The ruins did not welcome the living.
They breathed.
Not with wind… but with memory.
Each step Eryndor took echoed too long, as if the stone itself refused to forget him.
Cracked pillars leaned like broken bones. Symbols—older than kingdoms, older than cultivation itself—etched across the walls pulsed faintly, as though reacting to his presence.
Behind him, the others hesitated.
"Something is wrong here…" one of the cultivators whispered.
Another tightened his grip on his weapon. "No… something is waiting."
Eryndor didn't respond.
He had already felt it.
That pull.
That hunger.
Not his own… not entirely.
But it was becoming harder to tell the difference.
At the heart of the ruins stood a throne.
Not grand. Not golden.
But carved from a single piece of black stone, cracked down the middle like it had once been shattered—and yet still endured.
Chains lay around it. Ancient. Rusted.
Broken.
Eryndor stopped.
For the first time since entering… he felt something close to fear.
A voice echoed.
Not from outside.
From within.
"You have returned."
His vision flickered.
For a moment—
No…
Not a moment.
A memory.
A battlefield drenched in ash.
Mountains split open.
The sky devoured by darkness.
And on that throne…
Someone sat.
Alone.
Hungry.
Unforgiving.
Eryndor staggered.
A sharp pain clawed through his chest.
His breath grew uneven.
The air around him… warped.
"Hey—are you alright?" someone called from behind.
Too late.
The hunger surged.
It wasn't like before.
Not controlled.
Not contained.
This time—
It broke.
Dark energy erupted from him like a collapsing star.
The ground cracked.
The ruins screamed.
The cultivators behind him were thrown back violently, crashing into stone walls as invisible pressure crushed the air around them.
"What—what is this power?!"
"It's suffocating—!"
Their voices faded beneath the roar of something far more ancient.
Eryndor dropped to one knee.
His hands trembled.
But not from weakness.
From overwhelming force.
Inside him—
Something opened.
A void.
Endless.
Starving.
It consumed everything it touched—light, sound, thought.
And for the first time…
Eryndor didn't feel like he was controlling it.
It was controlling him.
"This is what you are."
The voice returned.
Colder now.
Certain.
"The Throne does not choose. It remembers."
His head snapped up.
Eyes no longer entirely his own.
Darkness bled into them—like ink swallowing clarity.
One of the cultivators tried to stand.
"We—we need to leave! He's not—"
The words never finished.
Eryndor moved.
No—
He appeared.
In front of him.
Too fast to follow.
Too fast to understand.
His hand rose.
Paused.
Shaking.
Fighting.
For a brief second—
Eryndor was there again.
"I… don't want—"
Then it snapped.
The pressure exploded outward.
The cultivator was slammed into the ground, the stone beneath him shattering like glass.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Terrifying.
The others froze.
Not daring to move.
Not daring to breathe.
Because now…
They understood.
This wasn't just power.
This wasn't just cultivation.
This was something else.
Something wrong.
Eryndor stood still.
His chest rising slowly.
The darkness around him flickering like a dying flame—and yet, it only grew stronger.
His gaze shifted toward the throne.
And this time…
He walked toward it.
Not hesitating.
Not questioning.
Each step echoed like a verdict.
The ruins trembled.
The symbols on the walls began to glow violently, reacting as if something long dormant had finally awakened.
Then—
He reached it.
The throne.
The cracks across its surface pulsed faintly.
Waiting.
Recognizing.
For a moment—
Time stilled.
Then Eryndor touched it.
The world shattered.
Visions flooded his mind.
Countless lives.
Countless deaths.
A cycle repeating endlessly.
Each time—
The same end.
The same throne.
The same hunger.
"The Starved Throne cannot be filled."
"It devours even its master."
"And yet… it always returns."
Eryndor gasped.
Falling back.
His body trembling violently as the energy inside him surged uncontrollably.
Cracks formed beneath him.
Spreading.
Breaking.
The others watched in horror.
"Is… is this a prophecy…?"
"No… this is worse…"
"This is fate."
Eryndor clutched his head.
Voices overlapping.
Screaming.
Whispering.
Laughing.
Then—
Suddenly—
Silence.
The darkness withdrew.
Not gone.
Just… waiting.
Eryndor collapsed to his hands, breathing heavily.
His eyes slowly returned to normal.
But something had changed.
Something irreversible.
He looked at his hands.
Still trembling.
Still carrying the echo of that power.
That hunger.
Behind him, no one spoke.
No one dared.
Because now…
They saw him differently.
Not as an ally.
Not as a rival.
But as something far worse.
A future disaster.
A walking omen.
And somewhere deep within the ruins…
The throne pulsed once more.
As if it had finally found its king