The Hollow Kings

The executioner released the rope, and the massive stone crashed down, crushing Walid's grandfather into nothing but a smear of shattered bones and blood. The horrific sight seared itself into Walid's soul, a scene he could scarcely comprehend. His grandfather—the man who had raised him, who had been the sole beacon of love and warmth in Walid's brutal life—was reduced to nothing before his eyes.

Walid's scream tore through the execution yard, raw and anguished, reverberating in the air like the cry of a wounded beast. His pain, however, was met only with laughter. The king and the princess cackled, their mirth a cruel contrast to Walid's torment. They reveled in his despair, their twisted joy feeding off his suffering.

"Throw him back into the cell," the king ordered, his voice dripping with cold indifference. "Let him rot there until hunger claims him."

Dragged mercilessly by the guards, Walid was hurled back into the cold darkness of the dungeon. His battered body hit the hard ground with a thud, his injuries from the brutal beatings making every movement unbearable. Yet, the physical pain paled in comparison to the agony that tore at his mind.

The damp, chilling air of the cell enveloped him as he lay sprawled on the floor, unmoving. In the oppressive silence, memories of his grandfather's kindness flooded his thoughts. Walid saw fleeting visions of the old man's gentle smile, the rough but reassuring hand that had guided him through a harsh world, hearing his wise words warning him to never trust the royal family. "They're vipers, Walid. They wear masks of gold, but their hearts are as black as the void."

"Why?" Walid whispered to the void. "Why was I even born into this wretched world? What crime did I commit to deserve this?"

Underneath the weight of his grief and despair, his mind spiraled into a torrent of deep, existential questions. If life was so merciless, if existence itself seemed designed to crush the weak, was there any meaning to it at all? Was it fate that had cursed him, or was this simply the random cruelty of an uncaring world?

In the depth of his rumination, a hoarse voice pierced the silence. "Hey... you, wretch. Come closer."

Walid flinched at the sound, lifting his gaze to see a shadowy figure huddled in the far corner of the cell. The dim light barely illuminated the stranger—an old man with his face obscured, speaking with a tone that carried both authority and bitterness.

"Are you truly ready to give in?" the old man spat, his voice dripping with disdain.

Walid didn't answer immediately. His tear-filled eyes betrayed his hopelessness, his silence more eloquent than any words.

"Tch. Pathetic," the old man sneered, his voice hardening. "Will you let his death mean nothing, boy? Will you let the ones who tore him from you walk away unscathed? Are you truly so weak as to lie here and die like a dog?"

Walid's lips trembled, his voice barely audible. "What can a broken wretch like me do? A monster like me can never fight back... never achieve justice... never take revenge."

The old man leaned forward, his shadowy form almost melding with the darkness of the cell. "A monster, you say? Perhaps that is what you need to become."

Walid blinked, uncertain if he had heard correctly.

"What if I told you," the old man continued, his voice now laced with something darker, more dangerous. "I can make you into a weapon, a creature designed for vengeance. I can give you the tools to destroy those who wronged you. But understand this—there is no going back. If you choose this path, you will shed the last remnants of who you are and embrace the monster within."

Walid stared, his breath catching in his throat. The man's words stirred something deep within him—a flicker of rage, of hatred, of raw, unyielding desire.

"It won't be easy," the old man warned. "What I'm offering is not salvation. It's a curse. A long, torturous road filled with pain and blood. But at the end of it lies the power to make them pay. So, tell me, boy... will you sell your soul to us for revenge? Will you become the beast that haunts their nightmares?"

The air in the cell seemed to grow heavier as the question hung between them. Walid's fingers clenched into fists, his teeth gritting as a single word escaped his lips, carrying the weight of his newfound resolve.

Slowly, he raised his head, his eyes filled with a burning determination.

"Yes," he said, his voice steady despite the pain. "I'll do it. Whatever it takes."

A strange energy filled the air. The temperature in the cell seemed to drop, and Walid felt a heavy pressure settle over him. The man rose to his feet, his form shifting and twisting. His tattered clothing melted away, replaced by a grand robe that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light. The outer cloak was like flowing silk, dark as midnight, adorned with intricate golden patterns that seemed to move on their own. Beneath it, he wore a fitted tunic cinched with a broad leather belt, from which hung an ornate sword and a finely crafted dagger. A half-mask covered the lower half of his face, adding an air of mystery to his already imposing presence.

Walid's breath hitched as he beheld the transformation. The man's aura was overwhelming, a suffocating wave of power that seemed to freeze the air around him.

"Welcome," the man intoned, his voice rich with authority and an almost otherworldly power, "to your new world… descendant."