The room was small. Empty. No looming monsters. No shifting floors. Just a campfire, crackling warmly in the center of the chamber.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I knew this room.
I’d read about it in the archives—the final rest stop before the last challenge. A place where Chosen could prepare, gather themselves, and breathe before whatever nightmare the system had in store for them next.
Apparently, there were no rules about how long you could stay here. Some Chosen spent minutes. Some spent hours.
I stepped forward, the warmth of the fire chasing away the chill from the goblin den. My hands were still shaking slightly from the adrenaline dump, but I ignored it, slinging my bag off my shoulder and dropping it onto the stone floor.
First things first. Water.
I pulled out my canteen and took a long, slow drink, the cool liquid soothing my dry throat. Then I rummaged around for food, coming up with half a loaf of hard bread and some dried meat. Not exactly a feast, but at this point? I wasn’t picky.
I tore off a piece of bread and chewed slowly, staring into the fire as the impact of everything I’d done so far settled onto my shoulders.
This was it. The final challenge.
If I made it through the next trial, I’d officially be a Chosen—given a class, rewarded with loot, and sent out into the world as one of the system’s warriors.
If I failed?
Well. I’d never see my family again.
I took another bite.
If I was going to die, I sure as hell wasn’t dying on an empty stomach.

I sat by the fire, chewing the last bit of bread, when the air shifted.
A familiar whisper curled into my ear.
“This is your last chance.”
I closed my eyes. “Oh good,” I muttered, swallowing my food. “I was wondering when you’d show up again.”
My shadow rose from the floor beside me, forming its familiar wraithlike shape, flickering like ink in water. It sat down across from me, mimicking my posture, watching the fire with a smug kind of patience.
“You don’t have to do this, Felix,” it said, its voice smooth, steady. Too calm. “You can walk away. Right now. Just stand up, turn around, and leave. No scars. No pain. You go home, and you live.”
I stared into the fire, tightening my fingers around my canteen.
It sounded so damn tempting.
I’d read about some of the things found in dungeons. Monsters that didn’t belong. Things that shouldn’t exist. Creatures pulled from the depths of nightmares, the kind that even seasoned Chosen struggled to survive.
The system didn’t care about fairness. It didn’t care about whether I was ready.
What if the final challenge was something I couldn’t beat?
What if I failed?
The shadow leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ve seen the archives. You know what’s out there. You felt what it was like to fight that spider. You barely made it through the goblin den. You think the last trial is going to be easier?”
I clenched my jaw.
“You don’t want to die here,” it murmured. “You don’t want your mother waiting for a son who never comes home.”
That one hit.
Hard.
For a second—just a second—I pictured it. Mom, waiting by the door, hoping I’d come back. Aria and Leon not understanding why I never did.
A lump formed in my throat.
I could leave. Right now.
No more trials. No more monsters.
Just home.
I stared at the fire, my heart pounding.
Then, slowly, I shook my head. “No.”
The shadow went still.
I let out a slow breath, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Even if I wanted to leave, I don’t trust the system to let me. I don’t trust you.” I met its gaze, my own reflection stared back in twisted ink. “And even if I did walk away… I’d have to live with the fact that I gave up.”
The shadow watched me, its face unreadable.
Then it smiled.
“Good,” it whispered.
I blinked. What?
But before I could question it, the shadow sank into the floor, disappearing completely.
I was alone again.
The fire crackled.
My chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as I ran a hand through my hair.
I didn’t know if I’d just passed a test or set myself up for something way worse.
Either way, there was only one way forward.
 
I left the campfire behind, stepping through the final door.
Immediately, the temperature dropped. Not the kind of cold that made you shiver, but the kind that settled deep in your chest, curling around your ribs like something was waiting to squeeze. The silence was wrong, too—heavy, expectant, like I’d just walked into a room full of people who had been talking about me and suddenly shut up.
A throne room stretched out ahead, and it looked like it had seen better centuries.
The pillars were cracked and leaning, like they’d given up on their jobs a long time ago. Banners, faded and torn, dangled uselessly from the ceiling, their sigils so worn away they may as well have been blank. The floor wasn’t much better—fractured stone, uneven terrain, like the entire place had been slowly falling apart for years.
And at the far end, sitting in eerie stillness atop a ruined throne, was him.
I knew his name before he even moved.
Because floating just above his head, in ominous glowing text, was a nameplate:
 
