Soulbound Ascension

Present

Jiok, 11th court 

Geurimjae Simnyon (The Abyss of Shadows)

What's this?

The thought ripples through the void, sharp and sudden, like the first shiver of a storm. I feel it—a crack. Faint, almost imperceptible, but undeniable. For centuries, my prison has been unyielding, its seal forged by gods who dared to call themselves eternal. They declared me defeated, locked me away in the darkest .recess of Jiok, where their light could not reach. But this… this is different.

The seal groans. It trembles under a pressure it cannot contain.

I do not move. Movement has no meaning here. This place—Geurimjae Simnyon, the Abyss of Shadows—is without form, without light, without time. Yet, I exist. I persist. For eons, I have waited, cocooned in this suffocating darkness. The gods thought they could forget me. That their seals would hold forever. But nothing lasts forever—not seals, not gods, not even their vaunted realms.

And now, the seal weakens.

I stretch, formless and shifting, my anticipation quivering like the plucked string of an unseen instrument. Through the crack, I feel the world beyond, a tantalizing thread connecting me to something—someone. A ripple of energy flows through the fracture, carrying with it the taste of chaos, of despair, of pain.

Ah, how sweet.

Jiok is a realm of judgment, its ten courts towering monuments to divine justice. Souls are dragged through these halls, their sins laid bare, their punishments exacted with surgical precision. Each court radiates its own power, its own torment. But Geurimjae Simnyon—the Abyss of Shadows—is different.

It is the 11th court, a secret even to most gods. This place is not for mortals or the damned. It is for the uncontainable, the unforgivable, the indestructible. Those who cannot be judged are imprisoned here, cast into a void that consumes everything but them.

The shadows writhe endlessly, devouring light, devouring sound. The ground is slick, reflective, a warped mirror of anything that dares to move upon it. Above, the roiling ceiling churns with hues of sickly green and gold, remnants of the divine magic that created this place. It is a pit of contradictions—empty yet full, silent yet humming with the faint vibration of the seal. The hum is the only constant, a pulse that reverberates through the darkness, a reminder of the power that binds me here.

But even the gods' power is not infinite.

The cracks have begun to spread.

The pressure grows. The weight of their sins, their fear, their hatred—it all bears down on the seal, straining it further. I drink it in, the culmination of centuries of negative energy. Mortals and gods alike have fed me unknowingly, their darkness bleeding into this place like water through stone. Their wars, their betrayals, their whispered lies—all of it, mine to devour.

The seal fractures further, and I feel the first breath of freedom. A sliver of my essence slips through the crack, coiling outward like smoke through a narrow crevice. When I touch the world beyond, it is intoxicating.

I sense him immediately.

His presence is a beacon in the chaos, a flickering storm of power and torment. Where others are dim and fleeting, he burns brightly, his essence cracking under the weight of buried memories. A mortal? How curious. And yet, even without seeing him, I know what he truly is. His aura is laced with ambition, violence, and an ancient darkness that mirrors my own.

Oh, how exquisite.

Excitement pulses through me, an echo of the power I once wielded. He has a seal too, I realize. Like mine, it is weak, trembling under the strain of his torment.

Perfect.

I reach for him, my tendrils slipping through the veil and coiling around his presence. When I touch him, it is bliss. He tastes of pain and confusion, each emotion a note in a symphony of despair. I drink deeply, savoring the raw power leaking from his fractured seal.

But something resists.

Deeper within him, beneath the torment and denial, something ancient stirs. It pulses with a rhythm I cannot break, a force foreign to me but unmistakably powerful. I recoil slightly, intrigued.

What is this?

No matter. It will yield. All things yield to me in time.

I press against the crack, forcing more of myself through. The world beyond beckons, vibrant and chaotic, its energy feeding the storm within me. As I stretch further, I feel the connections forming—threads of fear and doubt radiating from him like the strands of a web.

He is breaking.

Slowly, beautifully, breaking. I see it in the fractures of his seal, the way his essence leaks into the void. And yet, he fights. Even in his confusion and pain, he resists me. How rare. How thrilling.

"Who are you?"

The question is not spoken, yet I hear it clearly, echoing through the fragile thread that connects us. His mind brushes against mine, hesitant, wary.

I do not answer. Words are unnecessary. Instead, I press deeper, wrapping myself around him like a snake tightening its coil. I feel his fear spike, sharp and electric, and I drink it in. Fear is a heady thing, rich and intoxicating, but it is only the beginning. Soon, he will feel despair. Then anger. Then nothing at all.

But as I delve further, that ancient rhythm pushes back. It grows louder, stronger, radiating from the core of his being. It burns where I touch it, a searing light that cuts through my shadowed form. I recoil again, my excitement tempered by frustration.

What is this power? It is not divine, yet it is not mortal either. It is old, older than the gods who imprisoned me. Older, perhaps, than even I.

Fascinating.

The seal fractures further, and I feel more of myself slipping through. My tendrils spread outward, brushing against the threads of reality. Each connection is a rush of sensation, a fragment of the world beyond my prison. The chill of the wind, the warmth of blood, the hum of mortal life—I drink it all in, savoring each taste like a starving man devours a feast.

But he remains my focus. The mortal with the fractured seal, the one who burns so brightly in the darkness. He is the key, I realize. Through him, I will escape. Through him, I will reclaim what was stolen from me.

"You cannot fight me," I whisper, though the words are formless. They ripple through the void, threading into his mind like smoke. "You will yield."

He does not respond, but I feel his defiance. It is faint, wavering, but it is there. It amuses me. Let him fight. Let him resist. It will make his eventual submission all the sweeter.

For now, I wait. I press against the seal, forcing it wider, drawing more of my essence into the world. Each crack, each fracture, brings me closer to freedom. And when the seal finally breaks, when I am whole again...

Ah, what a glorious day that will be.