The weight of the sword felt unfamiliar in his hand. It wasn't heavy in the traditional sense — it was more like holding a storm, a pressure that seemed to seep into his bones. Each step he took sent faint echoes across the cavern, the sound swallowed quickly by the vastness of the darkness.
He took a long, steadying breath. The air was cold, thinner than what he remembered on the surface, and carried a faint metallic tang, as if the stones themselves had bled centuries ago and never stopped.
The faint lights from before flickered along the walls, revealing more of those ancient, intricate etchings. The designs twisted and turned in patterns his mind couldn't quite follow, their purpose alien, but undeniably deliberate. Some looked like diagrams, others like constellations, and a few bore the shape of weapons — blades, staves, and strange devices he didn't recognize.
He ran his fingers along the cold wall, feeling the grooves beneath his touch. His throat felt dry.
Why is all this here… buried beneath my kingdom?
His footsteps carried him to a wider chamber, where the ceiling rose so high it disappeared into shadow. Here, relics lay scattered like the remains of a dead civilization. Towering metallic structures loomed on either side, their surfaces cracked, their purpose lost to time. Strange glass cylinders lined one wall, filled with what looked like long-evaporated liquid, the remnants of ancient experiments.
A low hum drew his attention. One of the consoles — sleek, untouched by rust — flickered to life as he neared. The same artificial voice that had called to him earlier spoke again.
[Cognitive imprint confirmed. Void Archive sequence initiated.]
A section of the floor shifted, revealing a platform of dark stone, engraved with the same symbols. He hesitated. Logic screamed to stay away. His instincts — the ones that had let him survive battles and betrayals — told him to step forward.
And so he did.
The moment his foot touched the platform, a rush of cold enveloped him. The world blurred. Symbols above him lit with a pale, violet light, and the voice spoke once more — this time softer, closer, as if it spoke directly into his mind.
[Subject… unstable. Physical and cognitive deterioration detected. Initiating corrective protocol: Void Meditation Technique — Tier One.]
His body convulsed. Agony ripped through his chest, his veins burning like liquid fire. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air that didn't seem to fill his lungs.
Then — understanding.
Images, sensations, knowledge poured into him. Instructions on how to breathe in a rhythm older than written language, how to slow his pulse until his heartbeat mimicked the pulse of the earth. How to force the body to consume the world's energy, even in a place as forsaken as this.
He forced his battered limbs into a sitting position, crossed his legs, and began to follow the guidance.
In… hold… out…
In… hold… out…
With every breath, his vision cleared. The pain dulled. His mind sharpened.
Minutes stretched into hours. Hours blurred into days.
At some point, the platform's light dimmed, and the AI spoke again.
[Vital signs stabilized. Meditation cycle complete. Initiating martial transmission.]
A sphere of black metal floated down from above. Within it danced the faint, ghostly images of warriors. Figures clad in tattered cloaks, wielding strange blades, moving in ways that defied gravity.
The AI explained their forms. Movements designed not for flourish, but for survival. Techniques built to sever flesh, bone, spirit, and even the very essence of magic.
Void Martial Path — Eightfold Forms.
First Form: Phantom Severance.
Second Form: Shadow Echo.
Third Form: Abyssal Rend.
…and so on.
Each technique had a purpose. A lesson.
He practiced the first form beneath the ancient ceiling. His body weak, untrained for the demands, but unwilling to yield.
Days turned to months. The concept of time itself dulled in the endless gloom.
In between training, he explored.
Corridors twisted endlessly, leading to forgotten archives. Crystalline tablets filled with knowledge he could barely comprehend. Stasis pods long abandoned. Armories stocked with strange weapons — guns that fired beams of light, swords forged from materials he couldn't name, and devices designed to shield the body from magic.
One chamber was filled with what looked like skeletal remains — humanoid, but taller, broader, their skulls elongated, their ribs reinforced. Beside them, the remains of mechanical constructs lay dormant.
Who were these people? What were they fighting?
Every discovery painted a new question.
He documented them, the AI guiding him, offering fragmented translations and incomplete records. It called itself Void Archive, an ancient remnant of a civilization older than his kingdom's myths.
Over time, his body changed. The meditation techniques hardened his muscles, sharpened his senses. The Void Path's martial forms carved new instincts into his bones.
He grew faster. Deadlier. The foolish, exiled prince who had fallen from grace was buried somewhere in the dust of the abyss. In his place, a survivor was born.
One who would not forgive.
And the surface…?
He asked the AI once how long it had been.
The response chilled him.
[Temporal discrepancy: Estimated 112 cycles elapsed since initial descent.]
He didn't understand the exact measure, but he knew what it meant.
A century. Maybe more.
The world above had forgotten him. His name erased, his kingdom likely dust. The men who betrayed him long dead.
But the world itself still existed.
And one day, he would climb from the abyss and see it again.
Not as the lost prince.
But as something else.
Something forged in shadow and silence.
Something… born of the Void.