[Damien's POV]
The symbol burned softly, like embers etched into his skin—a black crown surrounded by broken chains. It pulsed once, and for a second, Damien heard something. A whisper. A language not meant for this world.
Then silence.
Elena gripped his arm tighter. "What's happening to us?"
"I don't know," Damien muttered, eyes narrowing at the robed figures ahead. "But I don't trust them."
The woman who had spoken first raised her arms. "These marks are your Bonds. Aetherion's way of recognizing your inner selves. They will guide your path. Train your powers. And determine your role in the war to come."
Students murmured all around—confused, excited, afraid.
A familiar voice cut through the noise.
"No way... This is real? Like… actual isekai?!"
Damien turned.
It was Marcus, the anime-obsessed loudmouth from the back of the class, practically vibrating with excitement. "Bro! I knew watching all that 'Reincarnated as a Slime' stuff would pay off!"
A few others laughed—nervously, but laughter nonetheless. People clung to normalcy however they could.
But Damien didn't smile.
He scanned the others.
Some were already showing signs—glowing hands, shimmering eyes, even levitating an inch off the ground.
But him?
Just the crown. No fire. No wind. No flashy tricks.
He didn't feel stronger.
He just felt… watched.
Elena brushed her fingers along her mark. "They called us heroes. What does that mean?"
The woman in gold robes answered as if she'd heard her. "Each of you will be tested. Your abilities must be awakened, and your spirits aligned. Only then will you earn your Class."
Damien's eyes narrowed. "Class?"
Another figure stepped forward—this one towering, voice like gravel and thunder.
"There are twelve basic classes. Warrior. Mage. Cleric. Ranger. Rogue. Guardian. Summoner. Bard. Elementalist. Monk. Trickster. And…"
A pause.
"The Uncrowned."
The wind shifted at that name. Even the robed figures seemed uneasy.
Damien's symbol pulsed.
The same black crown.
"Elena," he said quietly. "Don't let them separate us."
But he was already too late.
Glowing runes formed around each student's feet again.
Transport sigils.
"Your Trials begin now," the robed woman announced.
And one by one, the students began to vanish.
Pulled into separate spaces. One per Trial.
Elena's fingers slipped from his as the light engulfed her.
"No—!"
And then Damien was alone.
Or so he thought.
Because when the light cleared, he stood not in a room, but on a battlefield.
Cracked stone beneath his feet. Storm clouds overhead. Broken weapons scattered across the war-torn plain.
And standing across from him—
A man.
Clad in black and crimson armour. With chains wrapped around both his forearms with two short blades attached with chains to its pommel—they clinked and coiled like vipers as he stepped forward, his boots crunching over shattered helms and scorched earth.
The man's presence was suffocating.
His helmet, shaped like a crown cracked down the middle, revealed half a face—pale skin, a jagged scar across his left eye, and a twisted smirk like he'd seen too much war and too little peace.
"Finally," he said, voice low and coarse like grinding metal. "The last Uncrowned awakens."
Damien's fists clenched. The symbol on his chest throbbed harder, hotter—like it was answering the call of something ancient.Or someone.
"Who the hell are you?" Damien demanded. "Where am I?"
The man spread his arms wide, chains rattling like a war drum.
"This is the Trial of the Uncrowned. Where bonds are broken and truths are born. And me?"His smile widened.
"I'm the ghost of what you could become."
Suddenly, the chains surged.
In an instant, the man closed the distance—blades screeching free from their sockets as he swung both in a crisscross arc.
Damien dodged—barely. The blades carved deep gouges into the earth behind him, sending shards of stone flying.
He stumbled back, heart hammering.
No weapons. No powers. Just instincts.
And an enemy who looked like death wrapped in prophecy.
"You're not ready," the man said, spinning one chain around his arm. "But that's the point."
Another slash—this one faster.
Damien ducked, rolled to the side, and grabbed a broken spear from the rubble.
It was cracked, the tip jagged—but better than nothing.
He raised it just in time to block the next strike.
Clang.
The impact numbed his arms.
The man laughed.
"Good. Fight back. Show me why the Chains chose you."
And then—
The battlefield shifted.
Flashes of memories—Damien's memories—flickered through the clouds. Martha. The orphanage. Elena's bruised face. Blood. Fire. Loneliness.
The black crown on his chest flared to life.
Chains of shadow coiled around his arms.
And the broken spear in his hand—
It reformed.
Morphed.
The metal melted into something else.
A jagged, obsidian blade with a chain trailing from its hilt.
Damien blinked, stunned.
The man across from him paused, eyes gleaming.
"There it is," he whispered. "The first Chain has awakened."
Damien looked at his weapon—raw, imperfect, but his.
A whisper echoed inside his skull—no, deeper than that. It echoed through his bones.
A whisper like the weight of ages.
A command.
"Awaken the true Prince of Darkness… AWAKEN!"
Damien's breath caught.
His eyes burned. Literally.
A rush of something ancient—rage, sorrow, power—flooded into him, and for a moment, the battlefield blurred. The sky cracked open with violet lightning, and the chains around his arms glowed, tightening like they had minds of their own.
The man—the ghost—took a step back, his smile now edged with something else.
Caution.
"So… the throne still remembers your blood."
"What the hell is happening to me?!" Damien growled, voice distorted—deeper, layered.
"You're remembering what they tried to bury," the man said softly. "Your pain. Your fury. Your truth."
The obsidian blade pulsed in Damien's hand. Each throb synced with the black crown over his heart. The air around him thickened, shadows warping, stretching, coiling at his feet.
