The night was calm over the hills. A pale crescent moon spilled silver light over the familiar ridges and winding paths Kael had once walked as a boy. The closer he came to the village, the heavier his chest felt—not from fatigue, but from the memories clawing their way back. Every tree, every crooked fence, every whisper of the wind carried a fragment of the life he thought forever lost.
He stopped at the crest of the hill. Below, the village lay as it always had—humble homes clustered together, smoke curling from chimneys, lanterns glowing faintly through shuttered windows.
For a moment, Kael simply stood there, the abyss within him warring against the warmth of what he saw. His hand twitched, as though the urge to summon and shield everything right then nearly overtook him. But he forced it down. Tonight, he would not come as the Abyss Sovereign. Tonight, he would walk as a son.
The wooden door of his home creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside, the firelight flickered across familiar walls. His mother sat by the hearth, mending a worn cloak. Reina—now sixteen, her eyes no longer those of a child but of a determined young woman—was helping, her fingers clumsy but earnest.
The moment his shadow fell across the threshold, his mother looked up. The needle dropped from her hand.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Her lips trembled, her eyes wide with disbelief. Then, voice breaking:
"...Kael?"
Reina froze, her gaze snapping toward the door. When she saw him, the spool in her hands rolled across the floor.
Kael's throat tightened. "I'm home," he whispered.
The words shattered the distance between them. His mother rushed forward, arms wrapping around him, trembling as though afraid he would vanish if she let go. Reina followed, burying her face against his chest, her sob muffled by the cloth of his cloak.
Kael closed his eyes, embracing them both. For the first time since the Abyss, he allowed himself a moment of peace. A moment where he was not Sovereign, not conqueror, but son and brother.
Yet even in the warmth of reunion, the shadows of truth lingered. He did not speak of Arlen. He did not speak of betrayal. For them, he would bear that silence alone.
While Kael found solace, far away, Greyspire groaned beneath the scars of his wrath.
Arlen arrived at dawn. His retinue of armored knights parted the streets as whispers followed their passage. The town was battered, its walls cracked, homes burned, soldiers wounded and demoralized.
But it was the expressions on their faces that unnerved him most. Fear. Not of the invaders. Not of rebels. But of something else—something unseen.
He descended into the basement of Lord Maldrake's manor. The stench of blood and charred glyphs hit him immediately. And there, upon a table, was all that remained of Maldrake: a bucket filled with shredded flesh and bone, the abomination-maker reduced to pulp.
Atop the gore lay a single slip of parchment, words scrawled in a steady, merciless hand:
"I know what you did ten years ago, Arlen."
Arlen's grip on the note tightened until the parchment tore. His jaw clenched, though a chill sweat slid down his neck. Whoever this was… they had dug into the one secret he thought buried forever.
His soldiers discovered the second horror hours later. The den of the slave traders—Maldrake's accomplices—was a ruin. The walls were splattered with gore, runes scorched into nothing, and bodies lay strewn about like broken dolls.
Every corpse bore the same grotesque end: their skulls crushed, exploded from within, as though their very treachery had been punished by a divine hand.
The sight silenced even the most hardened knight. But for Arlen, it ignited fury. His mind turned, not to grief for his lost pawn, but to calculation.
"Someone is moving against me," he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "And they know my past. This… will not be ignored."
He crushed the bloodstained parchment in his fist, unaware that the shadow of his reckoning had already returned home.
The night deepened, but Kael did not sleep.
His mother and sister had gone to bed, the fire dying into embers. Yet Kael stood by the window, watching the stillness of the village, his hand resting lightly against the wooden frame.
The tranquility should have calmed him. But the storm inside him would not rest.
Kael stepped outside. With a thought, strands of mana unfurled around him, weaving into sigils that shimmered faintly in the dark. They sank into the earth, climbed the old walls, and spread like invisible roots across the hill.
The barrier field snapped into place with a soundless pulse. The entire village was now under his protection. No intruder, no abyssal echo, no enemy pawn would step through without him knowing.
The power responded eagerly, the Abyss Dragon's core within him feeding the lattice until it thrummed with strength. To the villagers, it would feel like nothing more than a shift in the night air. But to Kael, it was the first line of his hidden war.
He descended into the basement of his home. Dust lingered in the air, lit only by the pale gleam of a conjured orb in his palm.
There, he traced his hand along the stone wall until it shimmered. A small circle of runes bloomed outward, revealing a hidden chamber he had quietly expanded with earth-sovereign energy.
At the center of the chamber floated the Dungeon Core—the prize the Abyss Dragon had left him. It pulsed like a heart, steady and waiting, as though eager to serve its new master.
Kael's eyes lingered on it, both wary and hungry. This was a power mortals considered divine—a core capable of shaping endless realms, birthing labyrinths, weaving nightmares into reality.
He pressed his palm against the surface, feeling its hum. The dungeon stirred, and an interface flickered into his vision:
[Dungeon Initialization: Awaiting Parameters]
For now, Kael kept its presence restrained, anchoring it in silence. But a thought bloomed in his mind, dark and deliberate.
Beside the core, Kael unrolled parchment. The room smelled faintly of ink and stone as he began to write. Each stroke of the quill was deliberate, carved with purpose.
He did not write of his triumphs. He did not record the Abyss. Instead, he began a chronicle of betrayal:
The day Arlen had left him to die.
The forged tale of his death delivered to his family.
The faces of those who had prospered in his absence, while his mother and sister struggled in silence.
Every word dripped with venom, but it was controlled, measured, sharpened like a blade.
"This dungeon," he whispered, the abyss flickering behind his eyes, "will not be just stone and monsters. It will be their tomb. A story carved into walls, where every corridor echoes with their downfall. Every treasure will remind them of what they've stolen. And every shadow will carry my vengeance."
The Dungeon Core pulsed in response, as if savoring the promise.
When Kael emerged from the basement, dawn was just beginning to creep over the horizon. The house stood still, his family asleep, unaware of the fortress blooming beneath their feet.
Kael stood at the threshold, looking once more at the peaceful village. His heart ached with the duality: the warmth of home and the darkness of his vow.
For his mother and sister, he would preserve peace. For Arlen, for the prince, for the empire that had forgotten him—he would unleash the abyss they themselves had birthed.
His hand clenched, the faint whisper of the dungeon's heartbeat still echoing in his palm.
The story of their downfall had begun.