The throne of Obsidian was quiet.
No war horns.
No chanting demons.
No storms of fire.
Only silence.
Shadow sat alone, one leg over the other, his left gauntlet dripping dark essence that hissed where it touched the black stone. His blade, Endmourne, was stabbed into the ground beside the throne, pulsing like a heartbeat. His eyes — no longer flame, but a deeper void — fixed on the figure stepping through the shattered gates.
The Hollow Saint.
He walked with the rhythm of death, slow and patient. Behind him trailed not footsteps but silence itself. The cursed air of the Obsidian Keep refused to touch him.
Shadow leaned forward, chin on his knuckles.
"So," he said. "They built a god to kill a devil."
The Saint stopped ten paces from the throne.
"I am not a god."
"No," Shadow said, smiling slightly. "You're something far worse. You're an answer."
The Saint remained still.
"You knew I would come."
"Of course I did," Shadow replied. "But I wondered when."
He stood slowly.
As he did, the obsidian throne behind him cracked — not from power, but from rejection. As though it could no longer bear the weight of what sat on it.
"Tell me," Shadow said, stepping down the stairs, "what do they promise you?"
The Saint tilted his head slightly.
"That I would end you. That balance would return."
Shadow chuckled darkly.
"Balance. Is that what they call it now?"
He walked a circle around the Saint, eyes scanning every inch of the weapon before him.
"You're beautiful, in a tragic way. Light forged in desperation. Flesh stitched from prophecy. A shell holding nothing but command."
The Saint turned to face him.
"And you… were once human."
For the first time, Shadow hesitated. Just a breath. Just a flicker.
Then:
"I was more than that."
The Saint took a step forward.
"You destroyed the heavens. You unmade the thrones. You broke the Nine."
"And rebuilt what mattered," Shadow interrupted, gesturing to the darkness around them. "No more lies. No more divine chains. I freed this world from the false light."
"And replaced it with fear."
Shadow grinned.
"Fear is honest. Fear doesn't preach. It just is."
The Saint's hand twitched near his blade.
"Then why wait? Why speak?"
"Because," Shadow said, stopping inches away from him, "I remember what it was like to be used. To be thrown into war by those too afraid to wield their own judgment."
He pointed at the Saint's chest.
"You and I… we are both tools."
The Saint's expression didn't change — but something flickered behind his eyes.
Doubt?
Memory?
A buried scream?
Shadow's voice softened.
"Do you want to kill me?"
The Saint said nothing.
"Or are you just following the echo of a god who's already dead?"
A long pause.
Then the Saint whispered:
"I don't know."
It wasn't a confession.
It was a curse.
Shadow stepped back.
"Then choose."
He spread his arms wide, exposing his chest, letting his shadows fall away.
"Strike. End the king of hell. Complete your purpose."
The Saint slowly drew his blade.
It hummed with divine tension, forged for this moment — the final act of a holy war that had bled across generations.
He raised it.
Shadow closed his eyes.
The throne crumbled behind him.
The Saint stood motionless.
Then lowered the sword.
"No."
Shadow opened his eyes, surprised.
"Why?"
"Because you're right."
The Saint dropped his blade to the floor.
"I am a tool. A command. Not a will."
He turned away.
"And I refuse to be used again."
Shadow watched him walk, the echoes of his steps lingering longer than they should.
"You'll be hunted," Shadow said quietly. "They'll never stop."
"Then let them come."
And just like that — the Saint left.
Not in triumph.
Not in sorrow.
But in freedom.
Shadow stood alone, the ruins of the throne room collapsing around him.
He smiled, faintly.
Then looked up at the ceiling of ash.
"He chose."