The world was changing, one second he was in the graveyard with his hands over his mouth, conversing with his sister, and the next, he was floating in the sky.
Zareil saw a city rebuilding, hundreds of people moving through its newly made roads, carrying steel rods and stone bricks, wheeling carts full of sand around the newborn city. The sun was shining bright high above, washing the streets in its golden rays.
Children ran through the streets, carefully avoiding places where work was being done.
Suddenly, the sun started moving, moving towards the east, a beautiful silver moon replacing its harsh light with cool moonlight. The cycle continued, the moon was soon replaced by the sun once more, and continued so.
A dozen years passed in a heartbeat, and a marvellous structure stood where the bustling city had stood. In a chill, Zareil realised what had happened. His already pale face turned even paler.
Time had resumed its original pace. Snowflakes were lazily drifting through the sky, falling on the ground noiselessly.
The city was gone, and in its place stood a marvel of architecture. The pinnacle of demon technology.
A grand estate stretched endlessly in every direction, a landscape carved from darkness itself. At each corner of the territory stood a massive black spire, rising like colossal spears meant to pierce the heavens. They looked as if they had been forged by Satan's own hand, weapons powerful enough to wound the gods.
Hundreds of horned demons patrolled the spiked walls encircling the estate. Each one carried the unmistakable flame of battle within them, a silent promise of violence to anyone who dared approach with ill intentions.
The main manor was just as fearsome as the structures that guarded it. It rose from the earth with the presence of a living monstrosity, a creation shaped not by architects but by Mother Nature herself.
Its polished black marble walls gleamed like obsidian soaked in moonlight, giving the impression that the building had grown upward through some ancient demonic ritual. Crimson windows lined every surface, glowing faintly like blood captured in glass and watching the world with a quiet, predatory hunger.
Deep within its dark depths, a boy came back to his senses.
[Welcome reader! Your first trial of dominion commences. Try not to die!]
Huh... what the hell is happening? Where am I? In the first place, how am I even here? And why the hell does it hurt so much?
Scrape—!
The ceiling was damp, drops of water fell in irregular patterns, splashing against the cold stone floor with soft plopping noises. Besides the sound of dripping water, only faint groans of pain could be heard, followed by the occasional rustling of something metallic.
Zareil sat on a creaky wooden chair. Its surface brown, with small chips here and there. Wrapped around his arms were black chains, easily bigger than the torso of an average man. A cloth bag was placed over his head, blocking his eyes, leaving him stranded in a dark void.
His wrists hurt; the chains were heavy. He couldn't move, nor could he see. Coupled with the disorienting feeling of...whatever happened, Zareil felt his mind was about to explode.
Ah, dammit, everything hurts.
In all honesty, Zareil wanted to curse, but lethargy was a strong enemy.
Zareil moved his head, trying to pry off the bag.
His limbs were useless, leaving him only his teeth to work with. Zareil brought his head as close to his knees as he could, wrapped them around his head, and pushed upwards. At the same time, he bit into the bag, pulling in the same direction, trying his best to pull it off.
His hands instinctively clenched, but alas, his efforts were useless; he failed. Undeterred, Zareil tried again and then a third time.
By the time he reached his seventh attempt, he succeeded. The bag was thrown to the ground, hitting the cold floor with a soundless thud.
Zareil could see again. But with sight came creeping knowledge. An unexpected gasp escaped his lips as he looked around him, taking in the gloomy sight.
The walls were black brick, cracked and chipped, with strange satanic markings drawn with white chalk. Most of the floor was hidden beneath the ginoorumous chains that held him in place. It was almost as if he were being treated like an ancient threat rather than a 21-year-old boy.
He would have chulked at the absurdity of his situation if not for the rather alarming state he was in.
His body was marred with small cuts and bruises, frozen blood clinging for dear life. Some of the larger wounds were cauterized to prevent him from bleeding out.
It was very clear to Zareil that he was being tortured for who knows how long...except he knew, for he remembered this place all too well.
The dungeons...
His face paled as realization crashed over him. He had been here once before, and the memory was anything but pleasant. It was so terrible, in fact, that he had been going to therapy for more than 11 years. Even the janitors at the building knew him by name!
Was that not a bad sign?
Just a day before the incident had occurred, Zareil had been brought down here and had something incomprehensibly bad done to him. He had stayed here for over 35 hours, tortured repeatedly, only to be healed and then carved open again.
The memory was fresh in his mind. Novel 21, 9960. That date marked the day he had been betrayed, the day his parents were killed, his dukedom burned, and his knight brought to the verge of death, just a breath away from leaving him forever.
But that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that his sister had been the mastermind behind all of it. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Zareil hadn't witnessed the death of his parents with his own eyes; he had been too busy being tortured by Astrid in the exact dungeon he was currently in.
As if on cue, the sounds of footsteps reached his ears, making him involuntarily shiver. A cold chill made its way up his spine, and he slowly realized that he was about to relive his worst nightmare, or perhaps get a new one.
No. No. No. I can't let it happen again. I can't let her do it again...I might really not make it out alive this time.
Zareil was scared shitless. He knew of the scars he had suffered after being tortured once as a child. He was an adult now, his mental state, which should have been hundreds of times better, was infact much worse compared to his childhood.
The footsteps grew louder and louder, echoing across the empty hallways.
Step—!
Cold metal boots were clanking. With each passing second, Zareil's heartbeat grew louder and louder, seemingly in sync with his doom.
A few tantalizingly slow seconds later, the figure Zareil feared and hated—in equal measure—appeared in front of him.