The throne room stood in silence.
Once, this place had echoed with the chants of warlords, the howls of demons, the whispers of forbidden pacts. Now, it was quiet. Only the distant roar of hellfire outside reminded anyone that this was the heart of Shadow's dominion.
He sat atop the obsidian throne.
Not out of comfort. Not out of triumph.
But because there was no one left who could sit there.
The last members of the High Infernal Council had turned against him. Kara and Malrik—once brothers-in-arms, now ash in the air. Their betrayal hadn't surprised him. What surprised him was how easy it had become to burn them.
Shadow stared ahead, not at the room, but through it—into memories. Into smoke.
A figure stepped into the hall. A demon-lord with scars across his face, bent to one knee. "My King… the worlds stir. The Light Realm breathes again. They speak of awakening something ancient."
Shadow did not move.
He simply said, "They always do."
The demon shivered. "They call it the Flame of End. A god-weapon lost in the fracture between creation and void. They believe it can destroy you."
Shadow stood slowly, the darkness around him moving like liquid armor. When he spoke, his voice was low.
"They always believe."
Outside the Black Citadel, the skies boiled with smoke. The broken armies of other realms watched from far. No one dared enter. No one dared leave.
In secret temples across the stars, war was whispered again.
From the heavenly city of Alcyon, to the frozen vaults of Velyr, and the storm-forged continent of Daevalis, one truth remained:
Shadow had survived.
The world had failed.
And something far worse than war was coming.
Meanwhile, far beyond hell, in a shattered cathedral built into the husk of a fallen star, a council gathered.
Light-bearers. Exiles. Archons. Divine witches. Even a few who had once walked as gods.
The center of the room was a crystal projection—Shadow, sitting on his throne, unmoved, staring into nothing.
"He has no army left," one spoke.
"He is the army," said another.
"Then we make a weapon stronger than a god," whispered the oldest.
They chose a new project: The Hollow Saint.
A child born of no mother, trained from no past. Not chosen by prophecy, but built—for one purpose:
Kill Shadow.
Back in the heart of the Black Citadel, Shadow walked alone through the forge-chambers. The ancient ones. Deep. Forgotten.
His hand brushed along an anvil older than the stars. He remembered this place—not with joy, but with weight.
This was where he and Shädow had first spoken. Where pain had shaped form.
Shadow opened his palm.
A spark danced. Black and gold.
He stared at it, and in a whisper only the fire could hear:
"I did not survive the war to start another."
But even as he said it—he knew the truth. The worlds would never let him rest.
They would always try to end him.
And so he would rise.
Not as king.
Not as god.
But as the consequence.
Outside, in the burning skies, comets screamed like angels fallen.
A tremor ran through the underworld.
And from beyond, across forgotten planes of light, a single name was whispered into the dark like a curse:
"Shadow still lives…"
The light was too bright for most to bear.
Even seasoned angels wore blindfolds. Even prophets kept silent here.
In the floating sanctum of Vael'Atra — a crystalline citadel suspended over a sun-sized sphere of holy flame — the builders of the Light Realm worked. Not with love. Not with hope.
With fear.
And purpose.
Shadow still lived. That was an affront. A scar on their truth.
They had tried war. He had burned their legions.
They had tried treaties. He had crushed their emissaries.
Now, they would try something worse.
They would make a child not born—but forged. Not chosen—but designed.
And they would call it: The Hollow Saint.
An Archlight named Calysia stood before the gathered architects.
"Shadow," she began, voice echoing in divine tones, "cannot be slain by the sword or the curse. He is both now. He is not a king—he is what remains after thrones burn."
She gestured to the vessel before them.
It hovered in a vat of living light—genderless, soulless, ageless. Eyes still closed. Veins pulsing with celestial fire and forgotten pain.
"He will have no memory. No love. No fear. Just will. Just the mission."
A priest stepped forward. "And what if he… evolves?"