The battlefield wasn't just a test.
It was a crucible.
And Damien was starting to burn.
The man lunged again—blades spinning in deadly arcs.
But this time, Damien moved.
The chains snapped to life—wrapping around one of the man's wrists mid-strike. Damien pulled, hard.
The ghost stumbled.
Damien followed through.
With a roar, he drove his blade forward. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't trained.
But it was desperate. Raw. Real.
Steel met armor.
Sparks flew.
And though the blow didn't pierce, it shook the ghost enough to make him stagger.
"You've got bite," the man muttered, chuckling darkly as he pulled back. "But can you hold on to it?"
Chains whipped toward Damien's face—
He ducked.
Countered.
His blade twisted on instinct, wrapping in a spiral motion, then snapped forward, chain-first, catching the man in the side.
The ghost grinned. Even as he bled dark, smoky ichor.
"Yes... YES! That's it! Remember who you are!"
The crown on Damien's chest seared again.
His vision flickered—showing another him. Standing on a throne of bones. A kingdom of ash behind him. People bowing... others burning.
He gasped, falling to one knee.
The ghost knelt across from him, suddenly solemn.
"You're not ready for that future yet. But the power? The throne? The chains?"
He pointed at Damien's chest.
"They'll always belong to you."
A crack tore across the sky. The battlefield began to dissolve into light.
The Trial was ending.
Damien looked up, throat dry. "Who are you, really?"
The ghost smiled—sadly this time.
"I'm your shadow, Damien. The one waiting in the dark, in case you fall."
And then he was gone.
So was the battlefield.
And Damien was left drifting—weightless—until the light faded and his feet touched stone once more.
He stood in a grand, circular chamber. Twelve pillars lined the walls, each glowing with a different symbol.
At the center was a floating crystal.
It pulsed with the same rhythm as the mark on his chest.
And above it—
Words formed.
"Class Assigned: Prince Of Darkness"
Subclass: Uncrowned."
Title Gained: Bearer of the Shattered Throne.
Damien exhaled.
"Seige him!"
The words had barely faded from the air when the chamber erupted into chaos.
A chorus of shouts rang from the archways above, followed by the thunder of armored boots.
Dozens—no, scores—of soldiers in polished silver plate dropped from hidden alcoves high along the walls. Each of them bore the crest of a golden sun, their spears and swords humming with enchanted energy.
"Target confirmed! The Uncrowned has awakened—bring him down!" one barked.
Damien's breath caught.
Siege him?
He didn't even have a second to process the betrayal before the first wave rushed in.
"—Shit!"
He threw himself backward just as a lance of light ripped through where his heart had been. The obsidian blade in his hand thrummed, alive with rage, the chain slithering and coiling protectively.
No warning.
No explanation.
Just a kill order.
So much for chosen heroes, Damien thought bitterly.
His instincts screamed, and he twisted, deflecting a blade with the flat of his weapon. Sparks burst, and his arm went numb from the force—but he stayed standing.
They weren't trying to test him.
They were trying to erase him.
"Get him on his knees!" another commander shouted. "We cannot allow a Prince of Darkness to live!"
More weapons flew, and more attacks surged from every direction, but Damien—
Damien had already burned once.
Now he was ready to burn them.
The chains on his arms pulsed. Responding not to logic, but fury.
With a roar, he slammed his foot into the ground—dark chains exploding from the stone like fangs from the underworld. They lashed out, wrapping around the legs and torsos of the nearest soldiers, dragging some to their knees, others clean off their feet.
One tried to strike at his back—only to be intercepted by a lash of shadow that coiled like a serpent and snapped his blade in two.
Damien turned, eyes glowing the color of dying stars.
"You call this a siege?"
His voice echoed through the chamber, low and distorted by power not his own. Something in the crystal above answered—pulsing, almost singing.
He slashed his weapon in a wide arc.
A pulse of shadow burst forth, not sharp like a blade, but wide like a stormwave. The soldiers staggered, their formations shattered.
But for everyone that fell, two more came.
This isn't sustainable…
He was still new. Still untrained. That last move drained him—he could feel his legs growing heavy, lungs burning.
And then—
A presence.
No, presences.
From above, six new figures descended through beams of holy light. Not soldiers.
Commanders.
Each wore a long cloak bearing a different emblem: a sword, a staff, wings, a beast, a scroll, and a golden crown.
One of them, an older man with white hair and eyes like frozen oceans, raised a hand.
"Prince of Darkness or not," he said, voice calm but cold, "you are a danger to the balance. The prophecy is clear."
He pointed.
"He must not be allowed to ascend."
Damien's knees nearly buckled under the weight of their combined pressure.
They were on another level.
Is this it?
And then—
The crystal above shattered.
Not cracked.
Shattered.
A blast of violet-black energy erupted from the core, swallowing the chamber in blinding darkness.
Damien's mark flared again.
A new whisper entered his mind, quiet and knowing:
"You have touched the chain. But not yet the throne. Run, heir. Run—and rise."
A hand grabbed his wrist.
Feminine. Familiar.
"Elena?" he choked.
She was glowing—different than before. Her eyes shimmered with divine silver, and the mark on her hand had bloomed into a radiant lotus of light.
"I found you," she whispered. "We don't have much time. I think… I think someone is helping us."
The world snapped again—sigils whirling beneath their feet.
The commanders lunged, shouting spells and commands.
Too late.
Because the light swallowed them both—and they were gone.