"I, Azrueth, the unworthy, pay my greetings to the 7th Calamity!"
The thick voice echoed through the throne room, bouncing off the walls and rapidly rang forth into the distance until it reached a space where it suddenly faded away into nothingness, seemingly absorbed by the intense darkness.
SILENCE.
It was what followed after the greetings, and even though no reply came, the kneeling Azrueth slowly rose to its feet and took measured steps forward.
The path to the throne was no mere corridor; if anything, it was a descent.
A slow, agonizing plunge into deeper darkness, where each step seemed to strip away something intangible from him.
Even though his massive form held immense power beneath his feet, his footsteps refused to make a sound, as if in fear of whatever horror lay ahead in the distance.
Around him were with twisted carvings lining the hallway like knights.
Their hulking bodies exuded an inhuman menace, enough to instil fear even within a Knull like him.
The only comforting thought was that they seemed to be nothing more than what they were—statues.
Behind them, ancient depictions lined the walls—art so sinister that their meanings had long been lost to Azrueth.
There were no torches, nor flames, only lingering sigils rusted into the stone like scars, pulsing faintly with a sickly crimson glow.
Years of existence had taught Azrueth their meaning.
These were not mere symbols; they were warnings.
There were dark castles within these wall engravings, their structures writhing as if barely contained within the artwork, and from the balconies above, figures stood motionless, their unseen eyes fixated upon Azrueth with every step he took.
Yet, the pressure was well endured.
He bore it without faltering until he arrived at the end of the throne room.
And then, as if summoned by the darkness of his thoughts, the throne appeared.
A monolith of blackened voidstone fused with bones, flesh, and the memories of those who had dared to oppose its owner.
Shadows coiled around its surface, slithering and writhing, forming faces that screamed without sound before vanishing into the darkness once more.
The air here did not merely weigh upon Azrueth's presence—it sought to crush him.
His colossal form flickered, his flame-like essence twisting wildly as his ashen body trembled with unease.
It was not the weight of power that shook him.
No.
It was the twisted horror that sat upon that unspeakable throne.
A presence so suffocating that Azrueth struggled to hold onto his sanity and collapsed helplessly to his knees.
The figure did not move, yet Azrueth felt him in every inch of the space.
This was the 7th Calamity.
He was not a king.
He was not a god.
He was not even a creature.
He was the abyss itself, given form.
And with Azrueth collapsing on his hands, he slowly stretched them out, letting them fall onto the ground before him.
His face buried flat into the cold stone; his body curled before his lord like a man before his lord.
For truly, he had arrived before his lord.
A lone figure draped in a simple robe of darkness.
In his arms rested a crimson staff, gripped tightly by a blackened skeletal hand, seemingly serving as its support.
Upon his shoulder sat a simple creature—a dark bird with a pair of runic tattoos in its eyes, flashing with an unthinkable amount of uncanny intelligence and wisdom.
A creature that would awaken the rage of a certain someone beyond the heavens.
"Oh, Azrueth."
The void echoed out; its voice surprisingly clearer than even the purest of quiet lakes.
"Oh, Azrueth."
He called out once more, yet Azrueth remained in his position.
"Oh, Azrueth."
The call came a third time, the shadows in the area slowly distorting, as if a strange force was descending upon them.
"Of all things you could have let me down with, Azrueth. Why my worst nemesis? Why defeat, Azrueth?"
The voice echoed, filled with such intense sorrow that Azrueth felt a chill crawl down his body.
His form began vibrating uncontrollably, and slowly, he rose up.
If one could see, they would witness crimson-like tears dripping from Azrueth's eyes.
"Oh, my Lord. I have truly let you down with my defeat. Half my army was wiped out in a minor world, and I lost my hold on the portal before the other half could be deployed, my Lord."
"Nothing, my Lord, nothing can compensate for this stain that I have left upon you—except with my death, oh my Lord!" Azrueth declared, bowing his face to the ground once more at the foot of the being.
"Have you come to me to bring an end to yourself, Azrueth?" the 7th Calamity asked.
"Verily, I have come to atone for my sins, my Lord. But before then, I have something I wish my Lord would pay attention to."
A silence covered the room before it was shattered by the command:
"Speak."
"Half my army was destroyed by a single lone existence in a wild world. While this can be attributed to my weakness, I believe things are more than they seem, my Lord."
"This being slaughters us Knulls with relative ease."
"His dark scythe rips away our abyssal life with ease, and before him, our supreme regeneration ability is useless."
"But not only that, my Lord—my fingers that were severed by his scythe, which ought to have regenerated already… my Lord, they remain like this."
Azrueth slowly stretched out his hands toward the dark-robed figure.
His severed fingers, which ought to have healed no matter how much abyssal energy was forced into them, remained lifeless.
No matter the effort, they refused to regenerate.
SILENCE.
ABSOLUTE SILENCE.
It covered the throne room completely for a time so long that Azrueth could not fathom its length.
But then, finally, the voice broke through the abyssal stillness.
"Oh, Azrueth… Oh, Azrueth… Have you any idea what you have found, Azrueth?"
"I know of nothing, my Lord, except what you have taught me."
"You have found the Lost One, Azrueth!"