Adarsh stood before the towering iron gates of the Palace of Destruction, heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped animal.
His palms were slick with sweat. The ground beneath his feet felt unnaturally cold and sticky, as if the palace itself was breathing against his soles. The gates loomed like some ancient beast—black iron so dark it swallowed light, heavy enough to carry the weight of forgotten worlds. Strange sigils crawled across their surface: serpents devouring their own tails, mouths frozen in eternal screams, symbols that stung the eyes the longer you looked.
He reached out with a trembling hand. The instant his fingers touched the metal, the gates erupted in blinding white light. It stabbed through his skull; white spots exploded behind his closed eyelids. He staggered back, arms raised to shield his face.
When the glare faded, the gates were already grinding open—slow, reluctant, groaning like bones long unused. Each inch revealed more darkness inside.
A blast of freezing wind rushed out, sharp enough to cut skin. It carried the metallic tang of old blood, damp stone, and something sickly sweet, like rotting flowers. The wind shoved at his chest, tried to force him back—then reversed, tugging him forward like invisible fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Come in," it seemed to whisper. "But you'll never leave the same."
For one heartbeat, pure terror gripped him.
He wanted to run.
Back into the endless black void he had walked through. Back to the boy who still heard his mother's lullaby at night, who woke to the smell of her fresh rotis in the morning. Back to before everything broke.
But her last smile flashed in his mind—soft, tired, proud.
"My brave boy," she used to say. "Fear never gets to decide for you."
He clenched his teeth.
Took the step.
The palace swallowed him whole.
Inside was worse than anything he could have imagined.
The walls felt alive. Carvings covered every surface: warriors impaled on their own blades, women weeping rivers of stone, monsters with too many mouths tearing at their own flesh. Their stone eyes tracked him. No matter where he turned, those hollow gazes followed—silent, judging, waiting.
Shattered stone tablets lay scattered across the floor. Ancient script glowed faintly on their surfaces, words he couldn't read but somehow felt in his bones:
Power demands sacrifice.
Mercy is death.
Revenge is the only path.
To quench the fire in your heart.
Floating orbs drifted through the air—sapphire, crimson, molten gold, silver—pulsing slowly like distant heartbeats. Their light washed the walls in sick, shifting colors. Adarsh's shadow stretched and twisted on the floor; for a moment his hands looked clawed, no longer human.
Then the voice came.
It didn't come from one place. It came from everywhere—the stones, the air, the darkness behind his own eyes.
"Who dares enter my house?"
The words scraped like rusted knives across bone. Adarsh's knees buckled. He caught himself against a pillar; his fingernails gouged stone. Thin lines of blood welled up.
"I am Adarsh," he said, voice cracking but forcing itself steady. "I came for power. Enough to kill the ones who murdered my mother."
Silence.
Then laughter—low, ancient, cold.
"Power? Does a child think he is worthy?"
The laughter grew, rolling through the hall until the floating orbs trembled and the statues seemed to shrink back. It shook dust from the ceiling.
"You believe this place will hand you a blade and send you home a hero? The strength you seek will hollow you out. It will devour everything you love—your memories, your sleep, your humanity—until only hunger and vengeance remain. Are you ready to become the very monster you hunt?"
Adarsh's throat closed.
His mother appeared again—not as he had last seen her alive, but as he feared she had died: lying in blood, eyes open, staring at him.
"Where were you, beta?" her gaze asked. "Why couldn't you save me?"
"I have to be ready," he whispered.
Black smoke exploded from the floor, rising like a living storm. The orbs shrieked—high, glass-shattering cries—and fled toward the ceiling. The smoke laughed louder, shaking the rafters.
"A novice! A trembling child dares come for my treasure?"
The voice fractured, multiplied, echoed from every shadow.
"You cannot even see a fraction of my true form. This is mercy."
The smoke twisted violently, folded in on itself, and took shape.
A warrior.
Towering. Terrifying.
Clad in armor of midnight-forged metal, etched with glowing runes that burned the eyes. Crimson silk banners hung from his shoulders like royal shrouds soaked in centuries of war. His face was hidden behind a demonic helm, but his eyes…
Gods, those eyes were pure void. Endless night. Looking into them felt like falling forever. Adarsh tore his gaze away, gasping, chest heaving as though the stare had physically struck him.
The warrior's voice dropped to a velvet growl.
"You stand before one who crushed warriors a hundred times your strength. I am older than your empire. Stronger than your gods. And you come here begging?"
Adarsh forced himself to meet those abyssal eyes again. His voice shook, but he spoke.
"The Ananta Source brought me here."
The warrior tilted his head. A flicker of something—surprise?—passed through the darkness of his gaze.
"So the Source chose you. Intriguing."
He took one step. The floor shuddered.
"Very well, chosen one. Let us see if you are worthy."
The warrior raised a gauntleted hand.
The floating orbs flared violently—then dove. They surrounded Adarsh in a ring of searing light. The hall vanished.
He was home.
His mother stood before him—alive, smiling, arms open.
"Adarsh, my brave boy. Come home. Leave this darkness behind."
But behind her, shadows stirred.
Nine hooded figures.
The Blood Shadow Syndicate.
Knives gleamed.
Adarsh lunged forward. Invisible chains snapped around his wrists, yanking him back. The warrior's voice echoed inside his skull.
"Choose. Save her now… and you will never possess the power to avenge her memory. Or take the power—and watch her die again. Every single night. Forever."
Adarsh screamed. Tears burned tracks down his face.
His mother's illusion looked at him with love and sorrow.
"It's all right, beta. I forgive you."
The knives rose.
His heart split in two.
He closed his eyes.
"I… choose power."
The illusion shattered.
His mother's scream echoed as the blades fell.
Pain—white-hot, soul-rending—tore through him. It felt like a piece of his heart was ripped out and replaced with ice.
When the vision collapsed, he was back in the hall—on his knees, gasping.
The warrior regarded him from above, expression almost… sorrowful.
"You did not truly pass," he said quietly. "But inside you burns the one thing the Ananta Source craves: a will so fierce it would rather cloak the world in ashes than bend."
He extended his hand. In the palm rested a single glowing shard—blue-green, pulsing with the heart of the Ananta Source.
"But understand this, boy. Every step toward vengeance will carve away another fragment of the child your mother loved. One day you will stand over their corpses… and realize the only thing left wearing your face is the monster."
Adarsh reached out with shaking fingers. The shard burned like frozen fire as it sank into his palm.
Power flooded him—raw, savage, terrifying.
He screamed again—this time a roar of rage and defiance.
The warrior watched him rise. His abyssal eyes remained unreadable.
"Welcome to the path, Adarsh. Try not to lose yourself before the end."
The floating orbs dimmed. The statues turned their faces away, as though ashamed.
And deep within the Palace of Destruction, the true trial had only just begun.
Then, in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, the warrior added:
"Who knows, boy… perhaps you will be the one to pass every test. Perhaps you will set them all free."
To find out what happens next, keep reading
VOID MONARCH: BLACK ASCENT