The echoes of battle still lingered in Lucien’s mind as he pressed forward through the ruins of Dravenmire. The air was thick with the scent of old blood and damp stone, the remnants of a forgotten age whispering secrets to those willing to listen. But Lucien wasn’t here to listen—he was here to find answers.

The abyss had called to him. Now, it was time to face what lay ahead.

A chilling wind swept through the remains of the city, sending shivers down his spine. His crimson eyes flickered under the eerie moonlight as he stepped into the remains of an ancient temple. The markings along the cracked pillars spoke of a time before recorded history—a time when gods and monsters walked as equals.

At the center of the temple, a pedestal stood, untouched by time. Upon it lay a relic—a small, unassuming obsidian shard, pulsing faintly with a violet glow. It seemed to breathe, exuding a darkness that felt all too familiar.

Lucien reached out, his fingers barely grazing the surface when—

“STOP.”

A voice, layered with anguish and warning, boomed through the chamber.

Lucien’s instincts screamed at him to dodge, and he barely avoided the tendrils of shadow that lashed toward him. From the darkness, a figure emerged—a warrior clad in ancient armor, his face obscured by a helm cracked and worn by centuries of war.

“You should not be here, Forsaken One.” The warrior’s voice was a growl, edged with both reverence and hostility.

Lucien straightened, unfazed. “And yet, here I stand.”

The warrior took a step forward, his gauntleted hands clenching. “That relic is not yours to claim.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Then whose is it?”

The warrior hesitated. Then, with a heavy sigh, he removed his helmet.

Lucien’s breath caught in his throat. The man before him was familiar. Too familiar.

It was him.

A past version of himself, centuries older, his features worn by time and suffering. A reflection of what he could become—or perhaps, what he once was.

“This is the truth you seek,” the warrior spoke, his voice heavy with sorrow. “You are not the first to walk this path. And if you do not turn back, you will not be the last.”

Lucien’s grip on his sword tightened. “Then tell me. Who am I really?”

The warrior stepped aside, motioning toward the relic. “Take it. And remember.”

Lucien hesitated, then reached for the shard once more. As his fingers curled around it, an unbearable rush of memories flooded his mind—battles long fought, betrayals long buried, a war that had never truly ended.

And a name.

A name whispered through the void, binding his fate to something far greater than he had ever imagined.

“The Shadow King returns.”

The darkness enveloped him.

To be continued…

       THE END