The hall was quiet. Too quiet—like the world itself was holding its breath. Dust hung in the air like smoke, and the black marble beneath his feet was cracked and chipped. Broken pillars leaned at impossible angles, and ash coated the floor.
At the far end, a throne waited. Obsidian and bone, carved with markings that seemed almost alive, pulsed faintly in the dim light.
Jun tried to move. Tried to speak. Nothing came at first. Then a voice—not entirely his own—escaped his throat.
"…I can think."
He flexed his fingers. Pale. Veined. Alien. They felt distant, like he was watching himself from the outside. Memories flickered: a life he barely remembered, a desk, a screen glowing late into the night… and a fleeting warmth of sunlight long gone. Then emptiness.
He was alive, but not alive.
The throne hummed softly, almost imperceptibly. Its presence pressed against him like a pulse, heavy, expectant.
"…Empty," he muttered.
The word slipped out, more a note to himself than an observation. Another faint pulse throbbed in his chest, subtle but undeniable.
Something stirred in the shadows. Footsteps, deliberate, slow. Someone—or something—was coming.
Jun straightened, unconsciously testing the weight in his limbs. The throne pulsed faintly, as if aware he had risen.
He tilted his head, studying the throne. A crown had once rested there. Names carved into its arms were faded. The world had moved on, and yet… it waited.
"…Then I suppose," he said softly, "I'll have to earn the right to sit."
He didn't smile. Not yet.
Somewhere deep inside, something stirred. The throne was empty… but it had noticed him