The air was thick with the scent of blood and burning mana. Flickering torches lined the ancient stone walls, casting eerie shadows across the ruined corridors of the Abyssal Sanctum, one of the deadliest dungeons in the world of Eldoria.
Asher Velmont, once a mere scholar of the arcane, now a battle-worn adventurer, stood at the center of the crumbling chamber. His deep violet cloak was tattered, his gold-etched sorcerer's robe stained with grime and blood, and his breathing was ragged. He had pushed himself far beyond his limits.
Before him, the monstrous form of a Voidborn Tyrant loomed—a twisted abomination of shadows and seething black flames. It had already slaughtered half of his party, and those who remained were barely clinging to life.
"Asher, we need to fall back!" shouted Ronan, a burly knight wielding a greatsword, his armor dented and cracked from the brutal fight.
"We can't," Asher said through clenched teeth, his silver eyes locked on the monster. "If this thing escapes, the entire capital will be in danger."
He tightened his grip on his arcane staff, the crimson runes along its shaft pulsating with the last vestiges of his mana. The spell he was preparing wasn't just dangerous—it was forbidden.
But there was no other choice.
A sharp cry tore through the chamber. Elyra, the young healer of their party, had fallen—her frail body crushed beneath a wave of the Voidborn's abyssal energy.
Asher's heart clenched.
Damn it… not again.
He had spent his entire life fighting, protecting, learning—yet, no matter how much power he gained, he could never save everyone.
He turned to the only other survivor—a frightened girl, no older than seventeen, trembling as she clutched a shattered wand. She had long, raven-black hair and emerald eyes, filled with sheer terror.
"L-Lord Velmont… I-I can't move…" she stammered, tears streaming down her face.
She was just an apprentice mage, barely strong enough to cast a basic fireball. She never should have been here.
But she was.
And she was going to die if he did nothing.
"Asher!" Ronan roared, preparing for a final charge. "Whatever you're thinking—make it fast!"
Asher exhaled, forcing calm into his voice. "Take her and run, Ronan."
Ronan's eyes widened. "What?! No, we can—"
"This thing won't let us all escape. I'll hold it off."
The knight cursed but didn't argue. He grabbed the girl, throwing her over his shoulder despite her weak protests.
Asher turned back to the Voidborn Tyrant, its six glowing eyes locking onto him as it let out a deep, abyssal growl. Its form shimmered—half solid, half ethereal, an existence between realms. No ordinary spell could destroy it.
But Asher was no ordinary sorcerer.
He lifted his staff, pouring every last drop of mana into his final spell. The air around him vibrated, the temperature dropping as raw arcane power crackled at his fingertips.
"Velmont, don't you dare—!" Ronan's voice was distant now, muffled by the roaring energy that surged around Asher.
He smiled. Not a smile of fear. Not even regret. Just… acceptance.
"Forbidden Art: Abyssal Oblivion."
A storm of violet and black energy erupted from his body, spiraling into the heavens as the entire dungeon shook violently.
The Voidborn Tyrant screamed, sensing its impending doom.
The last thing Asher saw was the girl's tear-streaked face as Ronan dragged her away, vanishing into the darkness.
Then, the world exploded into nothingness.