The stone beneath Jin's feet groaned as he stepped deeper into the catacombs beneath the Lunar Castle. The silence was not mere absence of sound—it was alive, thick with history and death. Faint glimmers of starlight from the castle above filtered down through cracked crystal veins in the walls, casting pale silver shadows across the descent.
This was a place untouched by time. A place where the dead were not forgotten—they were preserved.
At the heart of the ancient sanctum stood an altar formed from lunar marble, its surface etched with cosmic runes that whispered in forgotten tongues. Upon it rested the Cup of Reincarnation—the blueprint of creation.
The cup shone with soft azure luminescence, hovering just slightly above the pedestal, untouched by dust or decay. And on its base, an inscription glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat:
Usage: 99 / 100
Jin's eyes narrowed. A silence fell upon his soul.
"Only one use remains. After Usage completed, The Cup resets after every 10,000 years… and the fools before me wasted ninety-nine of those chances."
He clenched his fists, jaw tightening at the weight of history. The ancestors who once held this sacred relic had failed—burning through its uses for selfish gains, petty wars, and personal resurrections.
Now, all that remained was one final use.
One chance.
But he turned away from the cup, his instincts pulling him toward something deeper… older.
Behind the altar, an archway opened into blackness. A passage, hidden from the eyes of lesser men, beckoned him. He stepped through the veil of shadows, descending a narrow staircase carved from blackened obsidian, each step resonating like a drumbeat in the dark.
The air changed. Cold. Heavy. Grieving.
At the end of the descent, Jin entered a colossal underground coliseum—the Deep Chamber of Silence.
And there they were.
An army unlike any other.
Rows upon rows of warriors, sorcerers, dragons, and spectral titans stood frozen in deathless stasis. Their armor, once gleaming, was dulled by time yet unbroken. Some were encased in glass-like crystal, others knelt in solemn poses—silent sentinels awaiting a master who never came.
The air buzzed with dormant power. Magic was thick here—so thick it scraped against Jin's skin.
At the center of the chamber, bathed in a pale shaft of moonlight that bled through a fissure in the rock above, knelt a colossal warrior. He was easily five times Jin's height, adorned in cracked black and silver armor carved with celestial glyphs. His forehead rested upon the pommel of a massive greatsword, its tip buried in the ground.
A thick, violet mist floated around him—alive and restless. From his back sprouted massive wings, black as void, flecked with streaks of fading silver.
He had not died.
He had waited.
Jin stepped forward. His voice echoed through the chamber like a song remembered:
"Wake up, forgotten legion. Your sleep ends today."
A ripple of divine energy pulsed from him. The seals shattered.
The warriors opened their eyes—hollow and luminous. The dragons stirred. The mages' staves sparked with rekindled magic. The giants flexed their stone-bound limbs. And the central figure—the kneeling colossus—slowly lifted his head.
The sword groaned as it was pulled from the stone. The knight rose.
Suddenly his "God's Gaze Activated."
[You have unlocked a new ability of The First Whisper: Necromancy.]
Jin smirked. "I can't believe this power is able to show my status.''
But this was no vulgar resurrection. This was sovereign necromancy—the power to command the honored dead without defilement. A king of silence, a whisperer of oaths, not a defiler of graves.
The colossus stood before him, wings spread wide, eyes glowing with reverence.
The collosal knight spoke.
"Are you my master ?"
Then Jin spoke, voice filled with the weight of aeons:
"Yes. I am The First Whisper. The Will of the Chaos. The bearer of silent dominion."
All at once, the army dropped to their knees in synchronized reverence, the thunder of armor slamming to stone like the beating of drums.
The knight spoke, his voice echoing through the chamber like a storm rolling over mountains.
"I am Bellon, Grand War Marshal of the Shadow Army. At last… the true lord has returned. My blade is yours, First Whisper."
For the first time in millennia, the Shadow Legion had a master.
But time was not kind. The ground trembled. The ceiling above cracked. Moonlight dimmed.
The sanctum was collapsing.
Jin reached out through the mental tether he shared with Nyreth, whispering his name across planes. His voice came back immediately, distant yet calm.
"You have awakened the buried war. I've done my part, master. Now do yours."
Jin turned to the altar and merged the Key that he found in True Abyss with The Cup of Reincarnation. As a result The Cup pulsed with urgent light, sensing the final moment of its cycle.
He grasped it with both hands.
A wave of divine energy surged through his body, piercing every corner of his soul. Visions—raw, ancient, terrifying—blossomed in his mind's eye.
He saw the First Primordial War. Saw the shattering of the Silver City of Hor—a divine metropolis suspended between planes, shining with eternal dawn. He saw it torn in two:
—One half became the Lunar World.
—The other descended into the True Horror Domain, a plane of corruption, void, and madness, where even light fled.
The rest of reality became fractured, a thousand planes stitched together by lies and sorrow. From then they got a new name, Corrupted Plane.
But in his hands, through the Cup, Jin now held the essence of both fragments.
He looked down at his palms— One is Lunar World and other is the Corrupted Plane.
He spoke a single word:
"Unite."
The orbs collided.
The light exploded.
A soundless detonation of pure divinity erupted through the castle and beyond, blinding and beautiful. The Lunar World and the Corrupted Plane screamed as they were pulled into alignment.
Reality shook.
The heavens cracked.
A new city rose.
The Silver City Reborn.
It soared above the lunar plains like a holy crown—towers of silver and crystal climbing toward the stars, domes carved from starlight, and spires adorned with floating runes. Waterfalls of glowing essence flowed in midair, forming rivers across skybridges and sacred courtyards.
The skies above were no longer dark.
Morning had come.
A dawn that had not risen for ten thousand years.
The wind carried hymns sung by no living tongue. The ground bloomed with moonflowers and silvergrass. Bells rang across the plains—not from hands, but from memory, from the world itself rejoicing.
And in the center of it all stood Jin Luneblood— surrounded by Bellon and the resurrected legion.
A king not of men, nor god.
But something greater.