The atmosphere was thick with the smell of charred mana and blood. Swaying fire from the torches descended upon the ancient walls of stone, creating abominable shadows on the profaned halls of the deadliest dungeons in the world of Eldoria, the Abyssal Sanctum.
Asher Velmont, erstwhile modest pupil of the mysterious arts, now veteran adventurer, was the individual standing in the middle of the ruined room. His dark violet cloak was ripped, his sorcerer's gold-engraved robe stained and dirty, and his breathing unsteady. He had strained himself well past what he was capable of.
Ahead of him, the terror shape of a Voidborn Tyrant towered—a grotesque monstrosity of darkness and searing black fire. Already it had killed half his party, and the rest were barely holding on to life.
"Asher, we have to fall back!" Ronan yelled, a gigantic knight brandishing an enormous greatsword, his armor battered and pitted from the savage battle.
"We can't," Asher growled between gritted teeth, his silver eyes fixed on the monster. "If this thing escapes, the whole capital will be threatened."
He cinched his grip on his arcane staff, the red glowing runes along its length thrumming with the residue of his mana. The spell he was crafting wasn't merely volatile—it was prohibited.
No other option was available.
A cry of agony burst through the room. Elyra, their lesser healer, was lying on the floor—her delicate form being smothered under a wave of the Voidborn's black magic.
Asher's heart tightened.
Damn it… not again.
He had struggled his whole life fighting, learning—yet, no matter how much power he accumulated, he could never save them all.
He went to the sole other survivor—a shaking girl, no more than seventeen, trembling as she held a broken wand. She had raven-black hair and emerald eyes, brimming with raw fear.
"L-Lord Velmont… I-I can't move…," she stammered, sobbing tears down her face.
She is just my student, she doesn't have businesses in here.
But she was.
And she was going to die unless he did something about it.
"Asher!" Ronan yelled, preparing to make one last push. "Whatever you're doing—do it already!"
Asher exhaled, forcing peace into his voice. "Take her and take out, Ronan."
Ronan's expression widened. "What?! No, we can—"
"This contraption won't let all of us escape. I'll slow it down."
The knight cursed but did not argue. He clutched the girl, lifting her over his shoulder as she weakly fought.
Asher stood before the Voidborn Tyrant, its six radiant eyes fixed on him as it released a low, abyssal roar. Its body wavered—half matter, half spirit, a limbo between realms. No conventional spell could kill it.
But Asher was no conventional sorcerer.
He raised his staff, all mana drained from his body into his last spell. The air itself trembled, temperature falling as raw arcane energy crackled on the end of his fingers.
"Velmont, don't you—!" Ronan's shout was far away now, overwhelmed by the screaming power that enveloped Asher.
He smiled. Not a smile of terror. Not even of remorse. Just. acceptance.
"Forbidden Art: Abyssal Oblivion."
A tempest of black and purple energy churned out of his body, curling into the air as the dungeon trembled violently.
The Voidborn Tyrant howled in comprehension of its fate.
The last Asher saw was the girl's face smeared with tears as Ronan pulled her into the shadows.
And then there was nothing remaining.