The Hall of a Thousand Heroes shimmered in an ethereal glow, suspended in a realm beyond time and space, accessible only through the dreams of those chosen. It was a grand, boundless expanse, lined with towering marble pillars and an endless ceiling speckled with constellations that reflected the valor of those who had walked its halls before. Within these walls, one thousand heroes gathered, each bearing the weight of their eternal duty. Chosen without warning, without consent, bound until death — yet none protested. To be a hero was the highest of honors, a privilege bestowed upon only a thousand at any given time. When one fell, another rose, maintaining the sacred number that ensured balance and efficiency in their eternal war against evil.
Despite the hallowed air of the Hall, tonight, it buzzed not with the urgency of missions nor the exchange of war strategies. Instead, the air was thick with gossip. The heroes, figures of immense power and prestige, whispered among themselves like common townsfolk at a marketplace, their voices tinged with curiosity, amusement, and perhaps a hint of apprehension.
"Have you heard of the rumored new hero?" A warrior, clad in heavy armor that shimmered with divine light, leaned in toward the others at his table. His tone was conspiratorial, a stark contrast to the usual solemnity expected of him. "He carries a crimson umbrella, concealing a blade within its frame."
"A crimson umbrella?" A woman draped in flowing robes of celestial blue raised a skeptical brow. "That's… unusual. Most of us carry weapons of grand design, yet he hides his in something so mundane?"
"And the way he dresses," another hero chimed in, shaking his head in mild disapproval. "Clad in all black, he must think himself a mystery."
A sorcerer, his fingertips glowing faintly with residual magic, chuckled. "But he is a mystery. Who is he, really?"
The group fell silent for a moment, glancing at one another, as if someone among them held the answer.
"I saw him once," a younger hero finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It was during a mission in the Shadow Province. I didn't see much, only a glimpse — but his eyes…"
"What about them?" The armored warrior leaned in further, eager for any sliver of information.
"They glow," the younger hero murmured, his expression darkening. "Gold at first, then fading into cyan. It was… unnatural."
"Unnatural?" The robed woman scoffed. "We exist in a realm of magic and impossibilities. What makes him so different?"
"It wasn't just the color," the younger hero clarified. "It was the way they burned, as if he wasn't just looking at his enemies — he was judging them."
A hush fell over the table, a rare unease settling between them. The Hall had always been a place of order, discipline, and righteousness. Every hero was chosen for a reason, their purpose clear. Yet this man — this shadow among them — was an enigma.
And enigmas were dangerous.
Far from the gilded grandeur of the Hall of a Thousand Heroes, in a place where shadows reigned, a man sat upon a throne of obsidian. The room surrounding him was vast, too vast, its cavernous walls stretching endlessly into the abyss. Dark hues cloaked every surface, swallowing any semblance of warmth. Even the flames that flickered in the sconces cast only the dimmest of light, as if afraid to shine too brightly in his presence.
He wrote.
The scratch of ink against parchment echoed through the chamber, the only sound in the suffocating silence. His handwriting was precise, elegant even, but the force behind each stroke betrayed his emotions. His grip on the pen was tight, his knuckles pale from the pressure. If one looked closer, they would notice the slight furrow in his brow, the veins on his hands and arms bulging as if barely containing the fury within.
Hypocrites.
He scrawled the word with such force that the tip of his pen nearly tore through the page.
They speak of honor. Of duty. Of righteousness. Yet they chain us to their cause, stripping us of choice. No freedom, no escape — only servitude until death. And they celebrate it.
He exhaled sharply, setting the pen down before he crushed it between his fingers. With a measured motion, he closed the journal, placing it upon the surface beside his throne. The leather cover bore a single name, embossed in deep red: Thorne.
His gaze flickered to the side, to the object that never left his possession. A crimson umbrella, resting idly against the throne's armrest. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for it, his fingers curling around its handle. A flick of his wrist, and the hidden blade emerged — silent, sharp, deadly.
For a moment, he simply stared at it, as if lost in thought. The blade gleamed under the dim light, its edge pristine. Satisfied, he sheathed it once more, returning the umbrella to its place.
Boredom weighed heavily upon him. He leaned back against the throne, his fingers drumming against its armrest. He had long since lost count of how many missions he had completed, how many lives he had extinguished. The so-called heroes in the Hall whispered about him, but they did not understand.
They never would.
A quiet chuckle escaped his lips, reverberating through the vast, empty chamber. The Hall of a Thousand Heroes could gossip all they wanted. Let them wonder, let them fear.
In the end, it did not matter.
He would show them what a true mystery really was.