Ashvael lay on the floor, but his mind and soul drifted in nothingness—no ground beneath him, no sky above.
Just void.
Endless, weightless, and cold.
It was suffocating, though he needed not to breathe.
He floated, his body numb but his mind burning with questions and fear.
CrackleCrackle~
Lightning shattered the silence, expanding endlessly across the abyss.
A pulse throbbed deep within him, and then came the voice of Lux—distorted, like a chorus of ancient beings speaking through one.
"WELCOME TO THE VOID"
"MONARCH"
His eyes darted, trying to relocate the source of the voice.
Monarch?
That word echoed like a war drum through his ears.
Then the voice came again:
"Yes, Monarch... You are the heir of the Vampire Voidborne Monarch. His blood flows in your veins. His legacy is yours to complete."
Ashvael's entire existence shivered, in this space he had no heart to pound, yet he spoke in a hoarse dry voice. "But I don't want this. I never asked for it!"
The void pulsed again, shadows out of nowhere twisted around him. Then came Lux's reply, low and final:
"Want or not... destiny doesn't ask for consent. The crown has already claimed you."
Ashvael couldn't think. The weight of it all pressed on his floating insignificant existence like a mountain of shadows.
Why me?
His thoughts spiraled.
Why now?
But before he could speak again, Lux's voice returned—no longer commanding, but softer… almost reverent. Like a servant kneeling before a throne.
"Shall I guide you, Monarch?"
The question hung in the air, sacred and still.
Ashvael looked down at his hands—faintly glowing, veins threaded with that same violet light. He saw not flesh, but power—foreign and alive.
His lips trembled. "Guide me… to what?"
Lux's answer came not in words, but in sensation.
The void seemed to upheave, and then suddenly a pair of transparent eyes, blended into one with the abyss, blinked open across the darkness.
Then, a single word, whispered—
"Ascend."
Suddenly, Ashvael's surroundings changed. The nothingness gave way to a shattered throne room suspended in space—crimson banners torn, obsidian pillars cracked, and a towering seat built from bone and shadow stood at the center, empty yet emanating authority.
Ashvael, shocked by the scene unfolding before him, stepped forward, drawn to it—but as he neared, the visions struck like lightning.
He was suddenly standing on a battlefield, where a lone figure stood against an approaching army.
Ashvael shouted to the figure
"Run! Save yourself!"
Ash himself started running toward the figure. As he neared, he shouted again— "Run! Save yourself!"
Suddenly, one soldier from the army rushed toward the figure.
The figure didn't run.
Instead, it vanished into thin air—no sound, no warning. One blink, and it was gone.
In the next moment… it was standing behind the charging soldier.
Ashvael froze.
Without a warning, a figure surged forward.
No sound.
No sign.
Just speed. Pure and terrifying.
In one smooth motion, its hand punched clean through the soldier's back. Like a nail through wet paper.
His physique offered no resistance against the unrelenting force.
The crack of ribs echoed—sharp and brutal. Bones snapped like brittle twigs underfoot.
The soldier's breath hitched.
His chest convulsed as blood sprayed from both ends.
For a moment, he failed to even understand what had happened.
His body swayed forward, arms trembling as if trying to catch something that wasn't there.
No scream came.
Only a low, broken moan slipped from his lips.
A sound that had no place on any battlefield.
His eyes locked forward. Wide. Disbelieving. Mouth half-open, blood gushing along with some unfinished word.
The figure slowed its movement.
And the soldier's eyes settled on him... on his hand.
In his own crimson-painted hands, he was holding something.
A heart.
Still warm. Still beating.
The loose and torn veins twitched, confused about where they'd gone.
The flesh glistened.
It was the last thing the soldier saw, unable to comprehend what was happening, as he felt his body slip away from life.
The soldier collapsed without grace.
Folded to the ground like a broken puppet.
The heart beat twice more in its killer's grip.
Then stopped.
Without hesitation, the figure raised the heart to his face level and bit into the heart.
Blood spilled down the figure's chin in thick, dark red streams as he devoured the heart like a beast. Each crunch echoed across the battlefield like a death hymn.
Ashvael stepped backward from the horrifying scene he had just witnessed.
The figure slowly turned around—its eyes glowing like voidfire.
And when Ashvael saw those eyes… he fell to the ground.
Suddenly, he was back in the same throne room—sweating and breathing heavily.
His voice trembled as he asked,
"Who was that… MONSTER?"
The air turned colder.
Behind him, the shadows twisted—folding inward, gathering like a storm. Darkness slithered across the ground like living smoke, crawling toward the throne.
Then… the throne itself seemed to breathe.
A figure began to rise from the abyss of shadows—silent, regal, and terrifying. Tall and draped in layers of black mist shaped like ancient armor, its face was hidden beneath a crown of jagged bone and shadow. Its presence bent the very air around it, as if reality itself feared to exist too close.
It walked forward with slow, deliberate steps—each one echoing like thunder in a dead realm—and sat upon the throne.
And in that moment…
Ashvael knew: This was no hallucination. No dream.
It was him.
Then came Lux's voice, soft yet absolute—like a hymn spoken in catacombs:
"Behold… the Vampire Voidborne Monarch. The first of his kind. Slayer of realms. Devourer of kings. The curse... and the crown you now carry."
Ashvael stared, hollow-eyed, as the figure lifted its chin ever so slightly—as if acknowledging him.
And for a flickering moment…
Its face looked just like his.