The Obsidian Throne sat in silence.
Darkness draped the great hall like a living thing—thick, pulsing, ancient. Pillars of charred bone and stone rose into the abyss above, each carved with screams of long-forgotten traitors. At the center of it all sat Shadow, his figure wrapped in a cloak of void, his eyes glowing like two dying stars.
He was still.
But the throne pulsed with a quiet rage.
All around him, the court of the new Hells had gathered—survivors, usurpers, opportunists. Demons of shattered legions. Lords without masters. Creatures born from pain, betrayal, and desperation.
And they whispered.
"He is no true King…"
"He was a puppet once—what makes him ruler now?"
"The war ended, but he did not win… the Light simply fell harder."
Shadow did not speak. He did not blink. He heard them all.
Then came the first.
A massive demon, plated in volcanic rock and wielding a blade forged in the blood of Titans. He stepped forward, cracking the scorched tiles beneath him with every heavy footfall.
"I claim the Throne!" the demon roared, raising his weapon high. "You were a tool of darkness, not its master! Bow or be—"
He never finished.
With a whisper of thought, Shadow lifted a single finger.
The demon froze.
A second passed.
Then his body ignited from within—cracks of molten light splitting his skin before he exploded into a cloud of ash. The silence that followed was deafening.
Shadow's voice came like thunder muffled by centuries:
"This throne does not ask for loyalty.
It takes it."
Stillness returned. For a moment.
Then came the second and third.
A brotherhood of warlords, ancient twins with wings of smoke and claws dipped in godfire. They moved in unison, flashing across the hall, shadows wrapped in fury.
"Together, we will tear you down!" they howled in tandem, launching a barrage of cursed flame at the throne.
Shadow did not rise.
He simply looked at them.
And the fire turned back on its masters.
The twin lords screamed as their own magic consumed them—bones melting, eyes evaporating, wings folding into themselves like broken promises. What was left drifted down like snowfall: black, fine, silent.
The court trembled.
Shadow stood now.
Not rushing. Not roaring.
Only rising.
And the entire hall shivered with him.
"I am not your friend.
I am not your god.
I am the final silence to your endless noise."
One by one, the whispers died.
Kneeling replaced snarling.
Even the boldest lowered their heads.
Shadow sat again.
The throne accepted him—its ancient veins glowing faintly, pulsing with something new: dominance, earned.
But as the room quieted and the flames dimmed, he felt it.
Not peace.
Not triumph.
Just clarity.
The war was not truly over.
The Light had fallen, yes.
But something darker always waits behind it.
And so he waited.
A king not of celebration—but of warning.
A reminder to all realms:
The Shadow does not ask for power.
It becomes it.