A violent jolt in the darkness dragged him back to his grim throne, set within that endless pool of black sludge. The impact wasn't physical, yet he felt it deep within his existence, as if something had seized his soul and hurled it back into that forgotten place.
He sat there, shackled at the wrists and ankles by chains formed from the very hands that emerged from the thick, tar-like liquid. Those hands twisted slowly, alive, clinging to him with desperation. His crown of thorns dug into his pale skin, thin streams of blood trailing down his forehead. Purple flames illuminated the vast, infinite hall of the king, casting shadows that stretched endlessly into the void.
The air was heavy. Every breath felt harder than the last.
'We've lost,' thought the King of the Void.
There was a note of disappointment in his inner voice—a bitter resignation, as if he had expected more of himself… as if, deep down, he believed this outcome should not have been his.
