Silence ruled the underground.
Not the peaceful kind—
but the suffocating quiet of a world that had forgotten the meaning of life.
The cavern stretched endlessly, carved by corruption rather than by tools. The walls were ribbed with blackened veins that pulsed faintly, as if some monstrous heart deep below still struggled to beat.
Mana didn't flow here.
It rotted.
At the center of this desecrated abyss, a staircase rose—crooked, uneven, jagged like a spine forced upward through stone. At its peak sat a throne born from corruption itself: obsidian twisted into spines and crooked angles, dripping steady trails of dark mana that evaporated before touching ground.
On that throne…
A figure sat.
Still.
Motionless.
Featureless.
A long cloak of absolute black covered every inch—hood deep, sleeves long enough to hide the hands, cloth so dark it seemed to swallow the faint glow of corrupted crystals.
Not a breath escaped from beneath the hood.
Not a shift of weight.
