Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

I blink my eyes, struggling to adjust to the poor light. A rattling cough tears through my chest as I swat away the dank dust hanging in the air. The cold penetrates my skin, seeping into my bones like liquid ice. I rub my arms in a futile attempt to restore warmth, but the chill remains, persistent and unwelcome.

For a fleeting moment, I recall the warmth of a small closet, the feeling of safety as I hid while voices murmured beyond a thin door. The memory vanishes before I can grasp it fully, leaving only a hollow ache of something lost.

Where am I? I scan my surroundings, my gaze finally settling on a small group of people talking amongst themselves. Their voices echo off the stone walls, creating an eerie chorus that only heightens my growing anxiety.

Who are these people, and why can I not remember anything other than my name? Gods blast it, why is it so cold? I roll a strand of my hair between my fingers. It is pitch black, curly, and just past my ears. The texture feels familiar, yet I cannot place why. A part of me expects to see blonde hair, though I cannot explain the reason.

The voices of the gathered people increase in volume, drawing my attention back to them. A blonde-haired boy with shoulders like tree trunks speaks animatedly with an elderly woman. Her hair cascades down her back like fresh snow. Another person stands nearby, a woman with sanguine hair that captures what little light exists in this place. She moves her hair from one side of her neck to the other, the strands looking like ruby droplets against the pale canvas of her lithe neck.

Something about the crimson strands draws my eye, causes my throat to tighten with an inexplicable thirst. I swallow hard and look away, disturbed by my reaction.

At least I am not alone. Although they have not noticed me yet. My eyes trace the outlines of my surroundings more carefully now. The walls are dark gray, covered in moss that shifts with each slight breeze. Several plaques with faded names adorn different areas of the walls, each affixed to the stone. In the dim light, it is hard to make out the inscriptions. In one corner, barely visible even when I squint, lies an outline of yellowed bone.

I push myself off the ground, dusting the grime from my clothes before walking closer to investigate the strange, randomly placed bones. They turn out to be a partial skeleton, aged and forgotten. The realization hits me suddenly—I am in a crypt of some kind.

Am I dead? The thought sends a jolt of panic through me. I run my hands over my pale skin, feeling its warmth. I certainly feel alive enough. The light brown tunic and darker brown pants I wear feel real under my fingertips, the fabric coarse but solid.

If I am in a tomb and cannot remember anything about myself, does not that mean I must have died? I desperately scramble through my mind, trying to recall anything about who I am. Anything at all. There is my name, Jackson Grey, but beyond that lies only darkness despite my ceaseless efforts.

A brief flash—sitting at a desk, staring at a computer screen, bored with another simple case solved through social media. The memory dissolves like mist in sunlight, leaving me grasping at shadows.

This cannot be normal. How do I know that those are bones over there? How do I know this place is a crypt? How do I know moss is called moss? Yet I cannot remember a single detail of my entire life? I take in my appearance once more and confirm I am an adult. Adults are supposed to have memories. The question is, why do I know that and nothing else?

I run a thumb across my jaw while chewing on my tongue. I must have had some form of basic education; that much is clear. I also know my name, but what does...

My thoughts shatter as a rumbling sound echoes through the room. I look up to find a previously unseen stone door sliding open, its tremendous weight announcing itself by grinding against the floor. A black-robed figure steps through the opening, holding a gnarled staff that thumps against the stone with imposing authority with each step.

Immediately, my gut churns with an unnatural aversion to this person. Imaginary bile rises in my throat, bitter and burning. When two massive walking skeletons dressed in armor and wielding heavy weapons follow the figure on either side, I begin looking frantically for an exit. Any exit. I have to get away from this person, and fast.

An instinct rises within me, something primal and violent. The urge to stand and fight rather than cower surprises me with its intensity. I suppress it, knowing that whatever this feeling is, it will not help me against armored skeletons and their master.

Is that the grim reaper or something?

The figure turns toward the skeletons. "Take them," commands a distinctly masculine voice, raspy and cold as winter wind. The deeply pocketed hood rustles but keeps his features hidden from view.

My pulse races wildly as I quickly back away toward a nearby dark corner, my hands scrambling against the stone wall in search of hidden doors, cracks, switches—anything that might let me escape this accursed room and the monsters within it. My head swivels constantly from the wall back to the frightening man with his skeletal warriors.

