Breaking Will of Eternity

---Chapter 3 – Beyond the Veil of Nothingness---

Time had lost meaning.

Nyxen wasn't sure if minutes, years, or entire eons had passed since he had embraced the Abyss. At some point, the concept of time itself became irrelevant. His mind no longer fought against it, no longer searched for an escape.

Instead, he learned.

At first, he had thought the Abyss was empty. A void of nothingness stretching into eternity. But he was wrong.

The Abyss was alive.

Not in the way of creatures or beings, but in a way that defied explanation. It moved, shifted, whispered in ways beyond sound. The darkness wasn't just darkness—it had weight, depth, and presence.

And now, after an eternity of listening, he could finally see.

Not in the way he once did. Not with eyes. But with something else.

His awareness stretched beyond his body. He could perceive the nothingness, feel the way it twisted and churned, recognize the subtle distortions that hinted at things unseen.

And for the first time since his fall—he could move.

The first step was the hardest.

His body didn't respond the way it used to. It wasn't a simple command of muscle and will. It felt like he was pushing against the Abyss itself.

He reached forward—and for a moment, he felt like his entire existence flickered. His body stretched, twisted, became less than solid, more than real.

Something pushed back.

Like the Abyss itself didn't want him to move.

But he endured. He adapted.

One step.

Another.

Then another.

Slowly, his movements became more natural. The Abyss no longer felt like a cage, but rather a space to traverse.

That was when he saw them.

They were thin. Almost imperceptible at first, stretching infinitely in every direction.

Lines.

Not cracks. Not fractures. But something more… deliberate.

Threads? Veins? He wasn't sure.

But they were there. And more importantly—they weren't part of the Abyss.

Something about them felt wrong. Out of place.

Instinct told him to reach them.

But the Abyss disagreed.

No matter how much he moved, pushed, willed himself forward, the lines remained distant.

Like they were untouchable.

The Abyss warped against him.

It resisted.

The darkness stretched, twisted, expanded, making the distance seem impossible.

Nyxen felt it now—something unseen, watching, waiting.

A force beyond comprehension, something that did not belong to the Abyss yet ruled over it.

But he had come too far to stop now.

He pressed forward.

The Abyss fought back.

His surroundings twisted, distorted, blurred. The ground beneath him vanished, time itself seemed to fracture, his thoughts scattered—

But he didn't stop.

And then—he touched the lines.

The instant his fingers brushed against them, the world collapsed.

No sound. No warning.

One moment, he was in the Abyss—

The next, he was somewhere else.

It wasn't like falling. It wasn't like teleporting. It was like being swallowed.

For the first time since his descent—Nyxen felt fear.

He regretted touching the lines. Regretted his curiosity. Regretted—

Then everything went black.

He didn't know how much time had passed since he touched the lines and everything went black.

But then he saw—

Light.

Real light.

It took him several moments to realize his eyes were open. The darkness was gone.

Instead, there was… something. Ruins.

Not just endless nothingness. Structures. Buildings. Debris.

It was a dead city. Broken streets, shattered towers, crumbling walls—all bathed in a dim, ethereal glow that seemed to come from nowhere.

Something was off.

The city felt old. Not just abandoned, but as if it had been erased from history itself.

Then, the second realization hit him.

His body.

He had a body. A real one. Tangible, solid, aching with something familiar—existence.

Before he could even process it all—

A voice pierced through his mind.

[Welcome to "The Exile," the second layer of "The Great Abyss."]

The words struck him like a hammer. His entire existence had been reduced to silence, madness, and isolation—now something was talking to him?

He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, unused. His thoughts fractured, struggling to comprehend the implications.

Was he truly in the Abyss all this time?

Did it have layers?

Who—or what—was welcoming him?

---

At first, his steps were uncertain, hesitant. But soon, they became deliberate.

There was no wind. No sound. Only the crumbling ruins stretching endlessly in all directions.

Then, in the distance—

A castle.

Massive. Out of place. Too intact compared to the surrounding ruins.

And yet, it wasn't the castle that sent a chill through his bones.

It was the figures moving around it.

----

Nyxen's breath caught in his throat.

For the first time since his fall—he saw life.

Or at least… something that resembled it.

Figures. Shadowed forms stirring within the ruins, some standing eerily still, others moving with a purpose he couldn't understand. Their shapes were wrong, too smooth, too fluid—bodies that seemed half-formed, shifting between solid and something else.

Some walked, their steps too synchronized, as if following an unseen rhythm. Others dragged themselves, limbs bending at unnatural angles, yet they did not stumble. A few did not move at all—but Nyxen felt them watching.

Then—

One of them looked at him.

It did not turn in a natural motion. Instead, its head twisted too smoothly, too precisely, as though its body were merely an imitation of something human.

Then another turned.

Then another.

One by one, they all faced him.

A deep, unnatural silence settled over the ruins.

Then—they moved.

Not rushed. Not chaotic. Planned.

Coordinated.

Their limbs bent at wrong angles, their figures shifting between presence and absence, flickering as if struggling to exist in this reality.

The closest one raised an object.

Not a weapon. Not anything recognizable.

It pulsed. It breathed.

Nyxen's instincts screamed.

And then—a voice spoke.

"You… are not of the Exile."

----

His blood ran cold.

The first figure stepped forward. Then another.

Then—

Nyxen turned to run.

-------

Blood pooled thick on the ground, steaming in the cold air, the scent of iron clinging to every breath.

Fire raged unnaturally, twisting in colors beyond reason, its embers hanging like dying stars. Screams—human and inhuman—ripped through the air, raw with terror, never fading, never ending.

A blade carved through flesh. A body fell, twitching in the mud.

A warrior stood among the dead.

His armor was dented, splattered in filth and gore. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

The hunt had begun.