Darkness ruled there—not just the lack of light, but a deeper, more consuming absence. Not emptiness, but negation: a total erasure so profound that even the idea of existence seemed to falter within it. It wasn't merely black; it was the undoing of color, of form, of breath. And in that boundless hollow, only one awareness remained—the old man's—trapped, adrift, screaming into a silence that swallowed sound before it could be born.
He floated, not in water, not in air, but in pure desolation—a man drowning with no surface above, no horizon to guide him, no stars to mark direction. Escape had long ago ceased to be an option. Every path his mind traced ended in the same dead conclusion: impossibility. This prison wasn't built of stone or iron, but of forces older than language, older than gods men still remembered. It bent around him like a law of nature, inescapable and absolute. He was caught not by chains, but by design—an ensnared soul bound by something colder than fate, tighter than any vow.
Time had lost its rhythm. Months? Years? Decades? The question meant nothing here. Time didn't pass—it pooled, thick and stagnant, like oil beneath still water. There was no dawn to break the dark, no pulse to measure the beat of life. Only the slow, suffocating crawl of eternity.
It had started with a lie. A voice—soft, trembling—pleading for help. A loved one dying, they said. A final request from someone broken by grief. He had answered without hesitation. That was his nature. Compassion was not a choice for him; it was bone-deep, woven into the fabric of who he was. But that voice had been a snare. The words, honeyed and desperate, were bait cast by hunters who knew exactly what they sought: a soul strong enough to be useful, pure enough to be corrupted.
They came upon him without warning. No thunder, no shadow—just sudden violence. Their hands were precise, surgical in their cruelty. They struck not to kill, but to shatter. His consciousness fractured like glass under a hammer, splintering into shards too small to reassemble. He felt himself torn from his body, not gently, but ripped free by force. Then came the chair—cold, metallic, humming with unseen energy. It clamped around him like a living thing, binding him not just physically, but spiritually. A ritual unfolded—silent, deliberate, ancient. And then the liquid: poured into his mouth like ink from a chalice, thick and cold as midnight itself. It flooded his veins, seeping into his marrow, turning his blood into something alien. He choked on it, but his body obeyed, swallowing against his will.
His soul was sealed away.
But the horror did not stop at imprisonment. From this abyss, he could still see. Not with eyes, but with a terrible, psychic tether that linked him to the world above. He watched—helpless—as his own body moved through cities, spoke with his voice, wore his face. But it was not him. His limbs danced to foreign commands. His hands signed treaties of ruin. His fingers pressed buttons that unleashed armies. He witnessed, in vivid, unrelenting clarity, the destruction blooming from his stolen hands.
His enemies wore his skin.
Or worse—something that had slithered into his flesh from beyond the veil. Shadow-born entities, consciousnesses forged in malice, wearing his form like a suit tailored for slaughter. He felt every atrocity committed in his name. He sensed the fear spreading through villages, the fires rising in the night, the prayers turning to ash. All of it, birthed from his stolen limbs. He was awake, aware, and utterly powerless—forced to watch his legacy twist into a weapon of annihilation.
The weight of it crushed him more than the void ever could.
He had spent his entire life fighting such darkness. He had stood at the edge of battlefields where demons walked in human shape, and he had not flinched. He had burned with a conviction so fierce it turned his blood to fire—he believed, without doubt, that creatures like these deserved extinction. And now—through betrayal, through ritual, through violation—he had become the very monster he once hunted. He was the abomination. His consciousness remained, trapped inside, forced to wear the truth like a collar of thorns.
The thought was a knife twisting in his chest.
He had tried everything. He had summoned every ounce of spiritual strength, every fragment of inner power, and hurled it against the walls of his prison. He had screamed in silence, channeled energy like lightning through the void, fought with the desperation of a man clawing up from a grave. But the darkness did not yield. It did not tremble. It absorbed his efforts like dry earth drinking rain. This prison was not made to be broken. It was made to endure.
Then came the memory—sharp, sudden, unbearable. His parents. Taken from him when he was still a boy, torn apart by demon lords who feasted on suffering. He had seen their bodies, broken and cold. He had held their hands as the last warmth left them. That loss had carved something new inside him—a resolve so hard it turned him into a weapon. He became a guardian. A scourge. To those who knew him, he was more than human—he was an angel forged in grief, a being whose purpose was written in vengeance and protection.
But if they could see him now?
If his mother could rise from the dust and look upon her son—corrupted, possessed, his body now a vessel for the very evil that killed her—would she weep? No. She would strike him down. She would do what he himself would have done in her place. She would destroy the abomination, even if it wore her child's face.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
And in that thought, there was a strange, twisted comfort.
Death would be better. Death would be peace.
At least in death, he would no longer be a tool of the darkness. At least in death, his hands could not be used to harm those he once swore to protect. Death was not something to fear—it was release. It was the only mercy left in a universe that had already taken everything.
He longed for it now, not with despair, but with the quiet intensity of prayer.
Then, like a spark in a storm, clarity struck Luke—sudden, sharp, undeniable. His core instinct—his gift—had been buried under layers of pain, trauma, shock. But now, awareness surged back. Not just thought, but recognition. He remembered who he was.
This is who I am. Not a victim.
Luke rose, slowly, deliberately. Never again will I forget.
The young man across from him radiated arrogance, a predator certain of his dominance. "How did that feel?" he asked, voice laced with amusement. "Did you finally grasp the distance between us?"
Luke smiled—small, calm, unreadable. He thinks the gap is permanent. But I've learned to move in spaces he can't even imagine.
"Not much," Luke said, voice steady. "Is that really all you've got?"
I'm pushing him. Let him grow reckless. Patterns will emerge. He watched, silent, as the young man's expression shifted.