A scream tears through the air. I whip my head around to see a leanly built young man with tattered clothes and brown hair being lifted effortlessly by one of the walking skeletons. His fists strike fiercely yet hollowly against the bones and armor of the monster. All his efforts are for naught, even as profanities echo throughout the crypt. The black-robed man does not react at all. Not to the screams, not to the boy's attempts to fight. He does not even flinch as the skeletons carry the young man from the room.

The scene triggers something—a memory of standing up to someone larger, protecting a smaller boy from bullies. "Whore's son," a mocking voice echoes in my mind. My fists clench involuntarily.

When the robed man speaks again, something washes over me—something dark, something so malevolent it seems alive in its maliciousness. It slams down upon me like a physical weight, crushing me to the ground. That is when the whispers begin.

They speak of horrible things, dredging up deep inner fears from within me, assaulting my mind with horrors I did not know existed. I begin to scream uncontrollably, my nails chipping and breaking as I dig them into the sides of my head, desperately trying to stop the whispers running rampant through my mind.

Every instinct tells me to run, to flee as fast and hard as possible from this madness overwhelming my senses. The air grows colder around me, raising the hair on my arms. For one brief yet inescapable moment, my heart simply stops. I can no longer breathe.

Then it vanishes. All the insidious maliciousness that had just put me through hell is simply gone, not even a shadow remaining. Instead, that cold, unfeeling, rasping voice fills the air.

"I am Abaddon, a celestial of Shadow, and you all belong to me. You are my prisoners. Listen closely, for I will only say this once. You will make your way through this dungeon you now find yourselves in, and when you reach its end, you will retrieve for me the orb you find there. Succeed and you will be free. Fail, and you will die."

With that, Abaddon leaves us in complete silence. He beat us upside the head with the stick while offering a tiny sliver of a carrot. I never want to go through that again, I think to myself while running a trembling hand through my hair.

The groups that had formed are talking amongst themselves quietly like shaken mice, but it all quickly falls to silence when another man enters. Why would not it? The last time a man entered, everyone had been picked up and moved to another room without any of us realizing, myself included. By skeletons, no less, and that was not even considering whatever those horrible whispers were.

The newcomer has a short sword sheathed at his hip, and he moves with the deadly grace of a leopard. His hood is down, revealing features too sharp to be entirely handsome, like a straight razor given flesh. His warm brown eyes regard our group impassively, but something about those eyes triggers an instinctive warning in my mind. There is something not quite right about them, a falseness to their warmth.

When no one speaks to him, he holds up a hand and produces an ebony wood table from seemingly nowhere, setting it directly in front of himself. Next, he produces a book—the most ancient-looking book I could imagine. The binding is made of some material I cannot place, gray and white like an old, blank slate touched by the elements.

Finally, the man speaks. "I am Delathorn Selavax. A servant of the Shadow." He taps the book. "This is an artifact; normally I would have you analyze it, but none of you have increased your level enough for the Judge to tell you what it is. Suffice to say that through it, the Judge will unlock your Domains. You should consider that a boon; normally, it takes much inner searching for you to do that. One by one, you will come up and place your hand on this book. The Judge will do the rest. After your Domain has been unlocked, your skills will be as well; this, in turn, will unlock your class. Before you start wondering about all of this, rest assured, you will learn it in good time. Let us begin."

I am not sure what it is—perhaps resignation, perhaps curiosity—but people begin lining up to place their hands on the book. It is then that I get a good look at some of them. My eyes widen as I realize some of them are not human. I see elves, orcs, and dwarves too. It is as if someone transported races straight out of fantasy stories and placed them in this crypt with me. A phantom voice whispers in memory: "The brave knight approached the dragon's lair..." A woman's voice, gentle and loving, reading from a book.

When each person places their hand on the book, nothing outwardly appears to happen. No glowing lights, no hair rising—nothing fantastical at all. The only indication that something is happening is a widening of eyes or shifting expressions of wonder.

After what seems like an age, it is my turn. I approach the book with tense muscles, my hands opening and closing reflexively. Taking a deep breath, I reach out and place my palm on the book's cover. Information immediately lights up in my mind as if someone ignited a bonfire within my skull:

Unlocking Domain... Domain unlocked... scanning Domain... Domain aspects are destruction and blood... scanning for resonate skills... Katanas Level 1 is unlocked. Enchanting level 1 unlocked... Level is insufficient to unlock any further resonate skills. Generating classes based on Domain…Swordsman generated.

