Fortunately, the slime was tucked deep inside a shadowed corner of the cavern where even the torchlight could not reach.
Its body pulsed with the new power gained from leveling Consume, but the glow was subtle, muted just enough by the darkness that none of the goblins noticed.
Inside its gelatinous membrane something else also changed, a thought.
Not a full thought yet. Just a faint ripple of awareness, like a spark flickering inside a puddle.
"More… more… eat… grow… stronger…"
That was all it could understand.
Hunger and anger, these were the only instincts clear enough to take shape inside the slime's mind right now.
But even with such limited consciousness, the slime sensed something new within its core.
A new ability. A new instinct.
The Theft skill.
A skill that allowed it to steal something like small objects, fragments, or possessions from its target.
But the slime had no idea how to use it. It had no experience, no direction, or understanding of what that ability truly meant.
It only knew one thing that It couldn't use it yet. Still many more to learn.
So the slime pushed the new instinct to the side.
There was no room in its mind for anything except one priority.
Rest… then hunt… then eat again…
Its membrane sagged weakly as it coiled in the darkness, absorbing ambient mana in slow pulses.
Every few breaths, the slime twitched with the urge to pounce on another goblin… but exhaustion pinned it down like invisible chains.
So it remained still and silent while recovering.
Preparing for its next kill.
—
Far away from the Dungeon and continent of Asterra, stood a palace carved from black marble.
The structure was so vast it swallowed the horizon.
Inside its throne hall, a single figure sat upon a high-backed chair forged from obsidian with various symbols.
A long black mantle draped from his shoulders, flowing like ink across the polished floor.
A crown of dark metal rested on his head, fitting seamlessly against his raven-colored hair.
His sharp, bright, and green eyes that looked like emerald flame stared into the distance with a haunted expression.
As if he was looking in a memory that refused to fade and reliving a tragedy so deeply carved into his soul that fury and sadness twisted together in his chest.
Above him, the palace had no roof.
Instead, a swirling vortex of black clouds roared overhead like a furious river of tar, churning and twisting.
Thunder rumbled within the darkness, but no lightning ever fell.
The entire sky above him was a storm that never ended.
The figure's fingers curled around the armrest of his throne.
"It begins again," he whispered, voice low and strained.
Mana trembled through the palace walls.
He knew that that 'thing' had awakened, again. It carried a scent he recognized instantly, the scent of a power he thought had been wiped from the world long ago.
His emerald eyes narrowed.
The memory rose again.
The air around the throne room trembled as if responding to the storm inside his mind.
He remembered the War of the Thousand Banners, the war that shattered continents and darkened the heavens.
A war where every living race on the planet marched against him.
Humans with their gleaming towers of steel.
Elves cloaked in shimmering light and magic.
Dwarves wield rune-bound hammers and constructs.
Beastfolk tribes riding titanic war-beasts.
Dragons that blotted out the sky with their myriad power.
Undead legions animated by necromancers.
Even spirits of the land, wind, and sea rose to join the crusade.
All of them united.
All of them screaming for the same thing.
His death.
The throne room flickered as fragments of that old battlefield surged through his memory.
He stood on a mountain of broken weapons and shattered banners.
Blood in red, blue, black, and silver color ran down the slopes like rivers.
Thousands upon thousands charged at him and his army from all sides.
He remembered the weight of their hatred and their fear.
He remembered how they called him.
The Abyss Crown.
The Last Calamity.
He had not always been those things. But countless battles and wars had a way of carving new names into a being like him.
The warriors from dragons, elves, humans, dwarves attacked him. He tore free and buried them under the ruins of their own lands.
Even the beasts and monsters of the wild raged toward him with fury and fear.
He cut them down until mountains collapsed around him like sand.
And still the armies came in hundreds of thousands.
Until the whole world seemed to rise against him.
He and his armies fought for years without rest.
The land burned. The seas boiled. The sky cracked. All from the old world were burned.
And in the end, when the final army broke and fled the battlefield, when silence finally returned to the war-torn world…
He stood alone on a battlefield of ash. Alive and victorious.
But not unscathed.
His vast and ancient power had grown too destructive.
Every spell he cast tore holes in reality. Every breath he exhaled twisted mana around him.
If he continued, he would destroy everything he had meant to protect. Including himself.
So he did the unthinkable.
He sealed away his own power. Nearly half of it. Locked behind a chain of spells.
The storm of black clouds above the palace groaned as if mourning that sacrifice of losing his power that he tried so hard to gather.
And now, after all that, after the world had quieted and he finally had time to recover his power before claiming his sealed power, something unexpected happened.
He sensed a power.
It was faint, small, weak.
But unmistakable. It was the power of thousands of banners…
The figure's voice dropped to a whisper, tinged with dread and fury alike.
"Will they start their fight again?"
His hands tightened.
"This time I cannot allow it to grow."
His green eyes flared sharp and bright.
A pulse of mana rippled through the throne hall.
A heartbeat later, the shadows peeled away from the pillars, floor, and the swirling darkness above.
Ten silhouettes emerged, each one stepping out of the void.
Their faces and bodies were hidden beneath pitch-black shadows. Only their eyes and silhouette could be seen.
Ten pairs of eyes. Ten different shapes. Ten distinct presences.
They knelt as one, the sound of their cloaks whispering against the marble floor.
These were the Abyssal Shades, the strongest agents he had ever created. Assassins born from shadow, forged by his mana and bound by ancient oaths.
One was massive, a hulking silhouette with shoulders as broad as a doorframe, its red eyes smoldering like embers.
Another was thin as a wisp, its body swaying unnaturally, eyes glowing a pale blue.
A third had four faintly glowing irises arranged vertically.
Another one crouched low, limbs bent like a beast ready to pounce.
One carried the outline of a long blade strapped across its back.
Another radiated killing intent so thick it felt like ice forming in the air.
Ten shadows with ten distinct weapons. Ten living nightmares.
All knelt before their king.
"Your Majesty," one whispered. "We sensed your call."
The dark King leaned forward on his throne of obsidian, the storm above rumbling.
"A presence has awakened." His voice was low and resonant. "A remnant of the rebellion seed, that thing should never rise again."
The shadows tensed.
Some lowered their heads. Some clenched their invisible fists.
One of them hissed softly.
The king's emerald eyes narrowed, sharp as blades.
"Find it."
The hall darkened. Thunder growled overhead. The Shades' eyes flickered.
"Destroy it before it becomes a problem for me."
—