Lucas's fingers brushed the stone.
It was cold.
Not the natural kind of cold—this was deep, buried, ancient. The kind that didn't belong to weather or time. The kind that came from something dead.
The moment his skin touched the surface of the door, it moved.
No sound.
No resistance.
The massive slab of black stone began to pull back into the wall with a slow, seamless grace, like it had been waiting for that single touch for centuries.
Lucas stepped back instinctively, breathing shallow.
The chamber behind the door stirred.
One by one, torches burst to life along the curved walls beyond, fire blooming without fuel, casting flickering light across the passage like breathing shadows.
The flames burned a deep violet—unnatural, quiet, almost reverent.
What lay ahead was not a hallway, nor a chamber in the traditional sense.
It was a void.
A massive, circular space swallowed by shadow, so wide and deep that the far walls vanished from sight. There was no ceiling—just endless black overhead. The torches lining the edges couldn't chase away the darkness in the center.
And in that center, raised on a wide dais of jagged stone—
A throne.
Black as pitch.
Carved from the same obsidian as the rest of the tower, but smoother, almost organic in design. It looked as though it had grown out of the ground rather than been built. Its surface shimmered faintly beneath the torchlight.
Empty.
Silent.
Waiting.
Lucas didn't speak.
He didn't move.
His hand hung in the air where it had touched the door.
His breath trembled in his chest.
The silence was unbearable.
Not empty—pressurized. Like the air inside the chamber was holding its breath.
Lucas's feet stood rooted at the threshold, but every instinct in his body screamed not to go further.
Still… something shifted.
A pressure pressed against his back. Not a shove. Not wind. Just… presence.
He staggered forward.
His foot crossed the threshold.
The air changed instantly.
No more cold.
No more firelight.
No more sound.
Lucas turned, but the door was gone.
Behind him, only shadow.
In front—only the throne.
The torches no longer flickered. Their violet glow froze in place, as if suspended in time. The light didn't reach the center, didn't dare touch the throne's dais. That space remained wrapped in stillness, untouched by even the breath of flame.
He tried to step back.
Couldn't.
His body refused.
His limbs were moving—but not by his command.
Like a string had been pulled from behind his ribs.
His boots echoed softly on the stone floor, yet the sound didn't travel. The world swallowed every vibration, letting nothing escape.
With every step, the throne loomed larger.
He couldn't look away.
Couldn't blink.
Each breath felt heavier than the last.
His thoughts, once clear, started to fracture.
Voices whispered at the edges of his mind.
His own voice.
But not quite.
'Keep walking.'
'You're here.'
'You've always been here.'
His hands trembled at his sides.
And still… he moved.
He was close now.
Only a few steps separated him from the throne.
His legs moved sluggishly, like the weight of the room pressed down on him more with each passing second. The silence had become physical—a blanket draped over reality, muffling not just sound, but thought.
Then he felt it.
Behind him.
No footsteps. No shift in the air. No warning.
But he knew.
Shadow was there.
Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His breath hitched. His body wanted to turn, to run, to scream—but nothing obeyed.
Only his eyes moved.
Wide.
Trembling.
Then—a whisper, cold and hollow.
Not words.
Just intention.
And then—
Pain.
Explosive.
Searing.
Sudden.
A sharp sound tore from his throat as the tip of a black blade burst through the center of his chest—a scythe, curved and massive, its obsidian edge glinting in the torchlight for the briefest second.
Lucas's knees buckled.
He looked down.
The blade was inside him. Clean. Silent.
No blood yet—just pressure. White-hot. Paralyzing.
He tried to breathe, but air wouldn't come.
Behind him, he didn't need to look.
He could feel Shadow, standing tall, unmoving, hand resting on the hilt of the weapon still buried in his back.
A presence like gravity itself.
Like death.
And then—
The scythe pushed forward.
Lucas stumbled.
Forward.
Toward the throne.
Lucas staggered forward.
The blade still buried in his back guided him like a shepherd's crook, each step a command he couldn't refuse.
He reached the base of the dais.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed, hands slapping weakly against the black stone steps. The pain in his chest burned now—wet and sharp, like fire trapped beneath skin.
He coughed, and blood splattered the ground.
The throne waited.
Unmoving. Untouched. Timeless.
With a final, broken groan, Lucas crawled the last few steps. He didn't know why. There was no reason, no will, no strength left in him.
But his body still obeyed.
He reached the top.
And fell into the seat.
Not like a ruler.
Not like a warrior.
He collapsed, back slumping against the cold obsidian, his blood soaking into the grooves along the throne's arms and seat.
And the throne…
Responded.
It pulsed once beneath him. Just once. A dull vibration that traveled up his spine and into his skull.
The stone shifted subtly.
Not visually.
But he felt it—adjusting, molding to his form like a coffin made just for him.
The pain dulled.
The silence deepened.
And the world… held its breath.
The silence shattered.
Not with sound.
But with presence.
A flicker of light—soft, pale blue—hovered in the air before him. Then another. Dozens of small motes blinked into existence around the throne, floating like dying stars.
And then—
[System Awakening…]
The voice wasn't human. It wasn't mechanical, either. It was something in between—a vibration in his bones, a thought pressed directly into his mind.
[Soul Signature Detected.]
[Cross-reference… Complete.]
[Condition: Terminal.]
[Initiating last-phase inheritance protocol.]
Lucas's body seized.
The pain surged again, and this time, it wasn't from the wound. It was deeper—in his blood, his nerves, his very soul.
[Unique Class: Deathbringer]
[Lineage Identified: Son of Thanatos, God of Death]
His eyes widened as visions slammed into him.
A vast plain beneath a starless sky.
Figures cloaked in shadow marching in silence.
A black guadaña crashing into the earth and splitting mountains.
Chains made of bone, coiled around the sun.
A throne—his throne—on a mountain of corpses.
The system pulsed again.
[Core Binding… Complete.]
[Welcome, Heir of Death.]
His breath came in ragged gasps. Blood trickled down his chin. His limbs twitched. He couldn't scream. Couldn't move.
The motes of light dimmed… and vanished.
Only darkness remained.
Only him.
And the throne.
His fingers twitched once.
Then again.
But he couldn't feel them anymore.
His chest rose in shallow, stuttering gasps. His head lolled to the side, vision blurring with each pulse. The cold was spreading fast now—from his core, outward, claiming every inch of him.
The throne beneath him pulsed again.
Welcoming.
Consuming.
Lucas's eyes flickered open one last time. Just enough to see the edges of the chamber dissolve into shadow.
His throat burned as blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
He tried to say something.
Tried to curse the world. The system. The gods. Himself.
Only one word came out.
A broken, bitter hiss.
"Fuck…"
And then, darkness claimed him.