In the depths of the abyss, there is no sky or earth, no sun, moon, or stars, nor any true “life” in the literal sense.

Yet, there is light here—only, it is a “light” utterly different from what humanity defines as such.

Within the endless darkness, congealed amethyst radiance drifts through the air—this is the only “light” in the Abyss. Black rain falls into the boundless darkness below, without a sound.

Yet, something seems to flicker eerily in the void in the distance.

It is a castle.

Dark amethyst flows slowly along pillars carved like remnants of stars, illuminating the blurred silhouette of a figure upon the throne.

Her presence makes the surrounding darkness seem pale.

She wears a robe woven from shadows, its hem merging with the surrounding gloom, indistinguishable where fabric ends and void begins.

Most unbearable to behold is her face.

She is the “Lord of Myriad Shadows,” Hela.

Half of her face is breathtakingly beautiful, pale and nearly translucent, like a white marble statue under moonlight; the other half is completely shrouded in flowing, all-consuming shadows—she is death, she is the end, she is the embodiment of all things returning to silence.

Hela’s fingers lightly tap the armrest.

Her fingers are pale and slender, her nails a nearly transparent gray. The tapping makes no sound, as if playing a tune in the void that no one can hear. The surface of her throne shimmers with the broken reflections of countless stars—the last remnants of light she captured when the Sky-City fell.

“Ganglati.” Her voice is soft, like a feather brushing against silence.

At the entrance to the palace, the hunched, towering figure slowly turns. His movements are so sluggish, as if time has congealed around him. His skin, like gray stone, shows no luster under the dim light, and his dull eyes take a full ten heartbeats to fully turn toward the throne.

“How much longer?”

“Master, the infiltration layer now covers seventy percent of the northern border of the Luminara Kingdom.” Ganglati’s voice is sharp and grating, like metal scraping against metal. “The ‘fissure’ in the Everfrost Tundra has expanded by twelve feet over the past three months. Its stability rating has dropped from ‘maintainable’ to ‘critical.’ We deployed three swarms of Corruptors to reinforce the structure, but they… they dissipated. The ‘reality barrier’ of that tundra is more stubborn than anticipated.”

Silence.

“Dissipated.” She repeats the word, her tone betraying neither anger nor joy, only a bone-chilling indifference. “So you used your bodies to fill the cracks in the rules, and the rules devoured the bodies in return. So interesting.”

Ganglati trembles violently.

“Master, I—”

“Silence.”

Hela raises a hand, making no other movement. Ganglati dares not make another sound, only lowering his body further.

“Ganglot.” Hela turns toward another shadowed figure on the other side of the palace.

“How is the ‘seeding’ progress in the northern border?”

“Thirty-two ‘Corruption Points’ have been established, with eighteen entering autonomous expansion. The human kingdom remains unaware of the anomaly—they attribute the corruption to ordinary chaotic tides. However, the Shadow Hunters of Hunt-Fort have begun deploying additional patrols to the north. Their governor, Hostia, may have noticed something.”

“Hostia.” Hela sifts through her memories. “The orphan of the Light-Cast Knights. Still guarding that pile of stones?”

“Guarding the ‘Stele of Truth.’” Ganglot raises her head. “He still believes that stele will guide humanity to salvation. Pathetic.”

“Not pathetic.” Hela says. “Faith is the most stubborn anchor. The deeper it is embedded, the greater the waves it will unleash when torn away.”

She pauses, her hollow eyes gazing toward a certain direction beyond the grand floor-to-ceiling windows.

“What of our ‘Spark’?”

Ganglati trembles as he responds: “According to information fragments intercepted by the ‘Whisperers,’ the crash site of the Sky-City has been confirmed to be at the northern edge of Darkwoods. Residual energy indicates that at least two life signatures among the StarGuardians remained active for twelve cycles after the crash. But then… they vanished. As if masked by some higher-dimensional interference.”

“Vanished?” For the first time, a ripple surfaces in Hela’s tone—not anger, not surprise, but a strange, eerie longing. “They cannot truly vanish. Aetherium’s StarGuardians are vessels of the ‘Spark Plan.’ Their souls are bound to the Beacon Network. As long as a single beacon exists, they cannot be utterly annihilated.”

She takes a step forward.

“Aetherium sacrificed an entire city to scatter the seeds of ‘Spark’ across the land. Did they think this would restart the cycle? That these insignificant, planet-bound natives could accomplish what they themselves failed to achieve?”

She rises to her feet, spreading her arms, her robe billowing without wind.

“How naive.”

“How arrogant.”

“How…”

Hela’s voice suddenly softens, like a lover’s whisper:

“…amusing.”

The surrounding darkness begins to churn. The black rain rises in reverse, converging above Hela to form a fissure. Within the fissure, countless fragmented images flicker—burning streets, collapsing walls, screaming crowds.

“Ganglati.” Hela says. “Accelerate the expansion of the Corruption Points. I want to create enough chaos in the northern border to draw all eyes.”

“As you command, Master.”

“Herlos.” She turns to a figure kneeling on one knee, clad in a black cloak. “Go to Darkwoods. Find the StarGuardians, or find their corpses. If they are still alive… you know what to do.”

Herlos lowers his head in silence. His right hand unconsciously grips the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

“But what if,” he slowly begins, “the StarGuardians have already made contact with the local forces?”

“Then it is even simpler.” Hela leans close to Herlos, nearly touching his hood. “Before they ignite the first beacon, snuff out the spark.”

She extends a hand, a finger lightly pressing against Herlos’s chest.

Not a physical touch. Her finger passes through the leather armor, through his body, touching something deeper.

Herlos’s body trembles violently. Beneath his hood, his face instantly drains of all color, veins bulging on his forehead. He can feel—no, he can “see”—something dark flowing from Hela’s finger into his very soul.

It is the brand of the Abyss.

Not a punishment, but a boon.

And a shackle.

“Go, my blade.” Hela withdraws her finger. “Take the legions of the Abyss. Let humanity remember—darkness does not invade from the outside.”

“Darkness…”

“…grows from within their own hearts.”

Herlos rises and strides toward the palace gates.

Ganglati and Ganglot slowly retreat as well.

In the center of the throne room, only Hela remains.

She raises her hand, and the fissure above her, along with the fragmented images, freezes into a single scene—

A white city floating among the clouds, disintegrating.

Countless points of light fly from the crumbling fragments, like falling stars in reverse, plummeting toward the azure continent below.

“Aetherium.”

For the first time, something resembling an “emotion” surfaces in Hela’s voice.

Not hatred.

Something more complex, more indescribable.

“You chose the most agonizing death.”

“And I… will savor your legacy.”

She turns, her robe sweeping across the floor.

“After all…”

The entire castle begins to sink, merging once more into the boundless darkness. Hela’s figure gradually blurs, her final words echoing through the void:

“…the fruit of despair is the sweetest.”