When sleep finally broke, it didn't break gently.
No sunlight. No soft warmth. No morning breeze.
Just a heavy, pressing darkness, and a presence like a claw around my lungs.
I opened my eyes slowly.
The room was the same—cold stone walls, a bed far too comfortable for a place like this, glowing torches etched into demonic sconces.
But something was different.
Someone was watching.
I didn't hear footsteps, breath, or movement. Yet instinct screamed danger. Goosebumps crawled along my skin.
Slowly, I turned my head—
And there he was.
Seated casually on the room's only chair, like he had always been there.
Orba.
His horns brushed the ceiling. His crimson eyes pulsed like molten furnaces. Power radiated from him in waves, suffocating, ancient, coiled like a predator at rest—ready to devour.
I sat up slowly, muscles stiff from tension. Not from sleep.
From fear.
"...You're awake," he rumbled.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Every word pressed into my bones like weight I could barely hold.
"Yes," I said simply.
"Good." A slight curve touched his mouth—not a smile. Something colder. "It means you lived through the night."
I swallowed. "Was that… uncertain?"
Orba leaned back, eyes appraising me like an experiment.
"In the Abyss, even air hunts the weak."
My heart thudded once. Twice. Slow. Controlled.
"I'm still breathing."
"For now."
He rose—like a mountain standing, shadow blotting the torchlight. The room felt smaller, suffocating. He stopped in front of me, gaze descending like a hammer from heaven.
—or hell.
"Tell me," he murmured, "how does a creature who died in despair wake up in my domain with eyes that refuse to break?"
My breath hitched.
He was testing me. Again.
Always testing.
"I told you," I said quietly. "I don't remember everything."
Orba clicked his tongue. "Memory is a veil. Instinct is truth." His hand, clawed and enormous, brushed the side of his throne-like chair. "And your instincts scream of someone who has already stood at the bottom."
A pause.
"Tell me, Simonstita Aumar."
My heart stuttered. The name felt foreign and familiar.
"What do you fear most?"
I froze.
In Earth, I would have answered with something simple. Failure. Disappointment. Being worthless.
But those fears died with Jaka's old life.
What terrified me now?
My mind searched—and found nothing but emptiness.
Then a slow truth formed.
"Staying weak."
Orba stilled.
He did not smile, yet satisfaction glimmered in his eyes like blood reflecting flame.
"A correct fear."
His voice thickened, vibrating through stone.
"In this world, weakness is a sin. The Abyss does not tolerate sinners."
I nodded slowly.
"But strength," he continued, voice deep like the roots of a corpse–choked mountain, "is not given. It is carved. Earned. Torn from the bones of the unworthy."
His claws lifted—not toward me, but to the air.
A flicker.
A tear in space appeared, thin like a slit in reality. A faint, endless red shimmered inside. Whispers crawled from it, hungry, ancient. A chill seeped into the room.
"The weak die," Orba whispered. "The strong kill. This is the only law."
Abyss Law #1: Strength Above All.
I felt the truth settle like ice in my veins.
He closed the tear with a casual flick, as if dismissing an entire world.
"You will train," Orba said. "Eat, breathe, bleed for power. Or I will crush you myself."
This was not motivation.
This was sentencing.
I nodded. "I understand."
"You think you do." His voice dripped with dark amusement. "But you will learn."
His claws tapped my chest gently—no pressure, but it felt like a mountain leaned against my ribs.
"This body… has potential. You waste it, you die. You use it, you may crawl to survival."
Crawl.
Not rise.
Not thrive.
Crawl.
He took a step back, letting the air relax fractionally.
"Tell me again," Orba commanded. "Who do you serve?"
The instinct to resist flickered.
To kneel meant being prey forever.
But refusing him now would mean death—instant, swift, meaningless.
So I bowed slightly—obedience, not worship.
"For now," I whispered, "I serve you."
Silence.
Then:
"Good."