Beyond the information flooding my mind, I feel something swirling deep inside my core, something opening within me that I had not known was there before. But there is also a strange sense that something else remains dormant, like a sealed chamber within my Domain waiting to be unlocked. The crimson liquid pulses once, as if in response to my observation, then settles.

The leather-armored man looks at me and nods. I return to find a spot and slump onto the ground. So much is happening, and I am not sure how to take it all in. The man nods one last time when the last few people finish.

Then he speaks again. "Within this dungeon, these ancient catacombs, you will find many dangers. You will also find rewards should you overcome those dangers, both from the Judge and from what you find. Lord Abaddon will not be giving you any equipment. Two floors down, you will find a very open area of the catacombs. In the middle of this area is a safe zone, and it is here that you will find a bazaar. Good luck."

With that, the man leaves, and we are alone. It is not long before people start filing out. Some are already talking, forming groups, while others venture out alone. I stay behind, in no hurry to get started. Delathorn did not say anything about it, but I wonder if I have some kind of profile screen. At that thought, a window unfurls in my mind, like an ancient scroll being opened:

Name: Jackson Grey Level: 1 Race: Human Lives: 3 Domain: Aspects: Blood and Destruction Class: Swordsman Attributes: Mind-10, Strength-12, Dexterity-17, Constitution-13, Will-14 Skills: Katanas (Apprentice Level 1) Enchanting (Apprentice Level 1) Weaves: None Eden Coins: 0 Faction: Unsworn

Blood and Destruction. The aspects send a chill through me. What does it say about me that my core, my very essence, is made of such ominous elements? I run my thumb along my jaw. There is a lot to think about, but I choose to focus on the Domain for now. Neither Abaddon nor Delathorn explained what Domains are or what they do, but I want to explore mine anyway.

I focus my consciousness inward, toward that place that had not existed before. Suddenly, I find myself in a void, an endless expanse of nothingness. Just blackness. However, it does not stay that way. Crimson liquid begins to flow into the void, like a river released from a dam. It rushes toward me in a massive tsunami-like wave, and I flinch when it hits me, but it does not hurt; it merely surrounds me.

The red is familiar somehow, comforting despite its ominous nature. For a moment, it reminds me of something I cannot quite grasp—a feeling of power held in check, of knowing when not to strike.

Strange light flows from the red river and into me; it is metallic red-gold and full of energy. I reach out and touch that light with my consciousness, and suddenly I hold it in my hands. It is almost like a thread. I cannot say what drives me; it is instinctual, a part of me on an almost fundamental level. I begin to weave that thread, that red light. Then I realize I need something else, and I take some of that nothingness, that pitch blackness, and weave that in as well.

I release it and come back to myself. In my hands, I now wield a katana; the blade looks to be entirely crafted from red liquid, though that should be impossible. It is solid enough; I can wave it about, and when I test the edge, it is razor sharp. A strange knowledge of how to use the weapon runs through my head, but I know my knowledge is incomplete. I let go of the weaves, and the katana vanishes. A notification lights up in my mind:

You have cast Blood Katana (Apprentice Level 1).

Blood Katana, hmm? It sounds ominous, but what is a swordsman without a sword? Out there, I do not even have my fingernails left, having broken them in my panic earlier. Before leaving the room, I consider the other information I have received.

My task is to get this orb, which is at the lowest level of the catacombs. Fail, and apparently, I will be killed. Obviously, I am very much against that. I like living. It is good for my health.

But why does tall, robed, and creepy want it? Furthermore, both Abaddon and Delathorn mentioned Shadow. That sounds ominous to the extreme, and if they serve whatever this Shadow is, then I definitely have no desire to join them, not after the way I have been treated.

Anyone in power who forces others to do their bidding is not really a good person, in my book. My mother taught me that much. The thought comes unbidden, and I freeze. My mother? For a heartbeat, I can almost see her face—blonde hair, blue eyes, the kindest smile. Then it is gone, leaving only an ache where the memory should be.

I want nothing to do with people like that. Obviously, I have no intention of going along with Abaddon's plans, whatever they are. But perhaps I could get this orb and use it as leverage for my freedom? That seems as good a plan as any.

I take a deep breath, my fists clenching as anxiety runs through me like an electrical current. I do not know what is out there. But I must face it. I must survive. With fearful determination, I step out into the dungeon.