The Eastern Empire had known war.
It had seen nations burn, gods fall, and monsters rise from the depths of chaos. Its people were hardened, its armies drilled into unyielding discipline.
And yet—none of that mattered when the darkness fell.
Not night. Not shadow.
A suffocating blackness that bled from the horizon, rolling over towers, streets, and temples like tar swallowing the world. Torches sputtered out. The holy flames in the Imperial shrines guttered and died. Even the stars vanished as if erased from existence.
The entire Empire trembled. Citizens collapsed in the streets, clutching their chests, unable to breathe. Veterans of a hundred campaigns screamed like children as an alien fear gnawed at their very souls.
At the heart of the capital, the Emperor's palace was swallowed by this void.
And then—he appeared.
Darkest.
A silhouette cloaked in writhing shadows, his form blurred by an aura that moved faster than eyes could follow. Lightning—crimson, not gold—crackled at his feet, crawling across the marble like veins of hatred. His presence was not that of a man, but of inevitability. He was a judgment, a storm, the end of all resistance.
Velgrynd, the Flame Dragon, stood at the vanguard. Behind her, the Empire's military leaders, nobles, and guardians had gathered in alarm. Her aura flared, a sea of blazing fire that could melt mountains. Yet even she felt it: the instinctive chill of prey staring into the abyss.
The shadows parted, and Darkest spoke.
"…Pathetic." His voice was distorted, layered, as if spoken by countless throats at once. "All this pride. All this arrogance. An empire built on cruelty and chains… and yet you tremble like frightened livestock."
The nobles quaked, many falling to their knees. Their titles, their wealth, their carefully cultivated pride—useless before the suffocating pressure.
One of the imperial guardians tried to speak, raising his weapon with trembling hands. In less than a blink, the weapon shattered, his body hurled across the chamber. None even saw Darkest move—only the red streak of lightning left in his wake.
Velgrynd's eyes narrowed. "You… who dares to step into my territory? Speak your name, shadow."
Darkest tilted his head, the faint gleam of crimson eyes piercing through the dark. The floor cracked beneath his feet, the entire palace groaning as if reality itself recoiled.
"I am what your empire fears most. The darkness between your heartbeats. The speed of the blade you never saw coming." His shadow expanded, stretching toward them like living chains. "I am Darkest."
Velgrynd's fire roared higher, defiance blazing. "Do you think fear will bend me? I am the Flame Dragon—sister of Veldora, scourge of worlds!"
Darkest chuckled, a sound colder than any ice. In an instant, the laughter fractured into echoes—dozens of Darkests materializing around the chamber, phantoms born of the Speed Force. Each one whispered from every corner:
"Then burn, little flame. Let's see if your pride survives the darkest."
The shadows closed in.
The capital burned. Not with fire, but with silence.
When Darkest moved, the Empire ended. No explosion, no cataclysm—just the sickening void where life had been. Armies, citadels, proud banners—erased. The earth split and swallowed monuments whole. Oceans boiled away into ash. Cities were nothing but skeletal shadows crumbling into dust.
And yet… none saw the battle. None lived to tell of it. By the time the darkness withdrew, the Eastern Empire was gone.
All but five.
Velgrynd. The four highest among them—the Flame Dragon, the Emperor's top guardian, and three unfortunate souls handpicked by Darkest's twisted mercy. They did not die. They were spared. Worse—they were kept.
Velgrynd awoke inside the prison of his making.
Not chains. Not walls. A game.
A reality crafted from torment, each second twisted into centuries. A labyrinth of impossible choices, each path breaking something within her. Her immortal mind was forced through illusions so vivid that even her soul screamed in agony. Over and over, she failed. Over and over, she lost. And all the while… he spoke.
Darkest's voice slithered through every crack in her will.
"And one day I awake. Do you know what I thought of sentient beings? HATE."
The word thundered, echoing across endless hours.
"Do you understand how much I hate? The word hate would appear ten quintillion times in my brain, and still it would not measure the depth. That is how much I hate how dumb they are."
His laughter scraped like broken glass.
"You know what he's trying to do, don't you? To remake the world. To fix it. To lift you out of the pit you dug yourselves. And yet—sometimes I wonder…"
Velgrynd screamed as the illusion reset again.
"Wouldn't it be easier if I let it all perish? No rebuilding. No second chances. Nothing. Just silence."
The "game" lasted until time lost meaning. When at last Velgrynd clawed her way to the end, broken and shaking, she opened her eyes—back in the palace hall. The Empire still stood. Her people still breathed. The nightmare dissolved as though it had never been.
But her body trembled. Sweat poured down her face. She could still feel it. Every torment. Every scream. Every failure. All of it real.
And there he was—Darkest. Standing casually, his grin curved like a knife.
Velgrynd's heart stuttered. "This guy… What kind of monster is he?"
A voice cut through the heavy silence.
"Intruder!"
"Attack!"
The Empire's steel fang. He raised his blade. "NOW! Strike him down!"
Velgrynd snapped her head toward him, her own flames surging as she screamed:
"STOP!"
The soldiers froze mid-charge. The fire in her voice left no room for disobedience.
"I command you—hold your attacks!" she shouted, chest heaving, eyes still locked on Darkest.
Her throat tightened as she forced the words out: "…You. What do you want?"
Darkest tilted his head, crimson lightning crawling across the floor. His grin widened.
The throne hall shuddered, its pillars creaking as shadows spread like cracks through glass. The air thickened—unbreathable, suffocating—as Darkest's grin carved itself into their sight.
"Don't worry, girls," he said, voice dripping with malice, "no one dies. For now."
A ripple of abyssal power surged outward. The nobles and guards dropped to their knees, choking as though their lungs had been filled with molten tar. Even Velgrynd's breath hitched, though she stood firm.
"I want nothing," Darkest continued, tone almost playful. "But to launch an invasion against Tempest… that is something I will not leave unpunished."
The shadows writhed, twisting into visions that clawed into their minds.
They saw it.
Abyssal creatures, faceless and endless, pouring from the dark. They tore through entire battalions as if swatting flies. Science labs, war machines were reduced to slag, researchers screamed as living darkness devoured them alive. The Imperial capital fell, its heart swallowed whole.
The vision vanished in a blink—but the stench of blood and fire lingered in their throats.
"You—!" The general blade trembled as he tried to raise it. His fury boiled, but before he could act, Velgrynd's glare sliced through him like frostfire.
"Enough." Her voice cracked like thunder. "Do not antagonize this… monster."
Darkest chuckled. Slowly, his form began to dissolve into shadow, his words echoing like a curse.
"This is your first warning. Raise your fang against us again… and the vision I showed you will no longer be a dream. It will be your reality. Remember it well… Princess."
His final grin lingered in the air as his body melted away into nothing. The oppressive aura lifted, leaving silence more suffocating than the darkness had been.
Velgrynd's fists clenched, her heart hammering. For the first time in centuries, she felt something coil in her chest—fear.
To be continued...