The heavy iron door groaned open, spilling a thin sliver of torchlight into Ryel's dank cell. Lyra stood silhouetted in the doorway, a figure now alien and imposing. In her grasp, she held a greatsword, its polished blade reflecting the meager light with a cold, almost predatory gleam. It was an extravagant weapon, far too large for her slight frame, yet she held it with an unsettling ease. Ryel, still bound and sprawled on the cold stone, slowly lifted his head, his gaze meeting hers, devoid of the warmth that once flickered between them.
"So, you're awake," she stated, her voice devoid of its former gentle lilt, replaced by a brittle edge. She took a step closer, the rhythmic drip of water echoing in the silence.
"Are you angry? Sad? Frightened?" Each word was a deliberate probe, an attempt to gauge his reaction, perhaps to savor his suffering.
Ryel's voice was hoarse, raspy from thirst and disuse. "Why?" The single word was not a plea for understanding, but a raw question demanding explanation for this twisted masquerade.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Lyra's face, a momentary crack in her carefully constructed facade of indifference. "Why?" she scoffed, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. "It's because I want power. People say it's simple until you feel it. The sheer, intoxicating rush of control, the ability to shape your own destiny instead of being a pawn in someone else's grand game." She took another step, the greatsword dragging faintly on the stone, its presence amplifying the oppressive atmosphere.
"And I need your power."
The cold steel of the blade kissed his neck, a chilling caress that sent a shiver down his spine. It was a precise, deliberate placement, the sharp edge resting just above his jugular. The metallic scent of the weapon filled his nostrils, a grim foreshadowing.
A weak, almost imperceptible grin touched Ryel's lips. It was not a grin of defiance, but of utter, profound defeat. The weight of her betrayal, coupled with the crushing realization of his powerlessness, settled over him like a shroud. "Well," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "I'm disappointed."
Lyra recoiled slightly, a look of profound disgust twisting her features. "Boring," she sneered, the word dripping with contempt.
"I'd hoped for more… drama. At least I will absorb your power anyway. Goodbye, Ryel."
The greatsword arced through the air, a blur of cold steel. Ryel closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.
But then, time itself fractured.
The world around him froze. The greatsword, a hair's breadth from severing his head, hung suspended in mid-air, a silent, deadly tableau. The flickering torchlight became a static painting on the dungeon wall. Lyra, her face contorted in a sneer of triumph, was a frozen statue of malice.
Ryel, impossibly, was the only one still capable of movement, still capable of thought. His eyes snapped open, wide with bewildered terror. Before him, coalescing from the very shadows of the cell, a dark silhouette began to form. It was a mirror image of himself, yet distorted, imbued with an otherworldly aura. Its eyes, glowing with an eerie crimson light, were fixed on his. A predatory grin stretched across its shadowy face, a reflection of his own defeated smile, yet amplified into something utterly sinister.
The shadow reached out, its spectral hand gently cupping his cheek. The touch was cold, like a breath from the deepest abyss, yet it resonated with an unnerving familiarity. Its crimson eyes bored into his, a silent, ancient gaze that seemed to pierce through his very soul.
And then, a voice echoed not in his ears, but directly within his mind, a whisper that vibrated through every atom of his being. It was his own voice, yet deeper, imbued with a power that shook the foundations of his consciousness.
"Well, it seems you are ready to give command to me... the Absolute Abyss."
A blinding surge of raw, untamed power coursed through Ryel. It wasn't just a sensation; it was a deluge of ancient knowledge, a sudden, horrifying understanding of what lay dormant within him. He saw visions of impossible voids, of dimensions swallowed whole, of the very fabric of reality unraveling at a whim.
This… this was his true potential, locked away, suppressed, perhaps even forgotten, until this moment of ultimate despair.
The dark silhouette merged with him, a seamless fusion of shadow and spirit. He felt it settle within his soul, a vast, hungry presence that hummed with untold power.
The process was not violent, but a terrifying homecoming. He understood. He understood the 'why,' the 'how,' the sheer, unbridled force that was now inextricably linked to his very existence.
