In the suffocating darkness of the room, the only sound was the slow, rhythmic drip… drip… drip of liquid hitting the stone floor. A pool of red spread beneath a figure hanging upside down, his body battered, broken, and motionless. The dim light of a single flickering torch painted the walls in jagged shadows, casting an eerie glow over the puddle below.
The silence shattered as a heavy door groaned open on rusted hinges. Thud. Thud. Thud. Footsteps echoed across the chamber, deliberate and unhurried, growing louder with each step. A tall figure emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding, his silhouette outlined in faint crimson as if the air itself bent to his will.
He stopped in front of the suspended man, tilting his head as if studying a long-forgotten relic. A voice, low and smooth, broke the silence.
"109,575 days. That's how long you've been here." The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. "Over three centuries, and yet you refuse to speak."
The figure circled slowly, boots splashing through the blood as he spoke. "I made you a promise, didn't I? You'd walk free the moment you told us where you hid God's Journal. " He stopped directly in front of the hanging man, leaning in so close that the scent of cigar smoke and blood merged in the stagnant air. "So… are we finally going to have that conversation?"
The prisoner's body remained still, his face obscured by his matted, blood-soaked hair. His silence was deafening.
The man straightened, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. "Fine." His voice sharpened like steel. "Have it your way."
With a snap of his fingers, a crimson spear materialized in his grasp. The weapon gleamed in the dim light, its surface etched with intricate, pulsing designs that seemed to writhe like living veins. The man examined the spear for a moment, his expression calm, almost bored.
He extended his other hand, and with a faint shimmer of light, a chair appeared behind him. He lowered himself into it with the ease of a king settling into his throne. Reaching into his coat, he retrieved a cigar, biting off the end before igniting it with a flick of his fingers. The glow of the ember illuminated his sharp features as thick smoke curled into the air.
"I know you're tired," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that blurred his face like a ghostly veil. "Three centuries of this… How much longer can you hold out?"
He leaned forward suddenly, his tone dark and impatient. "But don't mistake my mercy for weakness."
Without warning, the spear shot forward, the tip piercing the prisoner's chest with a sickening crunch. Flames erupted from the wound, crawling across the man's body like ravenous beasts. The fire burned unnaturally bright, lighting the chamber in hues of gold and crimson. The heat was so intense that the pool of blood beneath him began to bubble and hiss.
The hanging man's face twisted in agony, his muscles straining against the bonds that held him. His skin blackened and cracked under the relentless fire, but still, he made no sound. No scream. Not a single gasp of pain.
The seated man watched, unmoved, his gaze sharp as he took another slow drag from his cigar. The fire reflected in his eyes, two pinpricks of hellish light in the darkness.
The hours dragged on, undefined in the suffocating darkness. Time had become meaningless in the cell, swallowed by the steady crackle of flames consuming the hanging man's body. His flesh was charred, cracked like the surface of a burnt log, but no scream or groan ever escaped his lips.
The man seated across from him finally rose, his crimson spear still buried in the prisoner's chest. With a sharp tug, he wrenched the weapon free, the flames dissipating instantly. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he admired the smoldering edges of the spear, embers flickering off like dying stars.
"That's enough for today," he muttered, his voice as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. He turned to the hanging man, who hung motionless, lifeless, as he had for centuries.
The spear began to glow faintly in his hands, and a soft beam of light extended from its tip. The light traced over the prisoner's charred body, and, slowly, his blackened skin began to regenerate, the burns fading to reveal his natural pale complexion. His wounds remained — raw, festering reminders of the brutality inflicted upon him — but his body was once again whole.
The man gave a small smirk of satisfaction before turning on his heel. His heavy boots echoed on the stone floor as he strode toward the door, the dim light casting his tall shadow across the cell walls. The door creaked open, and as it shut behind him with a resonant clang, silence consumed the room once more.
For a moment, the stillness lingered, unbroken. But then — a sharp, rattling gasp.
The hanging man's chest heaved as he sucked in air, his eyes snapping open. His pale face, unmarred by the hours of agony, twisted into a sardonic grin. He coughed lightly, shaking his head as if shaking off the weight of what had just transpired.
"Thank God I timed that right," he muttered, his voice low and dry, almost amused. His gaze, sharp and calculating, scanned the empty room. "The torture's over for the day."
He let out a faint chuckle, shaking his head again, his tone growing more confident as he spoke to himself. "Not that I'll have to deal with it much longer. These fools have done me a favor without even realizing it." He tilted his head slightly, his grin widening.
"I've finished reading God's Journal," he whispered, almost reverently. His eyes flickered with a mix of triumph and satisfaction. "Three centuries — three hundred years of their sadistic torture — and they never once suspected that they were giving me the time I needed. Thanks to them, I've studied every page of that journal without having to run away and be interrupted. Every secret, every technique, it's all mine now."