THE EMPTY KING
[Boss Enemy]
 
Underlined with a thick, pulsing red bar.
I swallowed hard. Great. That meant I was officially on the menu.
He didn’t move at first, just sat there, as still as a corpse. But the details were impossible to miss—his armor, dull and battle-worn, looked like it had seen a thousand fights and never been polished once. His greatsword, rusted but massive, rested across his lap.
And his crown.
It wasn’t on his head.
Instead, it floated above him, turning slowly, like it had its own rules of gravity. Its golden edges were dim, flickering like a dying ember, as if it had been waiting for something—or someone.
Me.
The second my footstep echoed into the chamber, the Empty King stirred.
He rose slowly, deliberately, one heavy step at a time. His sword scraped against the stone, shrieking like metal on bone. The dust in the air shifted unnaturally, curling as if the very room was holding its breath.
And then his voice came—low, distant, and echoing from everywhere at once.
“You stand before the throne.”A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
His crown shuddered, tilting slightly, almost like it had just noticed me, too.
“Prove yourself worthy…
…or be forgotten to the annals of history like the rest.”
A breath slipped free, shaky and uncertain, as my fingers tightened around the daggers at my waist.
“Yeah, see, I was kinda hoping we could skip the whole ‘deadly final trial’ thing,” I muttered. “Maybe a friendly handshake? No? Okay. Worth a shot.”
 
The Empty King moved toward me.
Not fast. Not frantic. But with the unstoppable presence of something ancient, something that had fought and won countless times before.
His initial steps sent a tremor through the floor, kicking up dust in thick plumes as the cracks in the stone spread beneath his feet. His rusted greatsword—easily twice my size—dragged along the floor for a heartbeat before he lifted it, shifting into a stance that had probably once belonged to a king who led armies.
Then he swung.
I barely had time to react.
The blade came down in a heavy, measured arc, like watching the sky fall in horrifying slow motion. My instincts screamed at me to move, and I threw myself to the side just as the sword slammed into the ground.
The impact was a shockwave.
Not just from the force of the hit, but from something worse. Something echoing.
The air itself rippled, and a delayed aftershock slammed outward from where the blade had struck. A second hit.
My feet hadn’t even touched the ground from my dodge before I was sent flying sideways, the force tearing through my ribs like an invisible hammer.
I hit the floor hard, rolling over my shoulder to kill momentum. My breath came fast and ragged. Too slow.
The Empty King didn’t let up.
He took another step forward, lifting his sword again, his movements measured and precise. Every action was deliberate, each one carrying the weight of a warrior who had done this a thousand times before.
And through it all—the whispers.
They stirred in the air, not words, not warnings—just memories. The presence of those who had failed before me, hanging thick in the silence between the strikes.
I gritted my teeth. Focus.
I wasn’t winning this fight with strength. That was obvious.
Speed. Anticipation. Timing.
That was the key.
The next strike came, and this time, I moved before the blade even fell.
I ducked right, twisting past the slow, deadly arc of the sword—but I didn’t stop moving.
I already knew what was coming.
The moment the blade slammed into the floor, I kicked off, dodging again, just as the aftershock pulsed outward, splitting the ground where I’d just been standing.
My heart hammered against my ribs. That was it. That was the pattern.
I adjusted my grip on my daggers.
The King’s armor was thick, impenetrable—but his joints weren’t.
I waited for the next swing.
The second he lifted his blade, I moved, darting low, closing the gap in a flash of motion.
My dagger slashed across the back of his knee joint.
Metal screeched. The Empty King staggered.
Not much. But enough.
A breath escaped my lips, almost a laugh.
“Alright, your majesty,” I called out, flicking dust from my blade.
“Let’s see if I can make you bow.”
 

