The air in the chamber was suffocatingly still, thick with an ominous presence that felt almost alive. It was as though the very shadows that clung to the walls of the black stone chamber were breathing, pulsating with dark energy. The stone, made of some ancient, unknown material, seemed to drink in all light, leaving the room in a perpetual twilight, barely illuminated by the faint crackling of dark, corrupted energy that coiled and twisted through the air like living tendrils.
At the center of this malevolent space sat a man on a throne as black as night itself. His figure was cloaked in shadow, his dark robes blending into the chamber's eerie gloom, making it hard to tell where he ended and the darkness began. His face, however, was visible—a pale visage framed by the faintest shimmer of light, his eyes glowing faintly with a cruel and hungry glint. A small smirk tugged at his lips, as if he found the world's torment amusing. His right hand rested lazily on the armrest of the throne, fingers lightly drumming against the cold stone.
Before him knelt a figure made entirely of shadow, a man whose form was insubstantial, almost a reflection of the darkness surrounding him. He bowed deeply, his head nearly touching the black stone floor, his body trembling, either from the oppressive atmosphere or from fear of the figure on the throne.
"Have you found the last storm?" the man on the throne asked, his voice a low, chilling whisper that echoed unnaturally in the chamber. His smirk remained, though there was a sharp edge to his words.
The shadow-man hesitated, his form flickering slightly as though he could barely hold himself together in the presence of the one on the throne. He shook his head, the movement quick and jerky. "N-no, my lord," he stammered, his voice wavering.
The man on the throne, his eyes narrowing in displeasure, leaned back slightly. He gazed upward toward the ceiling of his chamber, which was shrouded in darkness. "Nine months," he murmured, his voice dripping with disdain. His eyes flicked back to the shadow-man, the air between them heavy with tension. "Nine months... and yet you stand here, without answers."
His words were cold, sharper than the edge of any blade."Do you think I have the patience to wait another hundred thousand years?" His smirk had vanished, replaced by a grim, murderous expression. The room seemed to grow darker as his frustration filled the air.
"N-no, my lord!" the shadow-man exclaimed, shaking his head wildly. He was practically vibrating with fear now, his form barely holding together under the weight of the dark energy that was suffocating him.
The man on the throne's expression darkened further. Without warning, his hand slammed down on the armrest of the throne with such force that cracks splintered through the stone beneath his palm. A surge of dark energy rippled outward from the impact, sending an unnatural chill through the room. "Then what are you waiting for?!" he roared, his voice rising, filled with an ancient, unrestrained fury. "Turn the world upside down if you must. Find me the last Storm!"
The shadow-man flinched, his form shrinking as though trying to melt into the floor. "Y-yes, my lord!" he stammered quickly, his voice barely a whisper. Without another word, the shadowy figure straightened and bowed once more before glitching, his entire form distorting and flickering out of existence.
Silence filled the chamber once more, save for the low crackle of dark energy coursing through the air. The man on the throne sat back, his fury slowly simmering down as he lazily rested his head against his right hand. His glowing eyes stared forward into the shadows, calculating, cold, and filled with an ancient weariness.
His attention drifted to his right, where on a pedestal beside the throne, two brilliant, pulsing orbs floated in midair, surrounded by faint traces of light. The first orb radiated an ethereal blue glow, swirling with the energy of wind—the Wind Storm Core. Beside it, another orb, a vibrant, sandy hue, shifted and shimmered like liquid glass—the Silica Storm Core.
The man allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as his gaze lingered on the two cores, their light offering a contrast to the oppressive darkness surrounding him. Slowly, he turned his head to the left, where two more cores rested on identical pedestals. The first glowed with crackling white electricity, streaks of lightning darting within—the Thunder Storm Core. Beside it, a swirling, icy-blue orb, radiating cold, endless frost—the Ice Storm Core.
Each core thrummed with raw, untapped power—the power of ancient storms long since sealed away. The man's smile widened ever so slightly. "Four down," he murmured to himself, his voice soft but filled with a cruel satisfaction. "Just one left to destroy."
His gaze returned to the empty space ahead of him, his mind filled with thoughts of the Fire Storm Core—the final piece of his collection. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"I hope the last one can at least entertain me and put up a fight." he muttered, his voice low and sinister, dripping with disdain and boredom. His smile deepened as his eyes closed, settling back into the throne as if awaiting a future that had already been decided.
The black chamber remained still, the man's figure swallowed by the dark, the cores casting faint glows that flickered in the eternal twilight. The silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of dark energy, marking the calm before the storm.