, reverent drone, the sound a morbid melody that complemented the grim tableau.
"By the blood of the fallen, the circle is sealed. Rise, Hana, rise as the shepherd of souls, the reaper of sanctity's thieves. Through you, the darkness commands the light, and through you, the silence shall reign."
Hana, now fully embraced by her grotesque destiny, lifted her scythe once more, pointing it to the skies. Lightning cracked the sky, a sign of the dark deity's pleasure, as the ritual reached its zenith. The very air felt heavy with the power of ancient, forbidden rites unfolding in the heart of this desolate land.
The woman on the throne, her name Mother, leaned back, her scripture weaving the final ties of fate. "In the abyss lies truth, and from truth comes the obliteration of all pretense. Rejoice, for the night eternal beckons, and its embrace is inescapable."
The scene settled into a menacing calm, the aftermath of chaos forging a new order under the watchful eyes of the dark deity and the merciless reign of the bone-clad woman on the throne. The wasteland accepted its fate, the ground sealing back as if swallowing the secret of what transpired, waiting patiently for the next soul to challenge the darkness, or to succumb to its call.