P.S. This is my first time writing a novel, and I used GPT for editing, improving, and correcting grammar. If you have any ideas or suggestions, feel free to leave a comment!
Darkness.
Not the kind that comes with the night, filled with distant stars and the hush of sleeping creatures. No, this was a suffocating void, thick and absolute, where time lost all meaning. He did not know how long he had lingered here. Days? Years? Eternities?
Memories drifted through the abyss, fleeting and fragile, like leaves on a stagnant pool. His body—his old body—had been frail, wracked with exhaustion. Work had consumed him, day after day, until sleep became a luxury and food a distant afterthought. The world had bled him dry, leaving behind a hollow shell that collapsed before it could truly live.
And then—nothing.
No warm embrace waiting beyond death, no peace, no freedom. Just this endless emptiness.
But then, a whisper.
A stirring.
Something pulled at the edges of his existence, gathering the scattered pieces of what remained. The darkness rippled, twisted, and took shape.
A dull ache settled into him, heavy and foreign. A weight—limbs, though they were brittle and unfamiliar. He tried to breathe, but there was no air to draw, no lungs to fill. Yet, he could feel again.
The void cracked.
The first thing he saw was bone.
His own hands—if they could still be called that—lay before him, stripped of flesh, reduced to ivory remnants. Thin fingers, jointed and stiff, moved at his command, clicking together like dried twigs.
He tried to scream, but only silence answered.
Panic clawed at him, a raw and primal fear. He stumbled forward, his body moving with an eerie lightness, his bones creaking. It was cold here—not the chill of wind or winter, but an ancient, deathly cold, pressing down from all sides.
He was not alone.
The shadows around him loomed high, jagged and uneven, rising into what he soon recognized as walls. No—not walls. Pillars. Massive, crumbling pillars of obsidian stone, cracked and worn with age. They stretched into a cavernous space, disappearing into a ceiling he could not see.
And all around him, the dead lay still.
Bones, some smaller than his, others monstrous in size, were scattered across the stone floor in silent testament to whatever had happened here. Skulls with shattered crowns. Ribcages split open, as if something had burst from within. Armor rusted beyond recognition. Weapons buried beneath centuries of dust.
A graveyard.
No—a tomb.
And in its center, towering over everything, was a corpse unlike any other.
It lay upon a broken throne, slumped forward, arms resting upon the armrests as if it had died mid-thought. Its skeletal form was massive, draped in tattered cloth that had once been regal. A crown, now dulled and cracked, rested upon its head. Strange runes, ancient and unreadable, glowed faintly across the bones, as though they had been carved into its very being.
A god.
Or what was left of one.
The air felt heavier here. Even in death, the being radiated something vast, something beyond mortal comprehension.
He took an unsteady step forward, bones clattering against the stone floor. His mind reeled.
Why was he here?
What was he now?
His fingers brushed against his own ribs. No heartbeat. No breath. No warmth. Just bone.
He clenched his hands into fists, trying to remember his own name.
Nothing.
Only the echoes of a life lost.
Something stirred in the darkness. A presence.
He turned sharply. Beyond the fallen god, beyond the ruined tomb, something watched him.
And for the first time in this new, wretched existence—he was afraid.
————
A chill that had nothing to do with the grave pressed against his bones. Something was there, lurking in the shadows beyond the fallen god's throne. He could not see it, not truly, but he could feel it—watching, waiting.
The nameless skeleton swallowed the fear that he had no throat for and took another step forward. His bones clicked against the cold stone, the sound too loud in the oppressive silence of the tomb.
Then, it moved.
A ripple in the dark. A shifting of something vast, something . The air grow colder.
He barely had time to react before it struck.
A shadow surged toward him, silent as death, its form shifting like smoke, like a wraith barely bound to the mortal plane. He tried to move, tried to throw himself to the side, but his skeletal body was sluggish, weak.
Something cold lashed across his ribs.
A sudden, searing pain bloomed—not the pain of flesh torn, but something deeper, something that should not have been possible for a body without nerves. A crack split through his frame, and he stumbled, landing hard against the stone.
The creature did not relent.
Again, the shadow struck, this time slamming into him with force. His vision—if it could be called that—blurred as he tumbled backward, his brittle bones rattling with each impact against the unforgiving floor.
He tried to rise. His fingers clawed at the stone, but his arm snapped. The forearm bone splintered, leaving only a jagged remnant behind.
He had no breath, but the sensation of panic clawed at him all the same.
I'm going to die.
The thought was absurd. Had he not already died once? Had he not already been claimed by whatever cruel fate had thrown him into this pit?
Yet, as the shadow loomed over him, its presence growing heavier, darker, and he realized the truth—
This is different.
This was not the slow decay of an overworked life fading into nothing.
This was obliteration.
Something deep within the tomb trembled in response. A pulse—faint, distant, but there.
For the briefest moment, the shadow hesitated.
