The world collapsed.
Not suddenly, not violently, but with a grinding inevitability that shook every fiber of Vael'tharion's being. The air around him burned with the fires of Kaelithar, yet as he fell through the chasm of the Abyssal Vale, even the flames seemed distant, as if the world itself had forgotten him.
Pain lanced through his scales and bones, far worse than any blade or spell he had ever endured. It was the pain of betrayal made flesh, of centuries of trust twisted into knives, of the empire he had built reduced to rubble.
So this is what death feels like, he thought, bitter and sharp. Yet the thought itself was defiant, proud. I will not end like this.
The chasm deepened, stretching beyond mortal perception. Darkness swallowed him, thick and viscous, alive in a way that chilled his soul. He twisted mid-fall, wings flaring weakly, claws scraping at the void, but there was no purchase—nothing to hold onto. Only emptiness, and the pulse of something older, stranger, and hungrier than any mortal enemy.
Vael'tharion's mind recoiled as the abyssal darkness pressed against him. Memories of Kaelithar, his generals' betrayal, and the screams of the dying swirled in his consciousness like shards of glass. Yet amidst the chaos of thought, a singular clarity emerged: he was alive.
Alive, but changed.
The shadow laws, faint yet unmistakable, began to stir. Tendrils of darkness, faint at first, snaked around him instinctively, probing, sensing, testing. They whispered promises of power, of vengeance, of reclamation.
Shadow… he breathed, tasting the word as if it were both flame and frost. Yes. I will rise in shadow.
Pain coiled through his body, but he began to feel something else: instinct. Hunger. The raw, primal drive to survive. Even as his consciousness weakened, even as his mortal shell disintegrated, the Emperor's mind adapted, absorbing the lessons of betrayal, the cruelty of enemies, the fragility of flesh.
The darkness became a womb. He sank deeper, the void folding around him, reshaping him, testing him.
Unbeknownst to Vael'tharion, far below the Abyssal Vale, a contingent of the Silent Sect of the Obsidian Eye watched from a cavern carved from black stone. They had predicted the Emperor's fall, yet the pulse of his shadow energy surprised even them.
A spirit of such power… it does not die. The sect leader murmured, fingers tracing the surface of a jade talisman. The prophecy speaks true. The abyss shall not claim him fully, and the world will tremble again.
Inside the void, Vael'tharion's mind wrestled with memory. Faces of generals, soldiers, citizens, and enemies flashed before him. Betrayal burned brightest. The weight of every life he had touched, every empire he had built, every soul consumed—all pressed against him like chains.
Yet beneath it, a flicker of calculation remained. Rage became methodical. Pain became instructive. Every betrayal, every flaw, every moment of vulnerability was logged, stored, and converted into strategy.
They will pay, he thought. Every last one of them. Kaelthas, Teryn, Lirael… even Corvin, if he interferes. Every blade, every spell, every shadow they have ever wielded—they will be nothing before me.
And then he felt it: the first stirrings of power. Shadow laws responded to his will, forming faint, writhing shapes around his consciousness. They were weak, untested, but alive. Like a newborn dragon testing wings it did not yet understand.
Pain gave way to metamorphosis. His body twisted, reshaped by the abyss, scales darkening to absorb light, wings stretching into unnatural proportions, claws sharpening into tools of devastation. His senses expanded: he could feel the currents of magic in the void, taste the remnants of life in distant lands, hear the faint echoes of whispers carried across time.
The rebirth was not gentle. Every bone, every scale, every shred of flesh was remade, redefined, and reforged in shadow.
This body… weak, yet full of potential. Vael'tharion thought, flexing claws that now felt like extensions of his mind. I will be stronger than before. Faster. Deadlier. My empire… my vengeance… it begins anew.
In the darkness, he sensed something moving. Small, alive, vulnerable. A pulse of life beckoned. Hunger coiled in his chest, primal and irresistible. He lunged instinctively, shadow tendrils snapping around the creature, drawing it closer.
The taste of life, however small, sent shivers through his consciousness. It was intoxicating, grounding, and a reminder: he was alive. More than that, he was aware, growing, evolving.
Deep in the void, whispers reached him. Ancient voices, lost to the mortal world, murmured of prophecy:
"The emperor shall rise from shadow, and the abyss shall bend to his will. Yet the heart of Veyra, the cursed relic, will test him, and only through darkness will he conquer the light."
Vael'tharion's mind seized on the words. Heart of Veyra… Corvin… the boy holds a piece of my fate. He flexed wings, feeling shadows respond with anticipation. All pieces are moving. I will wait… and strike when the time is mine.
At last, he opened his eyes fully. The darkness no longer frightened him; it nourished him. The shadows no longer resisted; they obeyed. His roar echoed through the Abyssal Vale, low and resonant, shaking even the stones around him.
The Demon Emperor Vael'tharion was gone. In his place rose the Primordial Shadow-Dragon, weak yet cunning, small yet brimming with latent power, ready to reclaim the empire, to exact vengeance, and to dominate the worlds that had dared to betray him.
He flexed wings that spanned like the void itself, claws that could tear mountains, and eyes that burned with intelligence, calculation, and cold fury.
The first breath of rebirth hissed from his maw:
The world will tremble. And I… will rise.