"It is decided. The Dungeon King must fall."
The words echoed through the celestial hall, heavy with finality. Seven figures stood in a vast chamber beyond mortal comprehension. The very fabric of reality bent under their presence. Beings who shaped existence itself.
Before them, bound in chains that shimmered with divine power, knelt a man. His long, silver hair was matted with blood, his once magnificent armor shattered, and his piercing purple eyes smoldered with defiance. He did not beg. He did not plead. He only glared at the gods with a twisted smirk.
"You speak of judgment..." the man rasped, his voice like distant thunder... "yet you cower in fear."
One of the Primordial Gods, a radiant being whose presence burned like a thousand suns, stepped forward. Their voice was devoid of emotion. "You defied the order of the world, Tyrial. You amassed power beyond any mortal, beyond even the gods who granted you life. You created an empire that threatened the balance of creation itself."
Tyrial chuckled darkly. "Balance? You speak of balance when it is nothing more than a cage of your own making. I shattered my chains once before. Do you truly think these will hold me forever?"
Another god, wreathed in shadow, narrowed his luminous eyes. "No. That is why we will do more than imprison you."
The golden chains binding Tyrial pulsed with an otherworldly light. His smirk faltered for the first time as power surged through his body. It was primal... inescapable... and absolute. Pain tore through his veins like molten fire. His muscles seized... His breath hitched. He was not merely being bound. Something deeper, more insidious, was being woven into his very existence.
"This is no ordinary prison, Dungeon King," the gods intoned in unison... "This is a curse upon your bloodline, a punishment that will transcend time and reincarnation. Your descendants will bear the weight of your sins. They will suffer, bound by fate's cruel design, until the day comes when one of your bloodline seeks to reclaim what was lost."
Tyrial gritted his teeth, his body convulsing. "You, damn cowards." His words came out in ragged breaths. The divine chains tightened, embedding themselves into his soul. His vision blurred, but he refused to look away.
Then, he felt it.
A cold hand reached into his chest, not physically, but deeper. His very essence was being ripped from his form. The gods were not merely binding him. They were taking his soul.
His body slumped forward, the glow in his eyes flickering. His consciousness wavered as the gods turned away. One spoke the final decree.
"Leave his body where it belongs. Deep within the abyss of Dathore. Let time forget him..."
Darkness consumed everything...
Lance jolted awake, gasping for breath...
His hand shot to his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His heart pounded furiously, a cold sweat clinging to his skin.
"What was that?" he muttered, staring at the ceiling. The images from the dream burned in his mind. A throne room, chains, voices of gods condemning a man, and the searing pain of something being torn away.
He shook his head, exhaling sharply.
"Just a dream, right?"
But deep down, something inside him whispered otherwise.
Lance Seraphis was never one to rush. Life, after all, was a slow unraveling, a carefully measured journey best experienced one page at a time. As twilight unfurled its dusky mantle over the city, he meandered home from the library, the familiar weight of a leather bound tome pressed against his side like a faithful companion. The autumn air, sharp as a paper cut, nipped at his cheeks, carrying with it the petrichor of rain-kissed concrete and the distant symphony of city life winding down for the evening.
His keen eyes, veiled behind dark rimmed glasses, darted from shadow to shadow as he walked. Not out of fear, but out of habit—an unconscious ritual born from years of observing the world's minutiae. Lance noticed everything—the ephemeral dance of a faltering streetlamp, the whispered susurration of leaves stirred by passing vehicles, the plaintive howl of a dog echoing through the urban canyons two streets over. He cataloged the world like he cataloged the pages of his beloved books: meticulously, thoughtfully, always searching for meaning in the mundane.
But tonight felt... different.
The streets, usually pulsing with vitality even at this hour, had fallen into an unnatural hush. Too quiet. The kind of silence that prickled at the edges of your consciousness, whispering that something in the fabric of reality had shifted ever so slightly. Lance adjusted his grip on the book, feeling the worn leather beneath his fingers, and quickened his pace... His apartment beckoned from just a few blocks away, promising the comfort of Earl Grey and an unexplored chapter.
As he passed under the flickering aureole of a streetlamp, he felt it. That primal sensation of being watched, of eyes boring into his back with predatory intent.
Then, a shadow detached itself from the darkness.
A man stepped into his path, emerging from the void like ink bleeding through paper. The streetlight glinted off the knife in his hand with an almost musical ping.
"Hand it over," the mugger growled, his voice rough, like gravel scraping against metal.
Lance's throat constricted, but he forced himself to speak. "It's just books, nothing valuable."
The mugger chuckled, low and rasping. "You talk just like her, you know that? Always trying to reason your way out."
Lance froze. "Like who?"
The man smirked. "Your mother. Charlotte."
The world tilted. "How do you know my mother's name?"
A whisper. "The same way I knew exactly where to find you tonight..."
Pain exploded in Lance's chest. The knife pierced his flesh with sickening ease. His book fell on the rain-slick pavement.
His vision blurred... His breathing grew ragged. The mugger knelt beside him, voicing a poisoned lullaby.
"The gods are watching, boy. Say hello to your mother for me..."
His heartbeat is slow and fading.
The world dimmed.
Then...
A colossal throne room stretched before him, ancient yet pristine. Massive pillars rose into a sky that didn't exist, glowing runes pulsing like the veins of a living being. Beasts; Dragons, abyssal horrors, creatures beyond comprehension all stood in silent reverence.
On a throne of black stone and crimson fire, a man sat, regal despite the divine chains binding him. His piercing purple eyes locked onto Lance.
"You are not done yet, Lance Seraphis."
Lance staggered. "Who are you?"
Tyrial smirked. "They cursed us… but you will break the chains." The shackles seared his flesh. "You must break them."
The vision shattered like glass.
And Lance fell back into the void.
Back into Death...