Lightning–sharp satisfaction flashed in his eyes. Not because I obeyed, but because he saw the truth behind my tone.
I was loyal for survival.
And he enjoyed that more than blind devotion.
"Stand," Orba ordered.
I did.
"You will follow me. You will see what strength looks like—and what awaits the weak."
He turned, cloak flowing like living shadow, and the door shuddered open without touch.
As I stepped behind him, a cold realization settled in:
This was not mentorship.
This was captivity disguised as preparation.
A monster sharpening a blade for his own future hunt.
Yet as I walked behind the Abyssal King, I felt it—not just fear.
Not just dread.
But a spark.
A beginning.
If the Abyss wanted to devour me, I would let it sharpen me first.
And if Orba wanted a weapon…
He would get one.
But one day—it would be pointed back at him.
The corridor outside my room was no hallway—
It was a canyon of black stone, obsidian veins glowing like molten wounds. The air vibrated with distant roars, metallic clashes, and whispers that sounded too much like human sobbing.
Orba strode forward without a sound, despite his massive frame. His cloak trailed behind him like a storm cloud, swallowing light.
I followed.
Every instinct screamed for caution.
Not because I feared Orba would kill me at any moment.
But because I feared everything else here might try first.
The corridor stretched impossibly far, bending into unnatural angles, twisting like a labyrinth carved by madness. Walls shifted when I wasn't looking directly—breathing, pulsing faintly like flesh beneath stone.
A pair of Abyssal guards stood ahead—towering figures clad in jagged bone armor, eyes like burning coals. Horns curled from their skulls like crowns of death. Their weapons—halberds of bleeding metal—throbbed with hunger.
Hungry weapons.
They bowed to Orba as he passed, but when their gazes slid to me—
I felt it.
Predator's interest.
One tilted his head like a wolf sniffing a newborn fawn.
"Frail," he muttered, voice scraping like rusted blades.
"Temporary," the other replied, licking his fangs. "He will not last long."
A part of me wanted to flinch.
Another part—the part that used to shrink from insults, from judgment—was silent.
Dead, maybe.
I walked with my head forward, eyes firm.
They laughed—low, gutteral, like bones grinding.
Orba didn't acknowledge them. But after we passed, he spoke without turning.
"If you cannot intimidate beasts, they will eat you."
I swallowed. "Should I have spoken?"
"No."
His tone held amusement. Dark, cruel, cold amusement.
"You should have been able to kill them."
My heart thudded once.
Was he serious? At my current state? Against armored Abyssal soldiers?
He glanced back only slightly.
The faintest curl of a smile tugged his lip.
"Yes. I am serious."
I forced my steps steady. My voice—controlled.
"I'll reach that point."
"You will," he replied. Not encouragement—expectation, like saying the sky will bleed at dusk.
We descended a sweeping staircase—each step a skull carved in stone, thousands of hollow eye sockets staring.
The air grew thicker. Heavier. The walls bled faint red mist, like trapped spirits leaking through cracks.
Then a chorus of whispers swirled:
> "A mortal…?" "Weakness… flesh… break him…" "Delicious fear…"
They crowded around my mind like insects.
A pressure built behind my eyes.
I gritted my teeth.
In my past life, panic attacks would have eaten me.
Now?
I breathed slow. Controlled.
It will not break me.
Not here. Not again.
Orba glanced without stopping.
"The Abyss remembers the scent of every soul that has died here. It tastes you."
Another whisper slithered across my skin.
> "You do not belong…"
"I know," I muttered.
He snorted—approval, maybe.
We stepped into an open hall.
No—a throne chamber carved from nightmare.
Columns of bone spiraled toward the ceiling where torn portals flickered with red lightning. The floor was black mirror glass, reflecting writhing shadows beneath it—like creatures trapped inside.
And at the far side stood a throne of jagged obsidian, surrounded by massive iron chains as thick as tree trunks.
But the throne was empty.