And then, it struck the final blow.
A crushing weight slammed into him, and the last thing he felt was his skull shattering.
And then—
Nothing.
————
Darkness.
Not the creeping black of night, nor the abyss of sleep. This was deeper, more absolute—emptiness. A void that stretched without end.
And yet, in that void, something stirred.
A faint flicker of awareness. A distant hum, barely perceptible. It was familiar, as if he had been here before. As if—
I died.
The realization came suddenly, followed by fractured memories. The tomb. The fallen god. The shadow.
The moment of impact, the feeling of his own skull shattering into dust.
And yet, here he was.
Something pulled at him, gathering the scattered remnants of his existence. A force—cold and relentless—knit him back together, bone by bone, piece by piece. His senses, or what passed for them, slowly returned.
He could feel again.
Not warmth, not breath, but the eerie weightlessness of his skeletal form. His fingers twitched. His limbs shifted.
And then—
He opened his eyes.
Before him, the tomb stretched out in silent stillness, exactly as it had before.
The towering pillars of obsidian. The broken remnants of warriors long forgotten. The fallen god, still slumped upon its shattered throne.
Everything was as it had been.
As if his death had never happened.
He slowly pushed himself up, his bones clicking into place. He flexed his fingers, staring at the ivory remains of his hands. Whole again. Unbroken.
No pain. No evidence of the battle.
Did I… return?
The thought sent a shiver through his soul, though his body lacked the flesh to feel it.
He turned, his gaze sweeping across the tomb. There was no sign of the shadow that had torn him apart. No
trace of the thing that had ended him.
And yet, a terrible realization settled over him.
This is not a second chance.
No, this was something else. Something far worse.
Because even without a name, without memories of the life he had lost before all of this…
He understood.
I am trapped.
And death was not an escape.
———-
For a long time, he did not move.
The silence of the tomb stretched around him, vast and unbroken. The fallen god's remains sat unmoving upon its shattered throne. The countless bones of the dead lay undisturbed. There was no sign of the shadow that had killed him.
And yet, the weight of his existence pressed down on him.
He had died.
And then, he had returned.
He clenched his bony hands, staring at the ivory remains of his fingers. They were whole again, unbroken, as if the battle had never happened. There was no pain, no lingering damage.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing except him.
He knew now. There was no escape from this place—not through death, not through surrender. Whatever force had brought him here had bound him to this cursed existence, and no amount of fear or hesitation would change that.
He could not rest.
He could not stop.
He could only continue.
A quiet rattling echoed as he forced himself to stand. His limbs were stiff, but they obeyed. He turned his gaze toward the massive corpse seated upon the throne.
A god. Or what was left of one.
His empty sockets stared into the abyss of its hollow skull. Who had it been? What power had it once wielded? And why was he here, reborn in the depths of its tomb?
There were no answers.
Only dust and silence.
He turned away. Lingering would accomplish nothing.
With cautious steps, he moved forward, past the god's throne, deeper into the tomb. His bony feet scraped against the stone, the only sound in the vast emptiness. His senses—if he could call them that—remained on edge, expecting the return of the shadow.
But nothing came.
Not yet.
He pressed on, past the scattered remains of forgotten warriors, past rusted weapons and shattered armor. This was a graveyard of the fallen, but he refused to let himself become another nameless corpse among them.
He did not know where he was going.
He did not know what lay ahead.
But he had no other choice.
So he walked.
————-
The tomb stretched on in endless silence.
The nameless skeleton moved forward, his steps slow but steady. Every sound he made—every scrape of bone against stone—felt too loud in the crushing stillness. His surroundings never changed; the towering obsidian pillars, the broken remains of warriors, the corpse of the fallen god.
But something was watching.
The moment he felt it, a shudder passed through his soul. It was the same presence as before—the one that had struck from the darkness, the one that had killed him.
It had returned.
Or perhaps it had never left.
A shift in the shadows. A ripple in the air.
And then—it moved.
A blur of blackness surged toward him, faster than he could react. He twisted, trying to dodge, but his skeletal body was sluggish, weak. A chilling force slammed into his ribs, sending him sprawling across the cold stone.
Pain—deep, unnatural—flared through his very being. Cracks splintered through his bones.
The thing loomed over him, shifting like living smoke. It had no defined form, no face, no eyes—yet he knew it saw him.
It struck again.
A clawed appendage—black as void, sharp as despair—lashed out, tearing through his spine.
He collapsed. His limbs failed him.
I can't move.
The realization hit just as the shadow descended.
Cold. Unrelenting.
His vision flickered—then shattered.
Darkness.
The void swallowed him whole.
For a moment—just a moment—there was nothing. No thoughts. No pain. Just emptiness.
And then, once more—
Awareness.
His fingers twitched. His limbs reassembled, as if unseen hands were piecing him back together. The crushing nothingness faded, replaced by cold, hard stone beneath him.
