Abyssal Sovereign: Throne of the Null

"Every raid needs a decoy, Tarn. Thanks for giving us those three seconds."

Those words rang in Tarn's ears, colder than the damp wind howling through the cave. Before he could draw breath to scream, heavy steel boots slammed into the stone pillar beside the gate. The structural integrity of the ancient archway collapsed. A giant chunk of granite slipped and fell straight down.

Crack. A wet, sickening sound echoed through the room.

Tarn did not scream. Air rushed entirely from his lungs as a surge of white heat stabbed his right ankle. The boulder pinned his ankle, crushing the bone into splinters over the gravel floor.

Through the dust and his swelling left eye, Tarn saw the blue light of the dungeon gate distort into an unstable dark red. Stellan, the Rank-B raid leader, stood right at the threshold. The gold trim on his shiny claymore caught the dying light. The man did not look back. With a casual shrug of his armored shoulder, Stellan stepped through the portal. The vanguard troops followed him like sheep, their shadows stretching out and vanishing as the red tear in reality sealed shut.

Darkness, absolute and heavy, swallowed the room.

Tarn lay face down, his fingers clawing at the sharp gravel. The metallic taste of blood pooled under his tongue. He spat it out, his chest rising and falling against his dented steel chestplate—cheap junk he had bought second-hand just to pass the guild's minimum safety inspection.

Three seconds. That was all his life was worth to them. A brief window for the elites to secure a temporary escape while Rank-E trash served as bait.

A low, deep vibration shook the stone floor, making Tarn's teeth chatter.

From the far end of the room, two embers burned in the dark. Cruel red eyes.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Heavy, rhythmic footsteps approached, accompanied by the horrible sound of metal dragging across stone. A Tomb Warden emerged from the shadows. The monster stood eight feet tall, a mountain of rusted iron armor and exposed black veins. In its right hand, it dragged a jagged greatsword, the rusty blade leaving a deep scratch on the ground.

Tarn's racing heart hammered in his chest. He fumbled at his belt, his deadened fingers searching for his iron dagger. His hands met empty leather. The blade had broken in half during a goblin ambush an hour ago. He was completely bare.

Tarn dug his nails into the rough floor, trying to drag his body backward, but the boulder pinning his shattered ankle did not budge an inch. Every micro-movement sent a new wave of nausea to his stomach. He was a sitting duck in a slaughterhouse.

The Warden stopped three steps away. It raised the giant greatsword, the air around the blade turning freezing cold, smelling of ancient graves and stagnant rot.

Tarn stared straight into the void of the monster's helmet. He clenched his teeth until they cracked. Fear was there, cold and paralyzing, but beneath it, a raw and toxic anger began to boil. He did not close his eyes. He refused to give Stellan the satisfaction of a silent, forgotten death. If I get out of this alive... if I ever breathe fresh air again... I will tear that golden armor right off his corpse.

The iron greatsword came down.

The heavy blade split the air with a deafening hum, piercing straight into the center of Tarn's chestplate. The cheap iron tore like paper. The rusty tip pierced his sternum, nailing him to the stone floor.

Tarn's eyes widened, his throat locking as his lungs filled with blood. Yet the expected burst of pain never came. Instead, a strange, unnatural numbness spread from the wound, ice cold, racing through his veins and freezing his blood.

Time slowed to a painful crawl. Dust hung in the air. The Tomb Warden froze, its giant hand still gripping the hilt of the sword planted in Tarn's chest.

A sharp, bell-like chime vibrated directly inside Tarn's skull. It was not a sound born in the cave; it felt like a wire snapping inside his own brain.

[Emergency Protocol 0-0-4 Activated.] [Target Individual: Tarn (Rank-E Hunter) status confirmed.] [Analyzing physiological data... Vital force: 0.8%. Fatal thoracic trauma detected. Cellular necrosis is imminent.]

Tarn's vision blurred, the edges turning pitch black. A translucent interface appeared inches from his face. It was not the standard blue holographic screen of the Hunter Association. This text was written in sharp, jagged violet runes, glowing against a solid obsidian frame.

[Target meets hidden criteria for 'The Monarch's Descent'.] [Do you wish to accept the coronation of the Sovereign?] [Warning: Refusal will result in immediate cardiac arrest within 2 seconds.] [ Yes / No ]

A bitter, bloody laugh bubbled in Tarn's throat, coming out as a wet cough. A choice? They called this a choice? Die as a nameless stepping stone for cowards, or sign a contract with a nameless demon in the dark.

Tarn did not care who or what was behind that violet light. A god, a demon, or a system—if it gave him the strength to hunt down the people who left him here, he would crawl through hell to take it.

With the absolute remaining strength of his fading consciousness, Tarn forced his bloody lips to form a single syllable.

"Yes."

The moment the word left his mouth, the obsidian screen shattered into a thousand shards of violet light. They did not disappear; they dove straight into his open wound, sinking deep into his heart.

[Synchronization initialized. 1%... 15%... 50%...] [Reconstructing damaged cardiovascular pathways.] [Clearing mortal limitations. Awakening core in progress.]

A sudden, violent surge of heat erupted from his chest, fighting back the freezing numbness. Tarn's arching back lifted off the stone floor as ancient power tore through his muscles. The shattered bone in his ankle snapped back into place with a rapid, consecutive series of clicks. The torn flesh over his sternum stitched itself back together, forcing the Tomb Warden's rusty blade to push right out of his body.

The system chimes rang again, louder, echoing with authority.

[Synchronization complete. Welcome, Player Tarn.] [Current Class: Umbral Acolyte (Growth Type)] [Level: 1] [Current Quest: Survive the Tomb.]

The frozen time spell shattered. Dust fell, and the Tomb Warden blinked its red eyes, realizing its prey was no longer pinned down. The monster growled, a harsh mechanical noise, and gripped its greatsword to strike again.

But Tarn was already standing.

He stood in the darkness, the boulder that had crushed his foot now crumbled into gravel behind him. His vision was crystal clear, and shadows no longer hid the monster's movements. When he breathed in, the air no longer tasted like blood. It tasted like power.

The Warden swung its giant blade horizontally, aiming to decapitate Tarn.

Before, Tarn wouldn't even have seen the blur of that attack. Now, the heavy swing looked sluggish, heavy, and predictable. He ducked, the wind from the blade rustling his hair as he lunged forward into the monster's blind spot. He had no weapon, but as he clenched his fist, a dark, smoky aura wrapped around his knuckles, flashing with violet sparks.

Tarn punched his fist straight into the gap of the Warden's rib armor.

The impact sounded like a cannon shot. The heavy iron plates shattered, and the monster staggered three steps back, its red eyes blinking with genuine shock.

Tarn stared at his hand, a cold, dark smirk spreading across his face. The hunt was no longer one-sided.

"My turn," he whispered into the dark.