Then, ahead of him a light appeared.
Not bright light. Just a faint glow, barely visible in the absolute darkness.
The light grew larger, or Max moved toward it; he couldn't tell which. The darkness around him began to take form, to have texture, like storm clouds made of shadow.
And in that faint light, suspended in the void, was a figure.
A man.
He floated cross-legged, as if sitting in meditation, his form wrapped in tattered robes that might once have been elegant but were now weathered beyond recognition. His hair was long and white, flowing around him as if underwater. His beard reached his chest, equally white, equally flowing.
But it was his face that made Max stop trying to struggle.
The man's skin was weathered, lined with age beyond counting. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful but infinitely sad. He looked ancient—not just old, but ancient, like something that had existed since the beginning of time itself.
The man's eyes opened.
They were completely black, like the orb, with tiny points of light deep within like distant stars.
"Oh," the man said, his voice echoing through the void despite seeming barely above a whisper. "So you have come. From the outer world."
Max's heart hammered. "Who are you? What is this place?"
"Questions I have not heard in... time has no meaning here, so I cannot say how long." The man's gaze fixed on Max with unnerving intensity. "But you are different from the others. You carry the mark of shadow. You walk the path I once walked."
"The path—are you a Soulbinder?"
The man smiled, and it was deeply sad. "I was. Once. Long before that name existed. Before classes and levels and systems. I was simply a man who learned to touch the void, to bargain with shadows, to bind souls."
"You're the founder," Max breathed. "You created the class."
"Created?" The man shook his head. "No. I discovered it. The power was always there, waiting in the spaces between life and death, in the darkness that connects all things. I merely learned to grasp it."
He gestured, and the void around them changed. Images appeared—memories, perhaps, or visions.
Max saw a younger version of the man, standing on a battlefield surrounded by corpses. Saw him raise his hands, and shadows erupting from the dead, taking form, becoming soldiers once more.
"Originally," the ancient Soulbinder said, "I used this power to bind my enemies' souls to me. To turn those who fell against me into servants, into weapons. An army that could never truly die, because I held their very essence in my grasp."
The vision shifted. Now the man stood before a king, gesturing, and the king's eyes went blank.
"Corruption," the man continued, "is not a weakness of the Soulbinder. It is our home. Our foundation. The darkness we embrace grants us power over minds, over souls, over death itself. I could reach into a man's heart and twist his will to mine. Could bind a spirit so thoroughly that it had no choice but to obey."
Max felt goosebumps prickle all over his body. "You used it for mind control?"
"I used it for dominion," the man corrected. "I built an empire on the backs of the dead and the enslaved. I was worshipped as a god and feared as a demon, and in truth, I was both."
The visions changed again, showing a civilization—massive cities of that same purple-black stone, people bowing before the Soulbinder, and armies of shadow warriors marching in perfect formation.
"But power without wisdom leads to destruction," the man said quietly. "The more I embraced corruption, the more I lost myself. My humanity eroded. My compassion died. I became the very darkness I wielded."
The cities in the vision began to crumble. The people screamed. The shadow armies turned on their master.
"In the end, I destroyed everything I had built. My corruption was so complete that reality itself rejected me. I was cast into this void, trapped between existence and oblivion, forever floating in the space I once commanded."
The visions faded, and they were back in the infinite darkness with just the old man's faint light.
Max found his voice. "Why are you telling me this? Why show me?"
The ancient Soulbinder looked at him with those star-filled eyes. "Because you stand at a crossroads. You have discovered powers that others do not possess. You have tasted what it means to command shadow, to bind souls, to walk the path I walked."
He gestured, and Max saw an image of himself—summoning Night, using Shadow Slave, the demonic entities tearing through enemies with mindless fury.
"You have the potential to become what I was. Perhaps even to surpass me."
"I'm not—" Max started to protest.
"You are," the man interrupted. "Perhaps not consciously. Perhaps not yet. But every use of shadow, every binding, every moment of corruption gained pushes you further down the path. The power seduces subtly. You tell yourself you're just being efficient, just using the tools available. But the darkness wants to be used. It whispers promises of strength, of control, of the ability to protect those you love."
Max thought of Thomas dying. Of being too weak to save him.
"Yes," the ancient Soulbinder said, seeming to read his thoughts. "You think, 'If I had been stronger, I could have saved him.' And the darkness offers that strength. All you must do is embrace it fully."
"What's wrong with wanting to protect people?"
"Nothing. But the path to hell is paved with good intentions." The old man's expression was infinitely weary. "You asked if this world is real. You sensed it, didn't you? When that man—Thomas was his name?—when he died saving his child, you felt the truth."
"He was an NPC," Max said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Was he?" The ancient Soulbinder gestured, and the void showed images—not from Aetheria, but from Max's world. The real world.
"You come from the outer realm, the world of flesh and physics. You enter this realm through machines that bridge consciousness. You believe this is a 'game,' a simulation, artificial."
"It is. It's code and algorithms—"