Hidden beneath layers of arcane protection, the underground chamber once served as the Cult of Diabolos's sanctum — the birthplace of rituals long forsaken by the world above. The floor, a shattered circle of black marble, bore stains of forgotten blood and unspeakable acts. At its heart loomed a chained altar, ancient and cracked, surrounded by grotesque statues of fallen gods — their stone eyes forever watching, unblinking, unmerciful.
The walls pulsed with etched chaos — arcane symbols that twisted the gaze and whispered madness. The air itself was thick, metallic, alive with whispers that slithered into the ears of the uninvited. Above, a fractured dome let down strands of pale, unnatural moonlight, bleeding through a distant rune-etched portal high above. This place was no mere ruin — it was a wound in the world. A place where power was born… or something far worse was sealed away.
And now, it stirs again.
They are the absolute rulers of the world — not through crowns or armies, but through silence, fear, and shadows unseen. In that pitch-black stillness, as the world unknowingly held its breath, a faint crack echoed from the portal's obsidian shell.
Just a fracture… but enough to herald the beginning of the end.
They needed no throne to command fate — only presence. A silence that devours. A darkness that listens.
And in that breathless void, the crack widened — slow, deliberate — a whisper of collapse, a scream waiting to be born.
In the next instant, several masked figures appeared around the altar. No fanfare. No flash. Just existence. Each cloaked in shadow, each bearing subtle, distinctive traits — a tilt of the head, a sharpened blade, an aura that silenced the very air.
At first glance, they were unremarkable. But when they moved, even reality seemed to flinch. The weight of their presence bent the chamber. Even the statues seemed to bow.
War had not yet begun…But the rulers of the abyss had already taken the field.