He let out a slow, satisfied breath, his voice lowering, tinged with dark amusement. "And thanks to the astral projection technique I learned from it, I've been leaving this useless body every time they start. I've felt none of their torment. They've been wasting their time torturing nothing but an empty shell."
Now it was time to leave this place. Only one path lay before him: relinquish his current life and summon a fallen god, one whose soul shard could open the Tower of Rebirth. He had studied them all, their histories etched into the pages of God's Journal. Of all the fallen God's, only one matched his ambitions: Oblivion, God of Gluttony and Void, an ancient being forever ravenous to return to this realm.
He drew a slow breath, steadying his resolve. The air grew heavy as he activated the astral projection technique, stepping out of his mortal body. A ghostly form hovered above the chamber floor, translucent and unbound, while his body hung next to him, pale and motionless in its chains. For a moment, he looked at the face he had worn for centuries—battered, scarred, and hollow.
"This is the last time," he murmured, his voice faint but resolute. He turned away, leaving his old body behind.
He knelt and placed a hand on the cold stone ground. Power flowed outward, crackling through the floor. The lines of ancient symbols ignited, their shapes twisting and spiraling into a perfect, intricate pattern. The glowing light swelled, flickering between brilliance and shadow, before erupting in a violent flash. A resounding crack split the air, and the ground gave way, collapsing into a bottomless abyss.
From the chasm, inky tendrils slithered upward, writhing like living shadows. The air froze, dense and oppressive. A voice emerged from the void, deep and guttural, reverberating through the chamber like distant thunder.
"Why have you summoned me?"
He stood, unflinching before the black tendrils twisting toward him. "I am Lucian," he said, his words sharp and deliberate. "I seek rebirth through the Tower of Rebirth."
The tendrils paused, hovering just inches from him, their motion slow and deliberate.
"I know I have little to offer you now," Lucian continued, "But I understand your desire to return to this world. I'll make a deal with you—if you grant me this chance, I will willingly give you my body to be reborn in the future, after I've accomplished my goals."
The chamber fell silent, the air dense with expectation. Oblivion's presence seemed to expand, a weight pressing against the room's walls. The void itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, finally, a low rumble broke the hush.
"I have no interest in being reborn as a pathetic human."
Lucian's expression didn't falter. He had anticipated this response. Every detail in God's Journal had prepared him for this moment, and he knew precisely what would pique the god's interest. His lips parted, and two words fell into the stillness:
"Umbra... Luxe."
A sudden surge of energy tore through the chamber, rippling outward like an unseen shockwave. The tendrils, previously languid, writhed violently as though stirred by an unseen force. They lashed out, coiling tightly around Lucian's astral form. The pressure was suffocating, yet he remained still, his expression calm even as the void constricted him.
"What do you know of my weapon, mortal?" Oblivion's voice crackled like thunder, sharp and unforgiving. "Speak now, or I'll devour you where you stand."
A faint smile curved across Lucian's face, despite the crushing grip of the tendrils.
"Devour me?" His voice was tight but laced with dry amusement. "I'd rather not be eaten. Then again, I suppose being consumed by a god could be considered a privilege."
Oblivion's tendrils tightened, squeezing with enough force to send fractures through the astral projection. More tendrils poured from the abyss, filling the room like a rising tide.
"Talk." The single word came like a growl, sharp and final.
Lucian exhaled slowly, as though the god's rage amused rather than unnerved him. "All right," he said, as if placating a petulant child. "Suppose I told you I know where to find your weapon. My chances of retrieving it might be… let's say five percent." He paused, his tone calculated. "Would that be enough to tempt you?"
He knew better than to oversell himself. Downplaying his odds gave him an advantage—humility that gods rarely expected from mortals.
For a moment, there was only the hiss of the void. Then Oblivion's voice returned, low and venomous. "It is impossible for a human to know this. My weapon was stolen billions of years ago by that accursed god. Yet you stand here, naming it as if it were yours to claim."
The tendrils pulsed around him, tightening briefly before pulling back. "You have my attention."
Lucian didn't answer, letting the silence linger. He could feel the god's interest deepening, a hunger that transcended his usual ravenous nature.
Finally, Oblivion's voice rumbled once more, quieter this time, but no less commanding. "Very well. I will grant you rebirth—on one condition." The tendrils quivered, restless with the weight of his words. "Reclaim my weapon. When I rise again, I will do so at full strength. In return, you will bear my blessing, furthering your evolution in this new life."
The walls of the chamber trembled, fine cracks spreading through the stone like veins of lightning. One of the tendrils shot out, black and serpentine, and latched onto Lucian's physical body, still hanging limp in its chains. Without ceremony, it dragged the body downward, into the abyss.
Lucian's astral form felt the same pull, an invisible force drawing him toward the chasm. The void called to him, beckoning him with its endless whispers. He didn't resist. Instead, he surrendered to the pull, letting himself be consumed by the darkness.
Just before the void swallowed him whole, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Gods, he thought, are no more cunning than mortals. So easy to manipulate.
And then, all went black.