I kept moving.
That was the trick—never stop moving.
The King fought like a landslide, a collapsing building, an avalanche that crushed everything in its path. Slow, yes—but inevitable. If I stopped, if I slipped up, I was dead.
But now? Now I understood.
I ducked and dodged before the blade ever hit, predicting the shockwaves, slipping past the destruction by fractions of a second.
The Empty King swung again, his rusted blade tearing through the air. I was already moving—sliding low, pivoting around his stance. My daggers flashed out, slicing at the exposed joints in his armor.
One step at a time.
Every strike staggered him just a little more. Every cut slowed him down, just barely.
His armor was too thick, too ancient to break through directly, but that didn’t matter. If I couldn’t bring him down with brute force, I’d bring him down with precision.
His swings came harder, and now they were adapting.
He was learning.
And I didn’t care.
Because I was learning faster.
He lifted his sword again, and this time, I did something stupid.
I ran straight at him.
At the last second, I jumped, vaulting off his outstretched forearm, leaping over his shoulder, landing in a roll behind him. My blade slashed at his knee mid-air, carving into the gap where armor met flesh.
The Empty King buckled.
His sword slammed into the floor at an awkward angle, embedding deep in the stone, and for a single moment—I saw it.
An opening.
I twisted my grip on my daggers, pivoted on my heel—and drove both blades into the back of his leg.
The Empty King fell to one knee.
The whispers in the air shifted, no longer distant but rushing forward, thick and suffocating, voices murmuring from the past.
The throne room itself seemed to inhale.
Then—he stopped.
He didn’t try to rise.
Didn’t lift his sword.
Didn’t move.
Instead, he stared at me.
The red glow of his nameplate flickered. His floating crown tilted slightly, as if it, too, was watching. I hesitated, my breath ragged, my daggers trembling in my grip.
Why wasn’t he attacking?
The silence dragged on.
The Empty King stared.
And for the first time since stepping into this dungeon, a new kind of fear curled in my chest.
Something was happening.
Something I didn’t understand.

He remained still, his massive form looming in eerie silence. His crown hovered just above his head, flickering, pulsing with some unseen force.
Then he spoke.
Not in a whisper. Not in the distant echoes of the forgotten. But in a voice as deep as a cavern, ancient as the stones of a forgotten castle, and cold as the grave, he spoke.
“You are not the first to stand before me.”
His tone was measured, but behind it, something stirred. Not rage. Not hatred. But judgment.
“Many have come. Many have fought. And many have fallen.”
His sword shifted, the metal groaning as he adjusted his grip, but he did not rise. Not yet.
“But you… you have not crumbled under the weight of history.”
The dust in the air twisted violently, reacting to the gravity of his words.
“You are fast. Clever. You see the patterns, feel the echoes of those before you.” His crown flickered. “A lesser opponent would already be dead.”
His gauntleted hand tightened around the hilt of his rusted greatsword.
“But know this, Chosen. You are not victorious. You are not safe. You are simply… not yet dead.”
He lifted his head and the red glow in his eyes burned even brighter.
“And I will not allow you to leave here unscarred.”
The room seemed to breathe, the very walls pressing in, waiting for the inevitable final clash.
Then—something changed.
A ripple in the air. A presence I hadn’t felt since the last room.
A shadow curled at my feet.
I turned, pulse spiking, my breath catching in my throat.
It was back.
My shadow.
But this time… The Empty King saw it too.
His head tilted slightly, his fingers loosening around his blade. He was watching—curious. Uncertain.
Even the boss himself was confused.
The shadow rose from the ground, taking shape beside me, still shifting, still flickering like it barely had the right to exist in this world.
But this time… something about it was different.
It turned to me.
And then, in a voice lower, smoother, and more confident than I ever remembered, it spoke.
“You can’t beat him alone.”
I blinked, staring into its black eyes. “What?”
The shadow’s form solidified just slightly, its grin sharp, knowing.
“Let me help you.”
The Empty King’s crown flickered again.
For the first time in centuries… he did not understand what he was looking at.
 
