Chapter 49: The Black Fortress
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The Endless March
The wasteland stretches endlessly before me, the cracked obsidian ground glistening under the crimson sky. The air is thick with sulfur and decay, a stench that has long since become familiar.
I walk.
Not aimlessly.
But with purpose.
Every step is another mark in time, another moment of existence in this godforsaken realm. The demons lurking in the shadows? They are nothing now. Their once terrifying roars are dull background noise. Their claws, their fangs—barely an inconvenience.
They charge. I cut them down.
The axe in my grip moves without thought. A flick of my wrist, a step to the side, and the creatures crumble into lifeless heaps.
Pathetic.
Their deaths do not slow me. They are merely obstacles, footnotes in my journey.
Because ahead, something far greater awaits.
Something I can feel.
A presence—vast, suffocating, unknowable.
And it calls to me.
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The Shadow of the Fortress
I crest a jagged hill, my boots grinding against blackened stone.
Then, I see it.
A fortress.
No, not just a fortress.
A monolith.
Towering walls of pure obsidian, jagged and uneven as if carved from the bones of something ancient. Spires stretch into the storm-ridden sky, clawing at the heavens with an arrogance that feels almost sentient.
Lightning crackles in the distance, illuminating the twisted architecture for mere seconds before plunging it back into darkness.
And at its base—demons.
Not attacking.
Not guarding.
Cowering.
They skitter along the perimeter, never daring to get too close, their grotesque forms trembling under the unseen weight pressing from within.
Fear.
What in this realm is strong enough to make demons afraid?
I take a step forward.
The moment my foot touches the ground—
Silence.
The demons scatter.
I exhale, gripping my axe tighter.
Interesting.
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The Invitation
The gates are open.
Massive, looming structures of an unnatural black metal, smooth and seamless, as if they were forged from pure darkness. No guards. No signs of resistance.
Just an open path.
An invitation.
I hesitate.
Not out of fear.
But because this is wrong.
Every instinct honed over millions of years screams at me—
This is not a fortress.
This is a trap.
And yet…
I step forward.
Because traps mean nothing to me.
Let whatever lurks inside try.
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The Silent Halls
The moment I cross the threshold, the air shifts.
Heavy. Oppressive. Thick with something unseen.
It's not just quiet—it's dead.
No echoes. No distant growls. No shuffling of unseen creatures.
Just my own breathing.
The hallways stretch endlessly, twisting, narrowing, expanding in impossible ways. The architecture is ancient, yet flawless, untouched by time. Shadows slither along the walls, shifting like living things.
I press forward, my steps echoing too loudly against the smooth obsidian floor.
A throne room.
I don't know how I know that's where I'm heading.
But I do.
The pull grows stronger with every step.
Something is waiting for me.
Something hungry.
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The Throne of Ruin
I push open the final set of doors.
A vast chamber.
Empty.
Save for one thing.
A throne.
It dwarfs everything, carved from pure obsidian, its presence suffocating, pressing against my mind like a living entity.
I stare at it.
It stares back.
Not with eyes.
But with awareness.
I take a step forward.
The moment my boot touches the stone—
A sound.
Not a roar. Not a growl.
A whisper.
Low. Ancient. Seeping into my bones.
"You've come."
I freeze.
The shadows twist. The walls tremble.
The throne… shifts.
I grip my axe, heart steady.
I am not alone.