Chapter 77: The Abyssal Council

The throne room was a void of shadows, a place where light barely dared to exist. The walls were veiled in an oppressive darkness, save for the cold, flickering glow of blue candles. Their unnatural flames cast eerie silhouettes that danced like restless phantoms on the obsidian walls.

At the center, raised on a dais carved from jagged black stone, sat a man. His posture was regal, his presence suffocating. A throne of twisted, pulsating veins of dark energy held him aloft, its tendrils writhing as if alive. His face remained obscured by a hood, revealing only a faint smile—a smile that promised nothing but ruin.

Seven figures surrounded him, each seated in their own grotesque throne, crafted to match their nature. They were the Seven Abyssal Kings, embodiments of chaos, destruction, and indulgence. The air around them crackled with suppressed power, an oppressive weight that would have crushed lesser beings into dust.

The man in the center spoke, his voice smooth yet resonating with a quiet authority that commanded attention.

"The words are coming true again," he said, his tone almost amused, as if the repetition of history was an ongoing joke he was the only one privy to. "The One has arrived. The spark of defiance, born to shatter the chains."

He raised a hand, and blue flames leapt higher from the candles, illuminating the room with their ghostly light. His smile deepened, almost playful. "And so, the ancient words resurface, as they always do, etched into the fabric of existence:

*The Fusions, drunk on supremacy, seek to rule all creation. Yet above them looms the God of Despair, binding their might with unbreakable chains. But one shall rise, a spark of defiance, to shatter those chains and reclaim the freedom long lost.*"

His words echoed, the room itself seeming to hum in resonance.

He turned his head slightly, addressing the seven who sat before him. "And what shall we do about it, my Abyssal Kings?"

The first to respond was a man with an air of unrestrained indulgence. He lounged on a throne carved from golden skulls, his posture languid, his expression that of mild amusement. His emerald eyes gleamed, and he waved a hand dismissively.

"Why worry, *Lord*?" he said, his voice dripping with smug confidence. "Let the spark rise. It will burn itself out, as it always has. We've seen this before, haven't we?"

A woman seated next to him chuckled, her throne a mass of writhing serpents. Her beauty was ethereal, sharp, and dangerous, her eyes glowing like molten gold. She leaned forward, her lips curling into a mocking smile.

"Indeed," she purred. "Every spark that has risen before has been snuffed out. A simple game for us, nothing more."

Another figure, broad and imposing, shifted in his seat—a throne of jagged iron, its edges perpetually dripping with blood. His arms rested on the armrests, his fingers drumming a slow, rhythmic beat that echoed like war drums.

"And yet," he rumbled, his voice like distant thunder, "this one feels... different."

The room fell silent, save for the faint crackle of the blue flames. The man on the central throne tilted his head slightly, as if intrigued.

"Oh?" he asked, his voice still light, almost mocking. "Do you fear this One, my great Warbringer?"

The figure laughed, a deep, resonating sound that shook the room. "Fear? Hardly. But even I can feel it. This spark burns hotter than those before."

A thin man with sunken eyes and a skeletal frame chuckled dryly, his throne an intricate web of chains. "And so, it begins again. Another rise. Another fall. Let them come. Let them break themselves against our might. It's always amusing to watch."

The central figure leaned back in his throne, resting his chin on his hand as his smile widened. His amusement was palpable, but beneath it lurked a hint of something colder, sharper.

"So," he said, addressing them all, "you are all amused. Not worried. Not concerned."

The woman with the serpent throne chuckled again, the sound like the hiss of a viper. "Why should we be? If this spark threatens to grow into a flame, we will simply extinguish it."

The man on the iron throne nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "And if it does not burn out, we will crush it. Either way, it will not last."

The central figure exhaled softly, his breath visible in the cold air. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest of his throne. "Very well. Let it rise. Let it struggle. Let it believe it can defy us."

He leaned forward, the smile on his lips turning sharper, more dangerous. "And when it dares to stand before us, we will show it the futility of defiance. We will remind it, and all who follow, that this world belongs to us. That creation itself bends to *me*."

The blue flames around the room flickered, dimming momentarily before flaring brighter. The man rose from his throne, his presence overwhelming, his voice like a blade cutting through the silence.

"Let it be known," he said, his words laced with cold finality. "The Abyssal Kings stand unshaken. The spark will rise. But it will fall, as all things do before the inevitable."

The room hummed with unspoken power as he returned to his seat, his gaze sweeping over the seven Kings.

"And so, we wait," he said, his voice softening, though no less menacing. "For the moment when the spark dares to stand before the abyss."

The seven Abyssal Kings remained silent, their expressions varying from smirks to cold indifference. None of them moved, their confidence unshaken.

The blue flames danced higher, their light casting eerie shadows that twisted and writhed like living things. The throne room fell silent once more, save for the faint crackle of the flames.

In the oppressive stillness, the prophecy echoed faintly, lingering in the air like a whisper:

*One shall rise, a spark of defiance, to shatter those chains and reclaim the freedom long lost.*