The deeper Drax moved into the dungeon, the darker and more suffocating the air became. The black mist from the Abyss swirled around his legs, tugging at his body like water, pulling him into the subconscious world that had become his prison—and now his domain.
Each step reverberated with the echoes of the portal. Somewhere deep in this void, something moved. Something ancient.
Ahead, a gate stood unlike any he had seen. It wasn't like the Nexus Gates at the surface—it was carved of black iron, pulsing with an energy that made the Abyss within Drax quiver in recognition.
The runes etched into the gate glowed faintly crimson, and the air hummed with the resonance of death.
Drax's lips pressed into a line. He didn't breathe heavily. He didn't hesitate. He just stepped forward.
Inside, the chamber was vast, impossibly so. The floor was black stone, polished yet uneven, and the walls were lined with skeletal banners that rattled with a wind that didn't exist.
At the center, on a black throne elevated by jagged obsidian steps, sat the Death Knight. A figure clad in armor that gleamed like the void itself. His helmet, sharp and menacing, revealed only shadow behind the eye slits. A massive sword rested across his lap.
Around him, dozens of Abyssal Knights—undead warriors radiating corrupted essence—stood in perfect formation. Their presence alone made Drax feel the weight of death, the inevitability of obliteration.
The Death Knight's voice was a cold rasp, echoing in the chamber.
"Ah… an intruder. You carry a power I recognize… Abyssal. Interesting. Few survive the first taste."
Drax's eyes narrowed. He didn't reply. He didn't need to. Words were pointless here. Action was the only truth.
Abyssal Essence – Deep Dive
The Abyssal essence that flowed in Drax was unlike any other.
It was consumptive—able to absorb the essence of creatures, environments, and even attacks, converting them into strength.
It was adaptive—it could anticipate, mimic, and counter incoming force, especially when under stress or threat.
It was domain-bound—within his inner world, or any space he could influence, all matter and energy bent subtly to his will.
It was regenerative—injuries healed at an accelerated rate, reinforced by absorbed essence.
It was evolutionary—with each combat experience, Drax's body, reflexes, and instincts could shift to meet the next challenge.
Yet even with this, the Death Knight was a problem.
The Abyssal Knights surged forward in unison. Drax shifted slightly, and the shadows under his feet coiled into jagged spikes, slamming into the first row of knights. Bones shattered, armor crumbled, but more poured forward relentlessly.
Drax's movements were minimal, efficient. He ducked a swing from one knight, elbowed another in the chest, grabbed a helmet and slammed it into a third. His white eyes glimmered with cold focus.
The Abyss inside him hummed, flowing into every muscle fiber, every joint, anticipating the strikes of his foes, strengthening his strikes in turn.
But the sheer number of opponents forced him to retreat, pivot, and shift constantly. His body ached in ways it had never before.
The Death Knight rose from his throne. Massive, imposing, and deliberate.
"You carry no sword," he said, voice calm, almost courteous. "Then hand-to-hand it is. Honor demands at least that."
And with a fluid motion, the Death Knight descended the throne steps and advanced. His movement was precise, calculated—a perfect balance of weight, timing, and threat.
Drax lunged first. A punch aimed at the knight's jaw was caught midair, twisting his wrist painfully. Another strike to the ribs was blocked, crushing the hand against reinforced armor.
He staggered back. Pain seared through his side, but the Abyssal essence reacted instantly. Muscles tensed, bones reinforced, adrenaline-fueled reflexes sharpened.
"Close the distance. Don't let him breathe."
The essence whispered, and Drax adjusted mid-step, pivoting into a sweep of his leg that caught the Death Knight's knee. Armor rang like iron, but the knight staggered slightly. Drax followed with a series of quick strikes—elbows, knees, forearms—probing openings, testing reactions.
It was brutal. It was messy. And it was learning.
Strike after strike, Drax began to notice patterns. The Death Knight didn't rush. He never overcommitted. Every attack could kill. Every opening was bait.
The Abyssal essence within Drax pulsed, learning. Reflexes sharpened, movements became predictive. When the Death Knight feinted left, Drax instinctively shifted, countering before the second strike could land.
"Not just power… adaptability." Drax realized, feeling the Abyssal World stretching into his muscles, his nerves. Every blow he received taught him how to avoid the next. Every near-death moment honed him.
He stopped speaking entirely. There was no need. Every grunt, every strike was calculated. No hesitation, no wasted energy.
When he finally managed to knock back a wave of Abyssal Knights, the Death Knight raised his hand, summoning more skeletal warriors from the shadows.
The Abyssal essence surged. Black tendrils erupted from Drax's body, weaving into spikes, shields, and blades—all extensions of him. He moved through the horde like water, bones snapping under pressure, skin splitting, but reforming instantly, each strike feeding the essence.
"Every ounce of essence is mine to devour. Every attack strengthens me. Every pain… teaches me."
After a brutal exchange, the Death Knight drew his massive black sword.
"Finally… a weapon for honor's sake," he said, his voice low, echoing.
Drax didn't hesitate. Shadows coalesced around the fragments of the broken dagger in his hand, reforming it into a jagged obsidian blade. It shimmered with Abyssal energy, alive and hungry.
The two of them faced each other. No words. Just anticipation.
The Abyssal Knights formed a perimeter, waiting. The air itself seemed to tremble under the tension of two beings capable of ending the other in an instant.
Drax's white eyes glowed. His lips pressed into a line. He didn't need to speak. He didn't need to think. He simply moved, ready to match steel with steel, strength with precision, adaptability with experience.
This would not be a simple fight. Every strike could be death. Every mistake could cost him his life.
And Drax… would not fail again.