The King moved.
One second he was kneeling. The next, his sword tore free from the stone, a thunderous force exploding from the impact.
His nameplate flared—brighter, deeper, pulsing crimson.
[ENRAGED]
Oh. Oh no.
His next swing nearly took my head off.
I twisted away, barely fast enough, the blade singing through the air with enough force that the wind alone sent me stumbling.
His movements weren’t slow anymore. They were fast. Terrifyingly fast.
His sword came down again—a diagonal slash meant to carve me in half. I rolled, hit the ground hard, came up gasping just in time to see the next attack already coming.
No time to counter. No time to breathe.
His swings were relentless now, faster, stronger, crueler. The aftershocks didn’t just crack the stone beneath us—they shattered it.
If I stopped moving for even a second, I was dead.
I wasn’t fighting anymore.
I was surviving.
But I wasn’t alone.
From the shadows beyond the carnage, my shadow hovered—watching.
Then it attacked.
A dagger sliced through the air, embedding itself deep into the Empty King’s shoulder. Then another. And another.
The King staggered. Just barely.
I saw it then—the flicker of his health bar.
A tiny chip in the red.
Then another.
The shadow’s attacks didn’t stop. It hovered just beyond the King’s reach, its form shifting, moving like liquid darkness, daggers of pure shade materializing endlessly in its hands.
Throw. Hit. Flicker of damage.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I didn’t have time to help. I didn’t have time to do anything but dodge.
The Empty King was still on me, still cutting through the space I had occupied moments before, each strike carrying the force of a mountain collapsing in on itself.
I rolled under a horizontal slash, nearly tripping over my own feet, dust whipping into my eyes.
Another dagger slammed into the King’s leg.
Another into his back.
His health bar continued to drop—slowly, steadily.
I barely dodged another swing.
My heart was hammering. My lungs burned. My body was on the verge of collapse.
Then—finally—he faltered.
The Empty King staggered backward.
His sword dragged against the floor. His crown flickered violently.
He dropped to one knee.
The dungeon fell silent.
The whispers stopped.
The air itself seemed to still.
I stood there, breath ragged, hands shaking, as the Empty King lifted his head and stared at me.
Waiting.
 
I stared, daggers shaking in my grip, lungs burning from the relentless sprint for survival. My legs felt like lead, my heartbeat pounding so hard in my ears that for a moment, I barely noticed the silence.
The Empty King was on his knees.
His health bar was flickering, but the system didn’t give me a victory message. No triumphant fanfare. No notification flashing across my vision telling me I had won.
Instead, two choices appeared.
 
[Strike him down.]
 
[Step back and wait.]
 
I swallowed hard.
The correct answer should’ve been obvious, right? Kill the boss. Finish the fight. Get the reward. That was how dungeons worked. That was how the system worked.
But… something about this moment felt wrong.
I looked at my shadow. It had fought alongside me. Helped me survive. But now? It was still. Silent. No knowing smirk, no whispered temptation. Just watching. Waiting to see what I would do. Waiting to see what kind of man I was.
I turned back to the Empty King.
His crown still hovered above him, but it was lower now, flickering weakly, barely clinging to its orbit.
Slowly, cautiously, I stepped back.
The moment I did, the crown drifted downward—for the first time since I’d entered the throne room, it settled on his head.
The Empty King let out a long, slow breath.
Not in pain. Not in anger. In relief.
He closed his eyes.
His form began to fade, his armor crumbled away, his greatsword rusted into dust, vanishing like an echo of something that had been waiting far too long to finally end.
 
The Empty King was gone.
His crown, his sword, his presence—vanished. Nothing remained of him but silence, stretching out into the cavernous throne room like an empty breath.
Then, the throne itself began to dissolve.
Not like stone crumbling to dust.
It unmade itself.
The cracks in the walls deepened, the banners disintegrated into ash, the towering pillars fractured and collapsed without a sound. The very air warped, the edges of the room pulling away as if something unseen was peeling it apart.
And then—the floor vanished beneath me.
I had just enough time to suck in a breath before I was falling.
Not the stomach-dropping plummet of gravity taking hold. This was weightless. Endless. Like I had stepped beyond the bounds of the dungeon itself and into something that had no walls, no floor, no rules.
The whispers returned.
Not chaotic. Not frenzied.
Soft. Gentle.
A voice without form, wrapped around me as I fell through the void.
“The throne remembers your name.”
The words pressed into my mind, more felt than heard. A promise? A warning?
I had no time to consider.
Because the nothingness lurched.
And then—impact. I hit solid ground.
Hard.
I gasped, pain jolting up my spine, my body hitting what felt like cold stone. My vision swam, my lungs fighting for breath, and for a few horrible seconds, I couldn’t tell which way was up.
Then—the world settled.
 
The dungeon was gone and I was somewhere else entirely.