“All Thrones are born of desire. But the Hollow Throne… is born of silence.”

The sky wept ash.

Beneath a sunless firmament, a battlefield lay frozen—not in ice, but in stillness. No cries. No clash. No wind. Only a silence so thick it bent the air, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

Corpses of kings, archmages, and monsters sprawled across the shattered stone. Their banners lay in blood-soaked tatters, their divine familiars crumbled into dust. Where once stood bastions of empires and cities of gold, now only the ruins remained—charred silhouettes of civilization.

And in the center of it all… the Throne.

It loomed higher than any cathedral, carved from broken bones, obsidian spires, and chain-wrapped shadow. An unseated crown floated above it—still turning.

Before the throne knelt a man.

His gloved hand rested upon its base, his head bowed—not in worship, but as if listening. Black mist curled from his shoulders. From behind, he resembled a butler in mourning: straight-backed, composed, dressed in torn nobleweardarkened by ash. But his eyes, half-lidded and calm, stared into a realm no living soul could see.

“They called me monarch,” he whispered to the silence. “They called me monster. In the end, they begged me to save them.”

He rose.

Around him, the spirits of the dead began to stir—faint blue echoes flickering like candlelight. Spectral warriors. Betrayed kings. Fallen gods. One by one, they turned their gazes to him.

“And yet I knelt…”

He turned toward the reader—toward us.

“Because I once believed power should serve.”

A crack rang out behind him. The throne pulsed.

Chains trembled.

From the mist emerged a wolf—emaciated, monstrous, fur trailing like smoke. Hollow eyes stared up at its master.

The man gave a soft smile.

“But this world… serves only those who take the seat.”

He stepped forward. The wolf followed.

Together, they ascended the black steps.

As the man approached the Hollow Throne, the ghosts began to kneel. The skies groaned. The sigils of ancient houses bled from the heavens. Time itself bent inward.

Then—

A voice, distant and trembling, whispered his name.

“Lucien Caelum.”

And in that moment—

The world shattered.

[ Earth – Present Day ]

Lucien Caelum awoke with a start.

Rain pattered against the subway window. Neon light blinked through the glass, painting his pale reflection in hues of blue and red.

His eyes stared back at him.

Calm. Hollow. Familiar—and not.

He blinked, hand clutching the old pocketwatch in his coat.

A dream?

A memory?

Or a prophecy…

The station intercom buzzed.

“Next stop—Kuronagi Central. Last train.”

Lucien stood slowly.

Somewhere beyond the veil of reality, the throne still waited.

And this time… he would not kneel.