Darkness.
That was the first thing he knew. Not the comforting kind that came with sleep, nor the velvet shade of night. This was a suffocating abyss—raw, endless, and cold enough to gnaw at his very being. He couldn't breathe, though the realization struck him as absurd. He had no lungs.
He drifted in that void like a scrap of ash carried by a windless current. Hunger chewed at him—an ache without teeth, the gnawing absence of something he could not name. It was only when whispers reached him that he realized he was not alone.
Feed. Tear. Devour.
Countless voices, thin and broken, muttered in his head. He flinched—or would have, if he had a body to flinch with. The voices belonged to others, he sensed: fragments of things like him. They floated, they writhed, they snarled, all caught in the same abyss. They clawed at one another with invisible fangs, devouring shards of essence just to endure for another moment.
And then—
"Another spawn has clawed its way into the Abyss," a voice thundered.
This one was not like the whispers. It was deep, heavy, and resonant enough to shake the void. A will pressed down on him, and suddenly he did feel his form. Thin, shapeless, more like smoke than flesh. A flickering, formless spark, barely more than mist.
He was alive. Or something close to it.
The vast will weighed on him like a mountain. Shapes loomed through the dark—colossal silhouettes, wreathed in chains of black flame. Eyes like molten pits glared down at him, each one large enough to swallow his entire being.
A thought struck him, sharp and bewildering: I had another life before this.
It was a truth he couldn't deny. The memories were murky, slipping through his grasp like water, but there was no mistaking it. He had walked in flesh. He had spoken, fought, breathed. He had died.
And now he was… this.
"A whelp," one of the colossal figures hissed. "Mindless. Worthless."
"No," said another, its voice like cracking stone. "It thinks."
The weight of their gazes pierced through him, and panic surged. He forced his smoky form to pull together, condensing, struggling to look less fragile than he was. The titanic figures circled.
"A defective one," the first scoffed. "It will not last."
"Defective?" The stone-voice rumbled with amusement. "No. A tool. One with awareness may yet prove useful."
Chains rattled. He felt them before he saw them—black links forged of pain and fire. They slithered through the void, coiling around his fragile body. Agony screamed through him, more blinding than anything he had ever known. His form flickered, convulsing, nearly torn apart as the chains sank deep into what passed for his flesh.
Slave Seal, the voices whispered in cruel delight.
The brand burned into him, searing not just his body but his very will. Commands etched themselves into the marrow of his being: Obey. Serve. Betray not. Or be unmade.
He howled without sound. The chains pulsed, locking tighter, until submission was etched as deep as hunger itself.
"There," the stone-voice said, satisfied. "Now it belongs to us."
A cruel chorus of laughter shook the abyss.
Through the haze of torment, a single thought remained his own. I will not bow. The words trembled, fragile, but they were his. He clung to them like a dying ember.
The colossal figures drifted back, leaving him bound and quivering in the dark. Around him, lesser spirits shrank away, their formless hunger cowed by the brand of the slave seal. None dared approach.
A new voice slithered into his mind, quieter but sharper. Spawn. You will serve. You will crawl into the domains of the living, wearing their faces. You will bring us their secrets, their strength, their treasures. Fail… and you will be refined into the steel of my blade, screaming for eternity within its edge.
The words cut deeper than the chains. He could almost see it—his essence beaten into molten iron, stretched, hammered, twisted into a weapon's spirit. A prison without end.
His hunger writhed, twisting into something harder. No, he thought again, firmer this time. I won't be your tool forever.
But he gave no sign of rebellion. The seal ensured that much. To resist outwardly was to invite annihilation.
The void stirred. A portal yawned open before him, bleeding light. Not pure light—it shimmered with faint blue veins, pulsing like blood through translucent skin. The air carried a taste: crisp, sharp, saturated with something intoxicating. Qi.
The demonic voice whispered: Enter the world. Wear the mask. Remember your chains.
The portal pulled. He resisted at first, his smoky form trembling, then gave way, swallowed by brilliance.
—
The world on the other side struck him like a storm.
Air. Cold, thin, delicious. The press of earth, solid beneath phantom feet he hadn't realized he still knew how to use. Forests stretched endless, their trees blackened with night. The moon above hung huge and pale, casting a light that seemed to burn against his essence.
He staggered forward, learning to move again. His form was smoke and shadow still, but it bent, warped, shifting until it clung to a more familiar shape. Arms. Hands. A face. A body.
Human.
Not perfect. Not complete. But enough. The demonic seal flared in approval, cooling from a searing burn to a dull ache.
Somewhere within, something coiled. He froze.
A flicker. A shadow behind his eyes. In his chest, deep within a place that felt more real than flesh, something stirred. A presence—small, dim, yet undeniable.
A serpent.
It was barely there, no thicker than a strand of smoke, its body dull grey, its eyes faint and lifeless. But it existed. It coiled within him, silent, watching.
Confusion rippled through him. Was this part of him? Or something placed there by the seal?
The serpent shifted, uncoiling slightly, and the hunger inside him sharpened. He knew instinctively: this was tied to his survival. Its weakness mirrored his weakness. Its growth would mean his growth.
But unlike the chains burning his body, the serpent gave no command. No leash, no demand. Only a quiet, unsettling patience.
He pressed a hand to his chest, shuddering. What are you?
The serpent's dull eyes flickered, just for a moment.
Then the forest erupted with sound.
A howl, guttural and bone-shaking, ripped through the trees. Shapes slithered between shadows—twisted beasts, their forms half-warped, their eyes glowing with a hunger that mirrored the whispers of the abyss.
They had caught his scent.
Instinct screamed. His smoke-formed body tensed, staggering backward as the first beast lurched into view—a hulking wolf-thing, its flesh torn and rotted, its jaw unhinged wider than it should go.
Hunger. Rage. Madness.
He knew them well. They were like him—but ruined, mindless, lost to the abyss.
The serpent in his chest shifted again. His hunger roared.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Chains burned on his soul, forcing him to remember: he was a pawn, a spy, a slave. But another truth burned deeper.
Devour, or be devoured.
The wolf lunged. He threw up his hands, smoke twisting into claws. His first battle as something no longer man, not yet monster, had begun.
And deep within, the serpent opened its eyes.