Chapter 4: Whispers of the Void
Damon cradled the token in his hands, its surface pulsing softly, resonating with the very heartbeat of the Hall itself. The grand doors before him transcended mere wood and iron; they stood as living relics, intricately etched with runes that shimmered faintly in response to his approach. As the token's energy intermingled with the ancient wards, the doors parted with a whisper, revealing a vast expanse that breathed with the weight of millennia.
Crossing the threshold, the air around him shifted. The Hall of Archives was no ordinary repository; it was sentient. A vault of memories woven from the very essence of Avalonia. The floor beneath him thrummed with latent Æth—the energy of creation—while towering shelves stretched endlessly into the dimness, humming with restrained power.
The books did not merely sit upon shelves; they thrived. Some pulsed with soft light, their spines embossed with sigils that shimmered and shifted under his gaze. Others were bound in materials beyond mortal reckoning: dragonhide whispering of forgotten wars, woven shadows that writhed when stared at too long, and one tome whose cover gleamed like frozen starlight.
Titles leapt at him like whispered destinies:
*Earth Devouring Palms*—a manual rumored to contain techniques capable of shattering continents.
*Masquerade Tongue*—a cursed scripture allowing its wielder to summon or be possessed by a masquerade. Only those who had walked the Path of Slaughter could wield it without losing themselves to its madness.
*Void Walker*—a fragmented chronicle teaching the dangerous art of traversing the unstable Void Realms, the rifts between worlds.
Yet, Damon sought more than raw power. He searched for truth—the marrow of history, the lost secrets that forged his broken world.
The hall buzzed with quiet reverence. Scholars in robes of muted hues paused mid-study, their eyes widening as they recognized the prince. The Archive Guard, clad in meteor-forged armor, straightened at his presence.
"Is that... the prince?" a scholar whispered in disbelief.
"Observe the tomes—they glow brighter as he nears. Especially the oldest ones," another murmured.
"This child is a demon," an aged veteran muttered, his voice laced with the weight of past wars.
A knight, guarding the forbidden sections, folded his arms. "Watch his stride. It's not arrogance; it's the bearing of one who knows the world must bend."
Damon ignored their words. His fingers brushed past legendary manuals and elemental grimoires until they stopped—*Void Man Record*.
He opened it.
And the world dissolved.
Visions surged through him, dragging him into a buried epoch.
---
The Void Dragon bloodline had once embodied creation itself. Æth pulsed in their veins, their bodies sculpted to bend reality. Where others were tied to a single element, the Void Dragons held dominion over all six: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, Light, and Shadow—united in divine balance.
Their supremacy, however, bred envy.
The four great powers of Avalonia conspired to bring them low, their unity forged not by trust, but by shared fear.
The Lymhurst Syndicate, veiled in opulence and intrigue, constituted more than a den of merchants and assassins. It was ruled by two ancient brothers—one descended from the Royal Dragon line, the other bearing the cursed elegance of the Vampire Bloodlines. Together, they anchored a kingdom of shadows and silk, where gold whispered louder than blades, and power was written in blood that never aged.
Forsterling, the frost-wrought empire to the north, found governance under two divine beasts of legend: the various phionix bloodlines, creatures of glacial wisdom and destructive serenity, and The Nine-Tailed Fox, whose beauty masked venomous cunning. Their union birthed a dominion of blizzards and betrayal, where war became an art, and deception was woven into the very bones of the realm.
The third power, the Abyssal Court of Demon Country, made no pretenses. They embodied pure hunger—devourers of hope, hoarders of pain. Ruled by something not quite mortal, not quite divine, their legions fed on despair as others fed on bread.
These represented the prominent forces of the continent, but they were not the only ones. Countless bloodlines slithered in their shadows—beastkin born under eclipses, flame dancers of the southern spires, and serpentkin who could breathe memory itself. Avalonia formed a tapestry of ancestry and ambition, and at its center lay the silence left by the fall of the Void Dragon Clan.
They harvested the bones of the Void Dragons like sacred ore. Their blood was siphoned into ritual chalices, empowering their executioners. Those not slaughtered were enslaved, bred, diluted. Their divine lineage reduced to mere whispers.
All but one.
Thorak. The last pureblood. Born in chains. A paradox.
Hidden from the world, his blood remained untouched.
In the Avalonian Forest, a place where time twisted and beasts older than myth roamed, Thorak found his crucible. He battled Storm Drakes whose wings eclipsed the sun, Dusk Stalkers that slithered through shadow, and Elder Wyrms—the last echoes of the First Dragons.
Each battle honed him. Each wound purified his will.
When he emerged, he was no longer a mere Void Dragon.
He had become the Void Man—a being merged with the abyss itself.
His return was not war.
It was erasure.
In Martlock, the streets ran crimson. His techniques unraveled his enemies—reality itself bowed. The land remembered its true masters. The great seal that once imprisoned his kind shifted, acknowledging Thorak's right.
But he did not march further.
He understood—the four races remained too strong. Their thrones were built atop stolen Æth. Martlock was reclaimed. But the war... had only just begun.
---
Damon slammed the book shut, his breath ragged. Words echoed in his mind like fire:
"If they were so blessed... why did they kneel? Why did they not die fighting?"
The Hall held its breath. Whispers faded into silence.
In that moment, Damon ceased to be a prince.
He became the heir to a centuries-old rage.
"I am too weak... I don't feel any connection to my treasures," Damon muttered, his jaw clenched. Around him, the tomes pulsed with growing intensity. The *Masquerade Tongue* and *Void Walker* trembled, as if hearing his doubt—and defying it.
He extended his hand, and the two tomes floated to him like feathers caught in a storm.
He opened the first—*Masquerade Tongue*.
A thrill rippled through his spine.
An ancient cultivation path that fed on flesh—beast or man. The more devoured, the stronger the masquerade summoned. A technique of slaughter. A path carved by cruelty.
"Fascinating," Damon whispered, his eyes alight.
He swiftly concealed the tome, disbelief flickering across his face.
How could such a technique exist in this realm?
Then, he opened the second: "Void Walker" .
His soul was instantly pulled inward—his mind cast across a thousand shattered skies. He witnessed worlds crumbling, stars bleeding, planes where time held no dominion.
And then... laughter.
A being appeared—shimmering, chaotic, vast. Its presence bent the void around it like silk in fire.
"Hahaha! Praise be the heavens!" it boomed. "You're still standing? Abnormal indeed."
Damon staggered but maintained his footing, defiance glowing in his stare.
"Are you the heir of the Void Dragon family?" the being asked, its grin widening.
Before Damon could answer, it pressed on—
"Which generation of my children are you from? Angus? Rim? Stephan?"
The familiarity startled him. He could feel the same current of Æth in this being's blood—a connection as ancient as creation.
"My name is Damon Rim," he declared, stepping forward, his voice steady. "Of the Void Dragon family."
"Why have you pulled my mind into this tome?" he demanded, his killing aura rising like a storm tide.
The being grinned, its eyes shimmering like collapsing galaxies.