The sky was a canvas of horror,bloody red, streaked with black clouds that churned like boiling ink. Bolts of golden thunder cracked through the heavens with deafening roars, tearing the silence into splinters. The land beneath that apocalyptic sky was broken, charred, and soaked in blood. The corpses of millions blanketed the ground in every direction, a grotesque sea of lifeless flesh and shattered armor that stretched beyond the horizon.
In the middle of this vast field of death stood a single figure.
He was clad in black armor, twisted and jagged like the shadows of a nightmare. Dents and cracks marred the once-impenetrable plates, and blood—some his, most not—streaked across his body like war paint. His face was hidden behind a helmet of darkness, but from within, two glowing purple eyes burned with a cold, merciless light. His hair, long and wild, flared behind him like a crown of violet fire, untamed and furious even in the stillness.
He stood tall despite the ruin, shoulders squared, chest heaving with the weight of his breath. Around him was devastation unlike anything the world had ever known—and he was its sole architect.
A chime echoed through his mind, clean and mechanical. The cold voice of the system followed it:
"Congratulations. Mission complete. The last of the Itarim is defeated. You have obtained the title: The Supreme Shadow Monarch."
The man did not flinch. He stared blankly across the sea of the dead, voice gravelly with exhaustion and hate.
"What's the point, you stupid system? I'm the only thing living in this world now. After all this… there's nothing left."
Silence. Then another ping.
"As a reward for achieving the title of True Shadow Monarch, you will be transported to a random world with all of your powers intact. No system interference. No missions. A chance to start over... or, if you choose, you may repeat your missions in pursuit of a better outcome."
The man blinked. For a moment, he didn't speak.
"That's… new," he muttered, dryly. "You don't give me options. Just orders. Are you finally freeing me?"
He stood there for several long seconds, the golden thunder illuminating the destruction around him with each flash. He took it all in, what little remained of the world, the silence of the dead, the end of everything he had known.
"I'll go to a new world," he said at last. "There's no way I'm repeating this hell again… and it's not like I have anything I care about here. Good riddance"
The system gave its final chime.
"Choice confirmed: New World. Thank you for your long service, Host. We wish you the best of luck."
The red sky faded into darkness. The thunder stopped. The world grew still.
And as the man felt his mind slip into the abyss, as if falling into a deep sleep, his last thought was not of victory… but of what it meant to escape the endless hell.
___________
A low breath escaped the young boy's lips as his eyes fluttered open.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, yet not. His surroundings whispered of both comfort and confusion. He blinked once, slowly, then sat up in bed. For a fleeting second, his black eyes shimmered with an eerie purple glow—like embers flaring in the dark—before fading back to black.
The boy looked around the room. A luxurious suite, well-kept, filled with expensive furniture and elegance meant for someone of great status. It felt… familiar. A strange echo rippled in his mind, and then the flood came—his entire thirteen years of life. His name. His family. His memories. Laughter and sorrow. Struggles and silence. Then, a sharp end. He hadn't gone to sleep.
He had died.
The boy rose to his feet, rubbing his temple as fragments settled into place.
"The system gave me the body of a boy who died," he murmured, his voice quiet, amused. "How nice of it."
His gaze fell to the floor—specifically, to the shadow cast by his own frame in the soft light of the room.
Dozens. No, hundreds of eyes stared back at him from the inky darkness of his shadow, blinking in unison. Watching him. Recognizing him.
A slow smile crept across the boy's lips. "I can see you… All of you are here."
He walked toward the tall mirror propped elegantly in the corner. The reflection staring back at him was youthful, fair-skinned, with messy black hair and dark eyes full of thought. A beautiful child, born into wealth and privilege.
"I'll enjoy this life," he whispered to his reflection. His voice was soft, but his eyes glowed once more, the same burning violet that had once terrified rules and monarchs. "And don't worry, boy. For the body and name you left me… I'll avenge your death—and your parents' too."
Ashborn Black. A fitting name, he thought.
He had inherited the body of Ashborn Black, heir to the prestigious Black family—once one of the richest families in Metropolis City. From the memories he'd absorbed, he knew the truth behind the tragic tale.
His two uncles, driven by greed and envy, had conspired against Ashborn's parents. They poisoned them slowly and efficiently, removing the family one by one. The boy himself—barely tolerated by either uncle—had been fed the same fate, his death planned to be brushed off as a fragile constitution and a broken heart.
Ashborn—no, he now—wasn't fragile. And he was far from broken.
With deliberate steps, he walked through the grand villa halls, the polished floors echoing beneath his bare feet. His destination was the grand dining room. From the laughter echoing within, he could tell the parasites were enjoying their feast.
He pushed open the double doors without knocking.
The opulent dining room was filled with the sound of forks, glass clinks, and idle chatter—until silence swept the room like a winter storm. Every head turned. Scowls, sneers, and disdain met his presence.
The first uncle—the elder of the two—lowered his wine glass. "What are you doing here?"
Ashborn smiled, but it was a cold, dead thing that didn't reach his eyes.
"Congratulations," he said, tone almost cheerful. "You killed your brother, his wife… even his only son… your own nephew. Now, I take his place. So I owe him to avenge him."
The lights flickered.
His shadow moved.
No…grew.
Darkness poured out from his feet like a tidal wave, flooding the room, swallowing the table and walls in seconds. Shadows wrapped around chairs, glasses shattered mid-air, and all color drained from the room.
The two families froze in terror. None of them could move, not even to scream.
"Any last words?" Ashborn asked.
The first uncle fell to his knees, weeping. "Please! We're your family!"
"My family?" Ashborn chuckled. His voice rang deep, like a blade sliding from a sheath. "I told you. Your nephew is dead. His soul isn't here anymore."
He tilted his head.
"I took over. I have no relatives. One of a kind, you could say."
And with that, the darkness surged forward. The screams of the first uncle and his wife and sons were muffled by the abyss as the shadows devoured them whole.
Ashborn turned his head slowly toward the second uncle. The man trembled, trying to speak.
"My daughters… they…they have nothing to do with this! Please, at least spare them!"
Ashborn looked at the two girls—one, perhaps fifteen; the other barely nine. His smile returned, cruel and sharp.
"The older one's pretty enough to be my slave," he said with mock thoughtfulness. "And the young one… probably going to grow into her sister's beauty."
He paused. His smile faded.
"Unfortunately for you…" his voice turned low, venomous, "I don't care for that. Nor do I care for their age. A family for a family. Revenge of equal propotions, nothing more, nothing less."
The second uncle screamed as the darkness devoured his daughters, then the shaking wife and lastly he was devoured. One by one, all of them vanished into the abyss.
That night, Ashborn purged the villa of its rot. Every servant, every smiling traitor who had bowed to the murderers, fell beneath the shadow. No plea was heard. No mercy was given.
And once it was over, silence reigned.
Ashborn sat alone in the grand dining room, shadows flickering around him like loyal beasts.
He rested his chin on his hand, gazing into the candlelight as memories stirred once more. The original Ashborn's mind had offered much, but one memory held his attention above the rest.
A memory of a man flying through the sky.
A red cape. A red "S" on his chest.
Ashborn's glowing eyes narrowed.
"So this world has superman" he murmured.
A slow grin curved across his lips. "I know this world."