Calysia did not smile. "Then we fail. And the next flame to fall will be ours."
In his dreams, the Hollow Saint dreamed of nothing.
No names. No voices. No childhood.
Only two commands burned into the roots of his mind:
FIND SHADOW.
END SHADOW.
His first breath burned. His first step echoed like judgment. His first word was not a sound—but a scream that cracked holy glass.
He was awake.
Days later, far from the sanctum, a celestial captain whispered to his second-in-command:
"I saw the Saint today. He looked like a child… but when I met his eyes, I felt like my soul was judged."
The other nodded.
"He doesn't speak much. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even bleed."
"He will, though," the captain added. "When he meets Shadow. Either he bleeds—or the world ends."
Meanwhile, deep beneath hell's crust, Shadow stood on a broken bridge, overlooking a sea of molten silence. Alone.
But not at peace.
He felt it—like a distant scream behind a closed door.
Something new had been born.
Not demonic. Not divine.
Something worse.
He closed his eyes, and whispered to the void around him:
"They've made another mistake."
A demon voice behind him asked: "Should we prepare the armies?"
Shadow turned. His voice like steel dragged across stone:
"No."
"Let them come."
"Let him come."
In Vael'Atra, the Hollow Saint knelt before the Divine Throne.
Not to pray. But to wait.
He was given one name. No map. No allies. No words of comfort.
Just the mission.
And a sword.
Not forged in heaven.
Forged in vengeance.
The light was too bright for most to bear.
Even seasoned angels wore blindfolds. Even prophets kept silent here.
In the floating sanctum of Vael'Atra — a crystalline citadel suspended over a sun-sized sphere of holy flame — the builders of the Light Realm worked. Not with love. Not with hope.
With fear.
And purpose.
Shadow still lived. That was an affront. A scar on their truth.
They had tried war. He had burned their legions.
They had tried treaties. He had crushed their emissaries.
Now, they would try something worse.
They would make a child not born—but forged. Not chosen—but designed.
And they would call it: The Hollow Saint.
An Archlight named Calysia stood before the gathered architects.
"Shadow," she began, voice echoing in divine tones, "cannot be slain by the sword or the curse. He is both now. He is not a king—he is what remains after thrones burn."
She gestured to the vessel before them.
It hovered in a vat of living light—genderless, soulless, ageless. Eyes still closed. Veins pulsing with celestial fire and forgotten pain.
"He will have no memory. No love. No fear. Just will. Just the mission."
A priest stepped forward. "And what if he… evolves?"
Calysia did not smile. "Then we fail. And the next flame to fall will be ours."
In his dreams, the Hollow Saint dreamed of nothing.
No names. No voices. No childhood.
Only two commands burned into the roots of his mind:
FIND SHADOW.
END SHADOW.
His first breath burned. His first step echoed like judgment. His first word was not a sound—but a scream that cracked holy glass.
He was awake.
Days later, far from the sanctum, a celestial captain whispered to his second-in-command:
"I saw the Saint today. He looked like a child… but when I met his eyes, I felt like my soul was judged."
The other nodded.
"He doesn't speak much. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even bleed."
"He will, though," the captain added. "When he meets Shadow. Either he bleeds—or the world ends."
Meanwhile, deep beneath hell's crust, Shadow stood on a broken bridge, overlooking a sea of molten silence. Alone.
But not at peace.
He felt it—like a distant scream behind a closed door.
Something new had been born.
Not demonic. Not divine.
Something worse.
He closed his eyes, and whispered to the void around him:
"They've made another mistake."
A demon voice behind him asked: "Should we prepare the armies?"
Shadow turned. His voice like steel dragged across stone:
"No."
"Let them come."
"Let him come."
In Vael'Atra, the Hollow Saint knelt before the Divine Throne.
Not to pray. But to wait.
He was given one name. No map. No allies. No words of comfort.
Just the mission.
And a sword.
Not forged in heaven.
Forged in vengeance.