And when he opened his eyes—
He was back.
The towering pillars. The shattered throne. The fallen god.
The beginning.
Just as it had been before.
His hands clenched into fists. He had died—again. And yet, the cycle continued.
The thing in the dark would not stop hunting him.
And no matter how many times he fell, he would always return.
————-
The tomb had become his prison. His grave. His battlefield.
And yet, with every death, something changed.
He could feel it now, deep within his bones—some faint, lingering essence that had not been there when he first awoke. It was fragile, barely noticeable, but it grew each time he returned.
Dying was no longer just an end. It was a process.
And so, when the darkness stirred, when the air grew heavy with that presence, he did not hesitate.
He ran toward it.
The shadow surged forward, a blur of death and hunger, faster than he could react. Claws of black void tore into him, slicing through bone like brittle parchment.
Pain. Oblivion.
Death.
Awakening.
The tomb. The throne. The god.
His hands trembled as he pushed himself up, but something was different again.
A flicker. A whisper of something more.
But not enough.
Not yet.
He needed to see it.
He needed to understand.
Death.
He charged again.
The thing was waiting. It struck without mercy.
Oblivion.
Awakening.
A pulse of power—stronger.
Not enough.
Death.
He moved faster this time. His skeletal frame no longer felt as sluggish.
Still not enough.
Death.
A clawed limb.
A hint of a form.
Not just shadow.
Death.
A mask.
Pale. Carved with unreadable symbols.
Death.
A name.
Not spoken, but felt.
Harbinger.
Death.
And this time, as his vision shattered once more, he saw something new—
A pair of hollow eyes staring back at him from the abyss.
Watching.
Waiting.
Amused.
————
Darkness.
The void swallowed him, as it had so many times before. The sensation of unraveling, of losing himself to nothingness, had become familiar. Routine.
But this time, something remained.
A presence. A gaze that lingered even as his body crumbled.
Harbinger.
The name—if it could be called that—was burned into his mind, not spoken, not heard, but felt. A brand left by countless deaths, by each fleeting moment where he had come closer to seeing the thing that killed him.
And then—
He returned.
Awakening.
The pillars of the tomb loomed around him. The shattered throne. The corpse of the fallen god.
The beginning—again.
But he did not need to move to know the truth.
He had changed.
His fingers curled against the stone, and something stirred within him—a weight that had not been there before. A whisper of strength, faint but undeniable.
He clenched his fist.
Before, he had been slow, fragile. A brittle thing destined to shatter at the first touch of power. But now?
Now, he was something more.
A dull pulse ran through his bones—his magic.
It was still weak, barely more than a flicker, but he could feel it now.
A remnant of his deaths. A gift stolen from the cycle.
He stood, his empty sockets turning toward the darkness beyond the god's throne. Harbinger was there.
Waiting.
Watching.
And for the first time, the nameless skeleton did not feel fear.
He would die again. Many, many more times. He knew that now. But each death was a lesson. Each death was his.
And one day—
He would survive.
————
The tomb no longer felt like a place of rest—it was a battlefield. A cruel, endless stage upon which he would die, rise, and die again.
But he was not powerless.
Not anymore.
The flicker of magic within him pulsed—weak, but growing. He could not wield it yet, could not bend it to his will, but it was his. A remnant of the suffering he had endured.
And he would endure more.
Because there was no other path.
His gaze settled on the abyss beyond the fallen god's throne, where Harbinger lurked. He could feel it now, clearer than before. It was waiting for him. It always was.
This time, he did not hesitate.
He stepped forward, his bony frame rattling with each movement. His previous attempts had been desperate, reckless—each death a futile grasp for understanding.
This time, he would watch.
This time, he would see.
The moment he crossed the threshold of the throne's shadow, the air changed.
Heavy. Suffocating. Alive.
The dark rippled.
And then, it's moved.
A blur of void, shifting like liquid shadow. Claws formed from nothingness lashed out, tearing through the air.
He tried to move, but the creature was too fast. It always was.
Pain erupted as his ribs splintered, black claws carving through him with ease. His vision blurred, the world spinning as he was thrown back.
But he did not look away.
Even as he fell, even as death rushed to claim him, he saw.
Harbinger was not formless.
Beneath the shifting void, beneath the shadows that disguised its true nature, there was shape.
A humanoid form, impossibly thin, draped in tattered black. And beneath the hood of its featureless cloak—
That mask.
Pale. Etched with unreadable symbols. A single crack ran down its surface, like a wound that refused to heal.
Harbinger loomed over him, and for the first time, the nameless skeleton understood something.
This thing was not mindless.
It had purpose.
And then, like all the times before—
Death.
Awakening.
Stone beneath him. Silence around him.
He had returned.
But this time, the knowledge lingered.
It's had a form. A mask.
And though it had never spoken, never acknowledged him beyond delivering death—
It had will.
Which meant…
It could be defied.