I was once the single most powerful being in the world. Armies of the undead followed my every command, my mana crushed any flicker of hope in my enemies, and my wars ended in absolute victory. A true monarch of the dead—that was who I was.

"Yet you were still beaten," a voice in his mind plainly spoke.

"Shut up. Stop looking into my mind, you freak," the so-called Monarch spat in return.

The memory of his loss already felt excruciating when he thought about it himself; hearing it from another was even more humiliating.

But what exactly is the self-proclaimed Dark Lord Excevious going through right now?

To put it simply, he died—or at least he believes he did. The Hero of the kingdom managed to utterly defeat him, catching him off guard in a very humiliating way. In doing so, that mere boy and his companions had smeared mud across a decade of carefully crafted legacy, reducing him to little more than a fraud in the public eye.

All that remains now is his consciousness, adrift in a void. And of course that persistent, insufferable voice keeping him company.

"You wouldn't get it. My reign had just begun. Me dying now ruins years of blood and tears I invested. I was destined to become... so much more!" he growled, fierce rage building with every word.

"Yet that kingdom, that arrogant king, and his disgusting nobles took it from me! They took it all! Nothing of me is left anymore!" His consciousness seemed to shudder with his anger.

After a brief pause, the voice replied again, its tone almost pitying.

"But you're still angry. Even though you're dead, you still tremble with passion for your former existence. I find that truly commendable, ex-Dark Lord."

In reply a scoff echoed through the emptiness, bitter and sharp.

"Passion doesn't amount to shit right now, you freak," he snapped, though a faint tinge of sadness seeped into his words.

The voice however persisted, unyielding.

"I think it does," it replied stubbornly. "Without passion, existence itself would be dull. That's why almost everyone clings to something: a painting, a country, family, or even pride. You, of all beings, are the perfect example. I mean just look at you. Who wouldn't despair in this emptiness? The very passion you dismiss is the only thing keeping you sane right now."

Taking in its words but not caring much, the lord scoffed harder, his voice aloof.

"You sure talk a lot," he muttered disinterested.

"It's my only purpose, after all," the voice said with an odd certainty that made the dark lord chuckle, albeit grudgingly.

"Great. I really needed a talkative—" he suddenly paused, his thoughts shifting. A question formed in his mind. One he realized he should have asked much sooner.

"What even are you?"

It was now the voice's turn to scoff now, mimicking his earlier frustration, and making the lord's nonexistent mouth twitch in anger.

"You didn't seem to care until now. What changed your mind?"

He thought for a moment. There wasn't an actual answer that explained it.

"Well, sudden curiosity, I guess," he shrugged. His non-existent shoulders lifted in a gesture born of habit. "We're stuck here anyway, so why not introduce yourself?"

He could have sworn he felt a grin on the voice's equally nonexistent face. It irked him more than it should.

Fucking creep, he thought, harsher than intended. Not that he particularly cared about offending the thing.

"I can read your mind, you know," it accused.

"I don't care," was his curt reply.

A deep sigh echoed through the void.

"Very well. I will tell you who I am." A theatrical pause followed, clearly designed to build anticipation. Despite himself, the lord felt a flicker of curiosity.

"I am—nothing."

The silence that followed stretched on, heavier than before. Finally, the lord exhaled—or at least, he thought he did.

"Are you disappointed?" the voice asked, curiosity lacing its tone.

"No," he replied, resignation settling in his thoughts. "I just realized how ridiculous I am for giving any attention to your existence."

The voice chuckled faintly, its laughter carrying an unnatural echo that grated against his thoughts.

"Took you long enough," it said.

"Indeed it did," he muttered, solemn now, his chuckle more for himself than for the voice. Uncertainty crept up in him.

The question lingered in his mind, unspoken but ever-present: Why am I still here? If he truly died, why did his consciousness remain? Was this a punishment for his failures? A waiting room for the afterlife? He pondered it endlessly, but nothing plausible came to mind.

The void offered no answers. Only darkness surrounded him, a suffocating shroud. His emotions began to fade, piece by piece, leaving him more hollow than he already was.

What's the point of despair when it changes nothing? he thought. Even this voice can't alter that fact.

The silence didn't hold for long though.

It broke through his musings with one final question, one that struck a bit deeper than the others.

"If you had another chance, would you do something differently?"

He froze, considering it carefully this time. His entire life had led to this void. Power, dominance, the joy of crushing arrogant bastards beneath him—none of it amounted to anything now. Even the legacy he had built, brick by brick, had crumbled in just a single day.

What was it I truly wanted?

The answer was clear: "I... truly don't know."

Expecting a mocking reply, he braced himself, but instead, silence filled the void. For the first time, it felt oppressive.

"Hello?" he called out hesitantly.

Instead of a reply, his entire mind shifted. A nauseating sensation overwhelmed him, and with no body to expel it, the discomfort grew unbearable.

"That is a satisfactory answer, ex-Dark Lord," the voice finally spoke again, sounding delighted. But relief didn't come. The spinning void continued to twist around him.

"What's happening to me?" he cried, panic rising. The voice ignored him.

"I hope this life gives you the answer to the question of your existence," it said, and though it lacked a face, he could feel it smiling again.

"When you return, tell me all about it. The answers you have found."

Light began to pierce the void, fragments of shape and color appearing where there had been only blackness. For a moment, he thought he saw a face—but it vanished before he could focus. The nausea worsened, and a dark fog crept into the edges of his consciousness.

The last thing he remembered was the sensation of falling.

And then, nothing.