_Majin_

Betrayed. Buried. But never broken.

Lucien was a prodigy—gifted with a power the world feared, envied, and ultimately destroyed. Framed by his mentors, abandoned by his lover, and cast into the deepest prison by the gods themselves, he was left to rot in darkness… alone.

But in the silence beneath the realms, something ancient whispered to him.

Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose and crumbled. Gods fell. And in the depths, Lucien changed. Hardened by solitude. Sharpened by pain. Molded by the Void.

Now, the world has forgotten him.
But he remembers everything.

He walks free—not as a hero, not as a villain—but as a force that bends reality itself. As realms clash and war consumes the skies, one name will echo louder than the gods:

Lucien. The Void’s chosen.

Whisper of the void

Not with thunder, nor lightning — but with silence, deafening and endless.

Lucien stood at the edge of the precipice, overlooking a valley swallowed by mist. Below, the descent into the Lower Realms yawned like the maw of a slumbering god. No stars pierced the sky here. No sun warmed the stone. Only void — thick, tangible, and waiting.

Behind him, the forest he'd left burned slowly. Not with fire, but with death. No corpse remained to rot — their souls had been consumed, scattered like ash in windless air.

His silver eyes flickered open, no longer dulled by confinement. They gleamed now — like shattered moonlight over still water. Within their depths, the Whisper's face shimmered — the only one who had walked beside him through that prison's end.

"You really intend to descend," she said quietly, appearing beside him once more. Her bare feet left no prints on the stone. "Even after everything… you're going back down?"

Lucien didn't answer immediately. Instead, he unsheathed the blade he'd stolen — a simple thing, chipped and dull. Not a treasure, not imbued with celestial runes. Just metal. Cold, like him.

"The one who buried me…" he murmured, "…didn't reside above."

The Whisper blinked slowly, her violet gaze sharpening.

"Before I burn the heavens… I will raze the roots."

A shift in the mist below. Even without cultivation, Lucien could sense it now — the bloodlust. Dozens… no, hundreds of presences below. Cultivators. Beasts. Monsters. Spirits unmoored. Something ancient was stirring beneath the surface of the realm — awakened, perhaps, by the same tremor that marked his return.

"Then the world below will know his name," the Whisper whispered, her lips curving into something like reverence.

Instead, he stepped forward, and the cliff crumbled beneath his bare foot.

Not like a man descending — but like judgment cast from the sky.

The void embraced him. The fog parted. The land beneath, lost to war and ruin, trembled.

In a court carved from obsidian stars, a thousand eyes turned skyward.

The Empyrean Bell of Reversal — an ancient relic of fate — had rung for the first time in ten thousand years. The last time it tolled, a god had died screaming.

A woman in white silk — her hair ashen, her lips black with frost — whispered:

She stood tall, her voice echoing through the Nine Realms like prophecy.

"Let it be known," she declared, "The Nameless King walks again."

In a tavern deep within the Scarred Continent, a drunkard suddenly dropped his cup. His dreams had been plagued for nights — silver eyes. A shadow that devoured the sky. A voice that made even fire forget how to burn.

In a hidden chamber below the Silver Lotus Sect, a masked woman with cold silver eyes opened a mirror of flowing blood.

She watched Lucien vanish into the void.

"He's coming," she murmured, voice devoid of fear — but not anticipation.

Behind her, seven hooded figures knelt.

"Shall we intercept him, Lady Mura?"

She smiled. And in that smile was both affection… and something close to dread.

"No," she said. "We will welcome him."

Descent of the Nameless king