The throne shattered.
Not with sound. With weight. As if time itself cracked under the force of return.
The corpse stood. Flesh gone. Bones cracked open and filled with voidfire. Its chest opened like a door — and inside, an endless night burned.
Shadow drew his blade. The edge hummed — not with metal, but with memory. Every scar it had carved into gods, demons, traitors — it remembered. So did he.
The Forgotten One stepped forward.
Shadow moved first.
Steel screamed through air. The cut hit — clean, fast, final.
But the body didn't fall.
Instead, it swallowed the slash — absorbed the fury, and answered with silence.
Shadow barely dodged the return. Not a punch. Not a spell. Just a wave of gravity, collapsing toward him like a dying star. The floor cratered. His shoulder slammed into blackstone.
He rose. Spat blood. Smirked.
"You hit like memory," he said. "All weight, no meaning."
The Forgotten One raised both arms.
Shadows crawled up the walls. Not his. Older. They coiled around him like chains. They weren't trying to bind — they were judging. Ancient kings. Fallen realms. Dead gods. All in shadow-form.
They whispered: You are not worthy.
Shadow snarled. "I didn't ask."
And then — he burned.
Not fire. Something darker. Shadowflame. It rose from inside his ribs. His horns cracked brighter. His steps shook the chamber.
He leapt.
Blade met void.
The explosion swallowed the throne. Stone turned to dust. The Forgotten One roared — a roar made of forgotten wars and unsaid names.
But Shadow didn't stop.
He broke through it.
Every strike now wasn't just a cut — it was defiance. Against the throne. Against fate. Against the idea that he was just another who'd fall into myth.
He stabbed the Forgotten One through the skull.
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
But not mocking.
"You're not like the others," the voice echoed, quieter now. "You don't want power. You are power."
The corpse crumbled.
Ash and bone.
Only the throne remained, reborn in dark obsidian. Alive. Waiting.
Shadow stood over it. Breathing heavy. Bleeding. Smiling.
He didn't sit.
Not yet.
He turned, eyes burning silver through dark flame.
To whatever gods, traitors, or watchers still lingered — he said:
"Ashes don't kneel. Ashes reign."
Then he sat.
And the new throne welcomed him.
Not with silence.
With understanding.