The young man's voice dropped, lower, darker. "Is that so?" A pause. Then, a sound—like glass cracking under pressure, like the sky splitting open. Reality warped around the noise. He coiled into a stance, muscles taut, body wound like a spring.
Then he moved.
Not fast—beyond fast. He became motion itself, a blur that defied perception. His body spun mid-air, rotating like a bullet fired from a gun. His knee extended, aimed like a spear tipped with annihilation.
Luke's mind couldn't keep up. His body froze—locked in the terror of inevitability. The strike came like a falling star, unstoppable, destined.
But then—something woke.
Deep in his core, beneath instinct, beneath training, something ancient and raw ignited. His body twisted—a fraction of an inch, no more. The knee shrieked past, missing by less than a breath.
The young man slammed into the wall behind him with meteoric force. Stone shattered, exploding outward in a spray of dust and debris. A crater formed—deep, jagged, as if reality itself had been punched.
But the young man was already moving again—fluid, relentless, a whirlwind of calculated violence.
Punches rained down—each one timed to destroy, aimed to dismantle. Luke wove between them, not thinking, not planning. His body moved on its own, guided by something deeper than thought. Pure instinct. Pure survival.
The young man launched a vertical leg swing—blade-fast, guillotine-precise. Luke threw himself backward, millimeters from impact. The leg passed so close he felt the heat of displaced air, the whisper of fabric against skin.
Then—transition. Defense to offense.
Luke pivoted, coiled, and drove his fist forward—a piston of kinetic energy aimed at the young man's torso.
The young man leaned back. Luke's punch cut through empty space.
For the first time, the young man's eyes widened—just slightly. Surprise flickered. Then he rotated, arm snapping outward in a spinning backfist that sliced the air like a blade.
Direct hit.
Luke's guard shattered. His body went limp, launched backward like a ragdoll. He tumbled through the air, crashing through shattered desks, wood splintering beneath him.
The young man exploded upward—feet leaving the ground with explosive force. Mid-air, he flipped backward, legs extended like twin spears aimed at Luke's chest.
But Luke's perception shifted. Time stretched. The world slowed. His instincts blazed with preternatural clarity.
He rolled—outside the flow of normal time. The young man's feet missed by a hair, striking the ground where Luke had been a fraction of a second before.
Impact sent shockwaves rippling through the floor. Cracks spiderwebbed outward.
Dust and debris swirled in a choking cloud, hanging in the air like fog.
The two stood apart, breathing hard, surrounded by wreckage—predator and prey, locked in a dance where neither could claim victory. The fight was far from over.
In that suspended moment, understanding cut through Luke like a blade through mist.
This is where experimentation begins.
His mind sharpened, crystallized. Not just reaction—creation. He was no longer just surviving. He was learning.
The young man descended, backflipping, legs outstretched like lances. But Luke moved with transcendent precision. His body coiled, hands rising—not in defense, but in anticipation. He caught the young man's leg mid-air, gripping it with perfect timing, as if he had rehearsed this motion a thousand times.
Then, power surged—deeper than muscle, older than training. Luke lifted the young man effortlessly, as if gravity had forgotten him. His body rotated, torque building, and he swung the young man overhead in a brutal arc.
The impact with the ground was catastrophic.
But the young man was no fool. Even as his back struck stone, he lashed out—his free leg snapping upward with vicious precision. The kick was desperate, calculated, aimed at Luke's stance.
Their legs collided.
A shockwave tore through Luke's frame, jolting his spine, breaking his balance just enough to disrupt his momentum.
Luke didn't hesitate. He attacked—blind, instinctive, fueled by raw survival. A punch flew from his opposite hand, thrown with desperate aggression.
But the young man's reflexes were inhuman.
His hand rose—open, waiting—and caught Luke's fist mid-trajectory. Fingers closed like a vise, crushing bone. Pain exploded through Luke's arm—not just physical, but deeper, as if his very molecules were being unraveled.
I need to break free.
Luke launched a second punch—wild, uncalculated, born of panic.
The young man's other hand snapped up—supernatural speed—and caught the second fist with equal precision.
Now Luke hung suspended—arms locked, body trapped, held in place by a grip that felt immovable.
The young man's eyes burned with triumph.
Then—knee. Simple motion. Terrible force.
It crashed upward into Luke's midsection with brutal precision. The impact was devastating. Luke's body convulsed. Air exploded from his lungs. Blood—crimson, thick—spilled from his mouth, a testament to internal ruin.
The young man lifted him—effortlessly—holding him aloft by sheer strength. Then released.
Luke became projectile again—launched through space, limbs flailing, body descending with no control, no hope.
He crashed into the earth. The impact stole the last threads of his awareness.
For a moment—only darkness. Only pain. Only the crushing weight of total defeat.
Luke lay broken, bleeding, his enhanced reflexes meaningless against an opponent whose mastery transcended mere physicality.
But then—deep in the ruins of his being—something stirred.
My experimentation phase. It hasn't begun yet. Everything until now… preparation. But now—now I understand enough to truly begin.
A whisper of hope, fragile but unbroken.
The young man approached—slow, confident, certain of victory. He reached down, gripped Luke by the collar, and hauled him upward. Luke's vision blurred, his body dangling like a puppet on a single thread.
Then the young man dragged him—toward the shattered window.
The opening gaped like a wound in the world—a tear in the structure that opened onto a void of terrifying height. Wind howled up from below, carrying the scent of distance, of oblivion. One fall. One release. And it would all be over.
The young man held him over the edge—fingers tight on the collar, eyes alight with something close to madness. One slip. One opening of the hand. And Luke would vanish into the dark.
But Luke's eyes—bloodied, weary—burned with something the young man didn't recognize.
Not fear.
Not surrender.
No. This is where it truly begins.