The air around the altar was frozen. But it wasn't just any cold—it was a cold that seeped into the bones and the mind. The cold of loss, the cold of oblivion.
Gorath stood, surrounded by the cloaked creatures.
His body still trembled, not from fear, but from the world refusing to stabilize. Gravity shifted every second. Footsteps echoed before feet touched the floor. Logic didn't apply here.
"Vessel..."
"Destroyed..."
"Vessel..."
"Destroyed..."
The whispers came from all directions.
Then the altar erupted. Purple flames rose high, burning Gorath's body as it lay on it—a dead version of himself. But... the body began to move.
The corpse's eyes opened. And they stared straight at Gorath.
"I am not you," Gorath muttered, half-angry.
"Not yet," a voice from within himself answered.
The cloaked creatures began to approach. No faces, no hands were visible—only presences. Each carried a fragment. Fragments of memory, shapes, flavors.
One offered a memory of Gorath slaughtering a village for no reason.
Another showed the face of his father—whom he had killed at age eleven.
Another showed the shape of himself... still weeping in the dark, afraid to sleep because of nightmares.
Each fragment was thrown onto the altar.
The corpse began to absorb everything.
"This is not me," Gorath said, his voice thick. But the vibrations were palpable.
"You can deny it. But the Abyss never forgets."
The sky above the altar opened. A giant eye appeared. Only one. Unblinking.
"Make your choice, Gorath. Become a vessel of true power—without identity, without purpose. Or be swallowed, and lost forever."
"If I refuse...?"
"Then your soul will be torn apart. Slowly. Until nothing remains but an echo."
Gorath was silent.
Everything in this place was older than time. More ancient than demons, humans, even gods. They were not begging. They were waiting. Because they knew... everyone would eventually give up.
But not him.
Not Gorath.
He gritted his teeth.
His hand rose. A shadow appeared—though weaker than usual.
"If I am doomed, at least I will fight while standing."
He threw the shadow at the altar.
The body jerked.
The body burned back. Fragments of memories shattered. Screams rang out. The ritual was interrupted.
The cloaked creatures moved quickly. But Gorath was faster.
He leaped into the center of the altar, thrusting his own body into the purple flames.
Instantly, everything exploded.
He woke up.
His body was sprawled on hard ground. But this was... real. The air was blowing. The sky—dark red. Clouds were moving quickly. The world was broken, but not like the Abyss. This was still the world.
"He's back," a voice said.
Gorath turned.
Someone stood over him. Not a cloaked creature. Not a human.
A woman—black eyes, hair like smoke.
"I was assigned to wait. You're one of the few who's returned," she said flatly.
"Back from where?"
"From the edge. From the Abyss itself."
Gorath rose. His body was heavy. But a new strength flowed beneath his skin.
"How long have I been gone?"
The woman stared at the sky.
"Forty years."
Gorath paused.
Four decades.
"An army of humans?"
"Gone. The world has changed. But they're not all dead."
Gorath clenched his fists.
The blood in his body felt thicker. Deeper. There was something inside him now... something that refused to sleep.
He had touched the Abyss.
And he had come back whole.
Or... at least, in part.
But something had come back with him.
And the world was not ready for it.
A crimson sky stretched over the ruins.
Gorath stood on a hilltop, gazing out at a world he did not recognize. The once-glowing cities were skeletons of metal and stone, shrouded in alien plants and a fog that never receded. The rivers were black. The jungles grew wild and thorny, patiently swallowing civilization.
In the distance, the remains of the demon towers he had once destroyed stood askew, like scars on the earth.
"All this… because of me?" he whispered.
The dark-eyed woman—who called herself only "The Guardian"—stood not far behind him.
"Because of the hole you opened. Because of the power you took without permission."
"And now?"
"Now the world survives. But not to live—to survive what is to come."
Gorath looked at his palms. The veins were black. Under his skin, something moved on its own. Voices, faint, whispered from within him.
"Hungry..." "Not enough..." "Not enough..."
Gorath clenched his jaw. "What came back with me?"
The Guardian stared at him intently.
"You brought a piece of the Abyss with you."
"And that means...?"
"This world will begin to change... according to your will. Or the will of the Abyss. It depends on who is stronger."
Gorath snorted.
"Then I must move. Before that will is no longer mine."
They walked along a cobblestone road that had once been the main thoroughfare between two great cities. Now, there was silence. In the distance, buildings crumbled like the remains of giant skulls.
Along the way, Gorath saw creatures that had never been seen before. Four-legged bony giants scurrying in the distance. Massive insects with human eyes. Featherless birds, screaming like babies.
"The purity of this world has been shattered," the Guardian said. "Reality is slowly crumbling. And creatures from other borders are beginning to creep in."
"Because of me?"
"Because the rift you opened was never completely closed."
They arrived at a hidden settlement—the last remaining human holdout. Not a city. Just a camp. Walls of scrap metal, guards with old energy spears, and children who had never seen blue skies.
As Gorath entered, everything froze.
Faces of terror.
An old man stood at the forefront. His body was clad in tattered armor, one eye blank.
"...Gorath," he said quietly, almost in disbelief.
"Do you know who I am?"
"I was a young soldier. I was on the field when you… opened hell."
"And you're still alive?"
"Because I ran."
Gorath stared at him. "The world thrives on escape now. But we can't run forever."
People began to gather. Faces full of vengeance. Full of hope. Some carried weapons.
"Why have you come back?" someone asked. "To finish your massacre?"
Gorath stared at them. Not angry. Not defensive.
"Because I am the only one who knows what is coming. And the only one who can possibly stop it."
The watcher stepped forward.
"Listen well," he said in a booming voice. "The Abyss never gives without taking. But what is given… cannot be taken back."
He pointed at Gorath.
"This thing is a bridge. If it collapses—all with it."
Gorath stared at his left hand.
From beneath his skin, something was growing. Like roots. Black. Writhing.
He mustered his strength—and pushed it back inside.
Not yet.
Not now.
That night, he sat atop the fallen post tower. Staring at the red sky.
The Guardian sat not far from him.
"You know you can't fight forever."
"I won't run."
"If you lose…?"
"I'll make sure nothing is left for the Abyss."
Below them, the world was still trying to hold on.
But the sky was already whispering.
And the ground was moving.
The Abyss… was searching for a way in again.
And only one being could close that door from the inside.
Him.
Gorath.