Chapter 1: The Abyss Beckons
The sky above Arvellis twisted into a maelstrom of colors—swirling violet, indigo, and black. It was as though the heavens were being torn apart. Rain fell in relentless torrents, icy and sharp, as it hammered the cracked stone streets. The buildings—once proud—stood hunched and battered, like ancient beasts slowly being devoured by decay. Arvellis was dying, and everyone knew it.
Inside a rundown inn on the city’s outskirts, a lone figure sat in a shadowy corner. His name was Arlan Hallow, and despite his unassuming appearance, there was something about him that made people keep their distance. His dark hair clung to his forehead, wet from both the storm and the sweat of sleepless nights. His stormy blue eyes, hooded with exhaustion, stared into the murky cup of water before him.
The inn was filled with the low hum of hushed conversations and the occasional clink of tankards, but to Arlan, it all felt distant—like a world just beyond his reach. He wasn’t one to stand out in a crowd. He was lean but not frail, with a face that could blend in almost anywhere. Yet, there was a tension in the way he held himself—like a spring coiled too tight, ready to snap at any moment.
For days, Arlan had been waiting. He knew this quiet would soon end.
His eyes flicked to the door as it creaked open, spilling rain and cold into the inn. A figure stepped through—clad in a thick, black cloak with the hood pulled low. The stranger moved with a deliberate slowness, like they were in no rush at all. Conversations died, and the room seemed to shrink as the air grew cold. Even the innkeeper, a burly man who had seen his share of danger, took a step back.
The figure’s presence felt like a weight on the room, bending the very light around them.
They walked directly to Arlan’s table and stopped, their face obscured by shadow. A low, raspy voice escaped the hood.
“You are Arlan Hallow?”
The sound of the stranger’s voice was like glass being ground beneath iron—a brittle, sharp sound that cut through the silence.
Arlan’s grip tightened around his cup, though his expression remained calm. He had been expecting this for days—ever since he had found it.
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“I am,” Arlan said simply, his voice calm, despite the fear clawing at his chest.
The figure reached inside their cloak and produced a small object—a coin. But it wasn’t just any coin. It shimmered faintly with a light that seemed unnatural, as though it didn’t belong to this world. It was engraved with an ancient symbol: an eye, surrounded by seven interlocking rings. The air around the coin felt heavy, oppressive.
“This is yours now,” the figure said, placing the coin on the table. The metal clinked softly, but the sound lingered unnaturally in the air, as though reality itself took note of its arrival.
Arlan stared at the coin, his heart racing. He had heard whispers—stories about objects like this, artifacts of great power linked to forces that no one could fully comprehend. But he had never imagined he would hold one.
“Why?” Arlan’s voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the sound of the rain. “Why me?”
The figure remained silent for a moment, then leaned forward, the faint glow of pale eyes visible beneath the hood.
“The Abyss has chosen you,” the figure replied, their voice barely above a whisper. “And once the Abyss chooses, there is no turning back.”
Arlan felt a chill crawl up his spine. The Abyss. He had heard the stories. It wasn’t just a place—it was a force, a will that devoured everything in its path. Legends spoke of entire civilizations lost to its hunger, of gods and monsters trapped in its endless void. It was madness given form.
“I didn’t ask for this,” Arlan said, the tension in his voice breaking through. “I don’t want it.”
The figure’s glowing eyes flickered, almost as though amused.
“Your desires are irrelevant. The Abyss calls, and you will answer.”
They straightened, their shadow looming over him like a specter of death. “When the door opens, you will have a choice—enter willingly, or be dragged in.”
Arlan’s fingers trembled as they hovered over the coin, which pulsed faintly in his palm. It was warm, as though it had a heartbeat of its own. The weight of the decision pressed on his chest like a vice.
“And what’s inside the Abyss?” Arlan asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Everything,” the figure said, their voice low and cryptic. “And nothing. The Abyss is not a place. It is the beginning and the end. A hunger without limits.”
Arlan’s thoughts raced. He had lived his life on the edge—surviving by wit and skill, scraping by in the underbelly of Arvellis. But this? This was beyond anything he could have imagined. He had no power, no family, nothing to fight this with. How could he face something like the Abyss?
The figure turned, their cloak swirling like a living shadow. “Prepare yourself, Arlan Hallow. The Abyss waits for no one.”
And with that, they disappeared into the night, the door creaking shut behind them.
For a long time, Arlan sat there, staring at the coin in his hand. The air felt heavy, thick with something he couldn’t name.
Then the ground beneath him rumbled—a low, deep vibration that made the glass on his table tremble. The patrons in the inn murmured in confusion, but Arlan’s attention was elsewhere. His eyes widened as he saw it—a tear in the very air itself, jagged and raw, like a wound in reality.
From the tear, darkness spilled out, writhing and coiling like living smoke.
The door to the Abyss had opened.
For a moment, Arlan froze. Fear gripped him, the primal instinct to run screaming in his head. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His fate had been sealed the moment he touched the coin.
The Abyss had chosen him.
Arlan stood, slipping the coin into his pocket. He cast one last glance at the tear, where darkness beckoned him forward. His heart pounded in his chest, but he steeled himself.
With a deep breath, he stepped into the Abyss.
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End of Chapter 1