Chapter 7 KING

In a realm where light had never dared to clash with the suffocating darkness, where the very

air pulsed with the whispers of the damned, sat the Lord of the Underworld.

King Ragnar.

A being of unspeakable power, woven from the void itself, his existence was eternal—a

shadow cast before time had meaning. He ruled over an abyss untouched by mercy, an

empire where even the concept of hope was a distant memory.

Here, the sky was an endless stretch of black, punctuated only by the flickering embers of

fallen stars—remnants of the worlds he had consumed. The ground was a shifting mass of

shadows, writhing and whispering, eternally hungry. Towers of jagged obsidian rose like

fangs from the desolation, each one marking a civilization that had once defied him. Now,

they were nothing more than echoes in the dark.

Ragnar sat upon a throne forged from the bones of forgotten gods, his crimson eyes

smoldering with a quiet, patient rage. His form was vast, shifting between solid and

ephemeral, his armor an extension of the abyss itself. A long, tattered cloak, blacker than

the void, cascaded over his shoulders, devouring all light that dared to touch it.

He watched. He waited.

Earth.

A pathetic world. Weak. Soft. A realm of insignificant creatures who deluded themselves

into believing they held power. Kings, emperors, warriors, scholars—they were all the same.

Sheep, waiting for the slaughter.

Ragnar had spent eons consuming planets, absorbing their essence into himself, becoming

more. He had shattered realms, extinguished stars, and devoured entire pantheons of gods

who dared oppose him. And yet, Earth had eluded him.

Not for long.

His power had not yet reached its paroxysm, not yet reached the threshold where he could

effortlessly shatter the barriers guarding the mortal realm. But he was close.

He would devour that world. It would become part of him.

But there were two.

Two souls.

Two anomalies in the cosmic equation.

Ethan Lockwood and Evelyn Fairchild.

Ragnar's lips curled into something that might have been a smirk, or perhaps just a sneer of

amusement. These two children, bound by forces older than the stars, were the only ones

who might become obstacles. He had been watching them, monitoring their growth, their

struggles.

But more importantly—he had been invading their dreams.

He fed on fear. It was his sustenance, his delight. Humanity's greatest weakness was that

they feared everything—death, failure, loneliness, the unknown. And when they slept, their

minds were open, unguarded. Their nightmares were his banquet, their dread his elixir.

And tonight, his gaze fell upon Ethan Lockwood.

The boy tossed and turned in his lavish bed, trapped in the throes of a nightmare Ragnar had

delicately sculpted. Ethan stood in a wasteland of his own making, his hands stained red,

the weight of countless lives pressing down on him. The ground was cracked, scorched, the ruins of a once-thriving city smoldering around him. And in the distance—his father.

Cold. Unforgiving. Disappointed.

Ragnar's amusement deepened.

Ethan's fear was different from most mortals. He did not fear death. He did not fear pain. He

feared irrelevance. He feared being forgotten, discarded, unloved. He feared never being

enough.

And that—oh, that—was something Ragnar could use.

A pawn.

Ragnar leaned forward, placing a clawed hand on the armrest of his throne. His fingers

tapped rhythmically against the bone, sending quiet echoes through the abyss.

Ethan Lockwood. A warrior, but flawed.

Evelyn Fairchild. A soul of light, but fragile.

They did not yet understand the true nature of their power. They toyed with it like children

wielding swords too large for their hands. But in time, they would come to know.

And when they did, Ragnar would be waiting.

His crimson eyes flared, and the darkness around him rippled, bending to his will. The

underworld pulsed, as if exhaling in anticipation.

He would let them grow. Let them taste power. Let them think they had control.

And then, when the time was right—

He would break them.

And Earth… would be his.