And yet… it felt occupied.
Alive. Watching.
Waiting.
I froze.
A pressure pressed down like gravity suddenly doubled. Not killing pressure—testing pressure. It pushed against my mind, probing for cracks.
I clenched my fists.
You don't get to break me.
Not again.
My vision dimmed at the edges but I stood straight.
The pressure eased.
Only then did I inhale sharply.
Orba did not look at me—but satisfaction flared briefly in the corner of his eye.
"You do not shatter as quickly as I thought."
"Not anymore."
A pause.
Then Orba let out a quiet, dangerous chuckle.
"You speak as if your previous life was weakness incarnate."
"Wasn't it?" I replied.
He said nothing at first.
Then:
"Perhaps you learned something from falling so low, little mortal."
Not insult—observation.
The idea that failure had value felt strange here.
But also true.
Falling is only shameful if you stay on the ground.
"Sit," Orba commanded, gesturing toward a flat black stone near the throne.
I obeyed.
The moment I touched it, cold surged through my bones. Visions flickered—
Battles in crimson skies.
Cities swallowed by darkness.
Beasts roaring against armies.
A king standing atop corpses—horns raised to the heavens in defiance.
Orba.
He sat on the arm of his throne instead of the throne itself, arms crossed, gaze heavy.
"This kingdom," he said, "is not like your human nations. Here, power is not given—it is taken. Thrones are not inherited—they are seized. And loyalty is a leash made of blood."
His eyes narrowed on me.
"Understand this. You are not here to serve me."
My breath caught.
"You are here to survive me."
Silence.
A cold truth, sharp as obsidian.
I nodded. "Then I'll survive."
"Will you?" he murmured. "Even demons die screaming in my halls."
He leaned forward, voice low.
"You do not yet understand what it means to live under a King of the Abyss."
I stayed silent.
He continued.
"I am Ninth. Below eight far stronger than myself. Above countless who claw and gnash to drag me down. If they smell weakness through you—if they suspect I shelter something fragile—my enemies will pry into you, rip you apart, and dangle your entrails from my gates as mockery."
The imagery was blunt. Raw. Real.
"And if they do?" I asked quietly.
His answer chilled me:
"Then I will be disappointed only that you died so easily."
No affection.
No bond.
No protection beyond strategic interest.
This was not a mentor.
This was a tyrant who expected results or corpses.
Orba stood then.
"Stand."
I did.
"Do not cower. Do not bow in fear. In my realm, those who kneel are already meat."
I straightened instinctively.
He studied me again—eyes sharp like dissecting knives.
"If you are to carry my mark one day," he murmured, "you must earn the right not to die."
Carry his mark.
The idea filled me with pride—
—and dread.
He pointed to a door on the far end, metal etched with runes that glowed sickly purple.
"Behind that door lies your first test."
My pulse stuttered.
"What is it?"
He smiled.
A real smile.
Terrifying.
"Blood. Noise. Suffering. The Abyss does not whisper to the weak. It screams."
I swallowed hard.
"And if I fail?"
He shrugged, indifferent.
"Then I was mistaken about you."
And he turned away.
Not to watch.
Not to guide.
Not to help.
Because in the Abyss, even kings do not waste time mourning broken tools.
I faced the door.
A tremor—not fear, but anticipation—ran through my fingers.
"I won't break," I whispered again.
I pushed the door.
A roar of darkness swallowed me whole.
His thoughts cut short.
The door creaked.
A pale figure peeked in: a young man, lean, nervous, sharp-eyed. His hair was colorless, like moonlight drained of warmth, and his irises glowed faint red.
"Sir… Simon?" he stuttered.
Simon straightened his back instinctively.
Even a false identity deserved a ruler's posture.
"Yes?"
The youth bowed, stiff and quick.
"I was ordered to assist you. My name is Eras."
Ordered by whom? Simon already knew, but he asked anyway, testing.
"By whom?"
