The Hollow Depths was not a place for the faint-hearted.
Once a thriving fortress city, its iron walls and towering spires had crumbled over time, swallowed by dense forests and dark waters. The soil here was as black as pitch, soaked with centuries of blood and betrayal. The air itself tasted of salt and rot.
Callan stood at the edge of the canyon, staring down at the broken remnants of the old city.
"Why did they come here?" Ren asked from beside him, his voice lowered by the oppressive weight of the place.
"Because it was forgotten," Callan answered. "It's a place where history was buried. And where they can build something new."
Ren glanced at him, then back to the depths below. "And what do we do now?"
"We go in."
As they descended into the Hollow Depths, the oppressive quiet of the forest thickened. The trees were gnarled, their twisted branches blocking the moonlight, casting the path ahead in shadows. Even Ren, who usually made light of every situation, was silent.
Callan's hand rested on the hilt of his sword. It was strange, carrying it after so long. But it was necessary now. The blade thrummed with an energy he couldn't quite explain, like a part of him that had long been dormant, now awake.
The ruins of the city loomed before them. Broken stone buildings, their walls scarred by time and war, were overrun with creeping ivy and moss. The air smelled faintly of sulfur and burnt flesh.
"This place reeks of old magic," Ren muttered.
"I know," Callan replied. "And it's why they're here."
They found their way into the heart of the city by the old main road, flanked on either side by crumbling statues of long-forgotten gods. The air grew heavier as they walked deeper into the ruins, the ground beneath them soft with decay.
Ren's steps quickened when he saw the open courtyard up ahead, where an altar stood at the center—blackened and scorched, surrounded by symbols carved into the stone, symbols Callan knew all too well.
"This was a temple," Ren said quietly, inspecting the altar.
Callan stepped forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. "Not just any temple. This was a place where they summoned the broken ones."
Ren frowned, eyeing the runes. "They're trying to bring something through. Something old."
"I think they've already succeeded," Callan said grimly.
They didn't have to wait long.
A dark wind stirred the air. The ground rumbled beneath them, and the runes on the altar flared to life, casting an eerie glow. From the shadows around them, figures began to emerge—shapes that shifted and flickered like smoke, their eyes glowing with an unnatural fire.
"Get ready," Callan murmured.
Ren raised a hand, muttering incantations under his breath, the air crackling with magical energy. But Callan was already in motion, his sword drawn, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light.
The first of the figures lunged at him, a wraith-like creature with a face twisted in agony. Callan's blade cut through the creature with ease, severing it in half. But there were more. Dozens, maybe hundreds, all emerging from the shadows, their forms flickering in and out of existence like phantoms.
Callan fought like a man possessed, his sword a blur of motion as it cleaved through the shadowy figures. Every strike, every movement was precise, as if the blade itself knew where to go. He wasn't just fighting for survival. He was fighting to reclaim something that had been lost—his purpose.
Ren was chanting furiously, his hands glowing with the power of his magic. Arcs of lightning shot from his fingertips, frying the creatures in bursts of blinding light.
But no matter how many they cut down, more kept coming. They were endless.
"There's something wrong here," Ren said, his voice strained. "These aren't just regular demons. They're being summoned."
Callan nodded. "The ritual isn't over."
The battle stretched on for what felt like hours. Callan's body ached, his breath ragged, but he didn't stop. Not until there was a sudden, piercing screech from the shadows—louder than the rest, filled with a terrible authority.
And then, the creatures stopped.
The shadows parted, and a figure stepped into the moonlight.
It was tall—taller than any human, cloaked in a tattered black robe that seemed to shimmer and ripple with darkness. Its eyes were two burning embers, its face hidden beneath the hood, but its presence alone was enough to make the air crackle with power.
Ren took a step back. "That's not a summoner. That's a demon lord."
Callan gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles white. "I didn't think they could return. Not like this."
The demon lord's voice echoed in their minds, a deep, resonant voice that seemed to come from all directions at once. "You should not have come, General."
Callan's heart skipped a beat. General. The title echoed like a curse.
"Leave now," Callan growled, "Or I will destroy you."
The demon lord chuckled. It was a sound that made Callan's blood run cold. "You have no power here anymore. Not after everything you've lost."
In that moment, Callan understood. The demon lord wasn't just speaking of his past. It was speaking of something more—something that tied Callan to this place, to this ritual, to the very blood that had stained the earth so many years ago.
The demon lord raised its hand, and the shadows around it surged forward like a tidal wave, crashing toward Callan.