The chamber was vast, its walls lined with ancient, forgotten relics that whispered of a time before the world had fallen into darkness. At the center of the room sat Neato, the Darkened One, on a throne carved from obsidian, its edges jagged like the teeth of a beast. The light in the room was dim, casting long shadows that danced eerily as if they had a life of their own. Neato leaned back, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the arm of his throne, a cold smile playing on his lips.
Two figures, clad in dark robes, knelt before him, their faces hidden by the shadows of their hoods. They trembled slightly, aware of the dangerous mood their master was in.
"Mr. Dark Lord," one of the figures spoke, his voice a low hiss, "it seems that Azrael and Dolores have been... defeated."
Neato's eyes, cold and calculating, narrowed as he tilted his head slightly. "Is that so?" he murmured, almost to himself. The smile never left his face, but the air in the room grew heavier, charged with an ominous energy.
The second figure, sensing the tension, quickly continued, "Yes, my lord. Should we go take care of them? It would be a simple matter to—"
Neato raised a hand, silencing him. "No," he said, his voice calm but laced with a dangerous undertone. "Let them come to me. If they were able to defeat Azrael and Dolores, then they must be strong indeed. And I've been meaning to test my strength." His smile widened, but there was no warmth in it—only cold malice.
The two figures exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent, bowing their heads in submission. The room was so quiet that the soft drip of water from somewhere in the darkness could be heard, each drop echoing ominously.
Neato's eyes shifted to the figures kneeling before him, and the smile faded from his lips. "Since Azrael and Dolores lost," he began, his tone turning icy, "wouldn't that mean that both of you are also weak?"
The figures stiffened in alarm, but before they could utter a word of protest, there was a sickening, wet sound—a simultaneous explosion of blood and bone. The heads of both figures burst like overripe fruit, splattering the floor and walls with crimson. Their bodies slumped forward, lifeless, as the dark blood pooled around them, reflecting the dim light in a macabre display.
Neato remained seated, unflinching, his smile slowly returning. His gaze drifted to Astron, who stood silently behind him, blood seeping from her hollow, sightless eyes. She did not react, her expression as vacant as ever.
The silence that followed was broken only by Neato's soft chuckle, which grew into a low, menacing laugh that echoed through the chamber, reverberating off the stone walls and filling the space with a sound that was both chilling and triumphant.
As Neato laughed, the camera of the reader's mind pulled back, revealing the carnage in full—a throne room of death, with the Darkened One seated at its heart, his power unquestioned, his will absolute. He had no need for weaklings, no use for those who could not stand against the forces that now threatened his reign.
The chapter ended with Neato's laughter, a sound that promised pain and suffering for those who dared to oppose him, a sound that signaled the coming storm—the final confrontation that would decide the fate of the world.
END OF CHAPTER 49