"Lord Orba." His eyes flickered up. "And indirectly… by His Majesty."
So Orba left eyes on him. Expected.
Eras shuffled in with a tray—strange meats, dark fruits, and a cerulean liquid steaming faintly.
"It's nourishment approved for… newcomers," he explained.
Simon glanced at the drink.
Approved food meant controlled food. Poison? Magic? Tracking essence? Perhaps restraint spells?
> The Abyss does not waste food. So if they're feeding me… they expect use.
He smiled faintly. "Thank you, Eras. I appreciate the care."
The boy flinched.
Not from Simon's tone, but from unfamiliarity with it.
Kindness… here was rare enough to feel dangerous.
Eras lingered awkwardly, as though waiting for dismissal but afraid to leave too soon.
"You may speak," Simon offered. "I don't bite."
Eras shook his head quickly. "I shouldn't disturb—"
"But you already are," Simon said gently. "So disturb properly."
The youth blinked. Then laughed—nervous, small, but real.
"You talk strange," he murmured.
"Do I?"
"Not like the others. They speak like they're one breath away from killing. You…"
He hesitated, searching for words.
"You sound like someone who expects to be obeyed without threatening."
A compliment. One that revealed more than Eras knew.
"It's easier," Simon replied.
"To command without raising a blade."
Eras swallowed, impressed or terrified. Maybe both.
"Are you… a noble from above?" he whispered. "From the living realms?"
Simon's heartbeat stayed steady. His smile remained mild.
"No."
Not exactly a lie. Not truth.
"But I carry the habits of someone who refuses to kneel."
Eras stared as though he had just met either a saint or a monster.
"Be careful saying things like that," he whispered. "If the wrong person hears…"
Simon chuckled softly. "They won't."
Because he would choose the right ears. And silence the wrong ones.
When Eras finally excused himself, Simon watched the door close.
Soft click. Heavy implications.
One helper.
Two observers.
A dozen unseen threats.
> Surveillance disguised as service. Understandable. Predictable. Manageable.
He paced slowly, fingertips trailing the walls, mind racing.
If Orba wanted him loyal, there were two paths normally available:
Break him.
Buy him.
But Simon was not normal prey.
He was a wolf wearing a lamb's cloak. Temporary camouflage.
He catalogued himself:
Memory from Earth: strategy, psychology, survival.
Memory from Simonstita Aumar: etiquette, Abyss basics, vague instincts for danger.
Body: weak, malnourished, untrained in this world's arts.
Magic or power: none yet. A fatal flaw.
He tapped his chest lightly.
> "Power first," he whispered.
"Loyalty never. Obedience only until I learn how to kill gods."
His voice did not rise.
Rebellion spoken quietly was safer—and more terrifying.
He recalled Orba's eyes, ancient and amused.
The king did not underestimate him. Good.
Underestimation was useful, but fearful respect was even better.
It meant Simon could sharpen his fangs in peace—for now.
Night here was wrong.
Not quiet—but pulsing. Breathing. Murmuring. Like millions of creatures whispering prayers… or curses.
He lay on the bed but did not fully rest.
Just enough to refresh the body, not dull the mind.
Whispers slithered through cracks.
"Hungry…"
"New blood…"
"Offer him…"
Not directed at him, but close enough to stain his dreams.
He smiled faintly in half-sleep.
> Good. Let the darkness test me. I will become sharper for it.
When true rest came, it was not peaceful—
but forged.
—
A knock. Firmer. Confident.
Simon opened his eyes instantly, already alert.
He opened the door.
Orba stood there, armored and cold.
"His Majesty requests your presence. Immediately."
Not "invites."
Not "summons with respect."
Requests—with the weight of threat beneath it. Elegant tyranny.
Simon bowed with perfect grace and smiled.
"Lead the way."
He would walk among monsters.
He would appear weak.
He would learn everything.
And when the time came, he would not just survive the Abyss—