Then, with a jarring snap, time lurched forward. The greatsword completed its arc.
Ryel's head rolled.
Darkness. Absolute, complete, and terrifying.
A shimmering, ethereal light pricked the overwhelming void. Ryel opened his eyes, not with the laborious effort of a physical body, but with the immediate clarity of pure consciousness. He was no longer in the damp cell, no longer suffering the humiliation of decapitation. He was floating in an infinite expanse of starlight and swirling nebulae, a cosmic canvas that stretched endlessly in all directions.
Before him, two titanic figures materialized from the stellar tapestry. They were beings of pure energy, their forms shifting and coalescing like living constellations. One pulsed with the gentle warmth of creation, radiating a benevolent, yet stern, aura. The other crackled with the fierce, destructive energy of cosmic annihilation, its presence chilling and absolute. They were not Gods as mortals conceived them, but something far more fundamental, arbiters of existence itself.
Their voices, a symphony of resonated starlight and echoing void, filled his consciousness. "We will now provide your fate."
Ryel, despite his ethereal state, felt a surge of indignant bewilderment. Fate? Without an explanation? Without a shred of context? He was a severed head moments ago, now he was being judged by cosmic entities?
The two beings observed him, their vast consciousnesses sifting through his very essence, probing the newly awakened power within him. He felt their scrutiny, cold and analytical, peeling back layers of his existence as if he were a specimen under a microscope. He tried to resist, to push back against their invasive perception, but his will was a mere flickering candle against a supernova.
After what felt like an eternity, though in this void, time was a meaningless concept, their voices resonated again, now tinged with a detached assessment. "Well, you are rather… inferior. Besides, overall bad."
A god can be this rude? Ryel thought, a flicker of his mortal indignation piercing through the awe. His entire existence, his struggles, his recent betrayal – all reduced to a dismissive shrug of the cosmic shoulders.
"We will send you to a place," the beings continued, their voices unwavering, "but if you do something that goes beyond the established rules… you will be dealt with. Severely." The threat was clear, cold, and absolute. "Now… leave."
"This is going way to fast,first I get killed and being sent to another world by the gods of that world....this is bullsh*t".
A powerful, irresistible force seized Ryel, dragging him from the starlit void. He felt a dizzying compression, as if his entire being was being squeezed through an impossibly small aperture. The cosmic dust faded, replaced by a sudden rush of wind and the scent of damp earth.
He landed with a soft thud on a patch of dewy grass. He blinked, the alien landscape slowly resolving around him. This new dimension was unlike anything he had ever seen. Towering, ancient trees, reminiscent of classic fantasy, brushed against the gleaming chrome and glass of futuristic skyscrapers. Magic pulsed in the air, a faint shimmer of arcane energy, while the distant hum of pulled-vehicles hinted at advanced technology. It was a bizarre, yet strangely harmonious, fusion of fantasy and modern.
But what truly shocked him, what sent a jolt of primal terror through his nascent awareness, was his own body. His hands, small and unblemished, were no longer those of a twenty-year-old man. He touched his face, the skin smooth and soft, unlined by worry or fatigue. He looked down at his clothes – a simple, oversized tunic and shorts, clearly meant for a child.
Was this… reincarnation? He felt no memory of a new birth, no sensation of growing up. He was simply… here.
Younger. Infinitely so. The raw power of the Absolute Abyss, now fully integrated into his being, hummed beneath his skin, a constant, undeniable presence. He understood it, intuitively, perfectly. It was his. Yet, he was a child again, adrift in an unknown world, carrying an unfathomable power and the crushing memory of betrayal.
His brow furrowed, a tiny crease in his youthful skin. The betrayal. Lyra. The cold gleam of the sword. The last moments of his previous life, vivid and agonizingly clear. He remembered the dismissal of the cosmic beings, their casual judgment. The rules they spoke of, so vaguely defined, yet so threateningly enforced.
He was no longer just Ryel, the unremarkable outcast. He was Ryel, a child in a new world, a vessel for the Absolute Abyss, and a survivor of cosmic indifference. The question now was not if he would use this power, but when, and to what end.