Abyssal Sovereign: The Demon's Dominion

"I'm back, Master," Sword Demon said as he appeared, a small golden dragon curled lazily around his neck.

The dragon's head was bowed, intimidated by everyone present—everyone except Nephem. Their aura was close in level.

Void gave a faint smile as Sword Demon took his seat.

"So, my slaves," Void said, his tone playful yet commanding. "How do you want the recruitment to go?"

Ideas were immediately thrown out like sparks.

"How about this?" Nephem began. "The first trial should be a battle against themselves—same strength, same thoughts—essentially, they fight their clone. Only by devouring the clone can they win."

Everyone considered the suggestion.

"But what if the clone wins?" Nix interjected. "In that case, the clone should gain all the memories and soul of the original and become them completely."

All eyes turned to Alayot.

"Don't worry, I can manage that," Alayot assured them. His control over soul law made it possible.

"I'll create a space-time domain for this," Linkir added. "One week outside will equal a year inside."

Nods of agreement followed.

"That settles the first trial. As for the second," Sword Demon said, a subtle smile curling his lips, "they'll be forced to relive their past—every regret, mistake, pain, and failure—for an entire year. Anyone who breaks through will progress."

A low chuckle rippled through the group.

"Perfect," Nix said.

"Same time flow?" Nephem asked.

Linkir nodded.

"Then for the third trial…" Linkir's voice darkened. "Let them see their loved ones—family, friends, lovers—and be forced into a decision: save them and die, or let them die and live on."

A silent chill fell over the room. That idea… it was brutal.

But no one opposed it. Linkir, the first slave of Void, was always the most ruthless. Her suggestion was cruel, but everyone knew it was exactly what they needed.

"Another week?" Nix asked again.

Linkir nodded.

"And finally," Alayot spoke up, "they'll be grouped into factions and forced to fight to the death. The winner earns the right to join the Dreadborne Organization."

The room buzzed with energy as they refined the idea. After a short discussion, the format was finalized.

"Each group will consist of one hundred candidates," Sword Demon declared. "They fight until only one remains. That survivor advances to become one of us."

"Master, we've finalized the recruitment trials," Linkir reported.

Void smiled from his throne. He had listened to them from the beginning, watching quietly as they discussed and built the trial. This was not just a test for the recruits, but for his generals as well. And they passed.

They had grown. They were no longer mindless followers. They were truly becoming his equals in vision and ruthlessness.

Void reflected for a moment. The Aeron transformation truly twisted one's soul. Many of his slaves were once gentle or noble, but the moment they became Aeron, their perspectives changed—completely.

He rose from his throne and spoke, his voice echoing through the chamber.

"The trial will consist of four stages," he announced. "The first is the Mirror of Flesh. They fight their perfect clone—same thoughts, same skills. Only one walks away."

"The second is the Pit of the Past. Every regret, mistake, pain, and guilt they've buried will rise again. They must shatter those chains or die."

"The third is Chains of Loyalty. Emotions for loved ones must be severed. They will choose—kill to advance or refuse and perish. Sentiment is weakness. They must overcome it, as I taught you all."

"The final trial is the Hundredfold Massacre. In groups of a hundred, they will fight in a brutal free-for-all. Allies, enemies, lovers—it won't matter. Only one survives. Those few will become Dreadborne."

Void smiled again, satisfied.

"Excellent," he said. "You didn't disappoint me. You all will oversee the trials. Your combined powers are enough. From now on, no one outside of you—my generals—may see me. They will know only of a higher power above you."

Everyone bowed, understanding his intent.

"I've established a ranking system," Void continued. "Above all is you—my core. Below that, commanders will be selected. Each must be at peak galaxy level. Only the strongest among them may meet with you directly. They will lead the organization. You will shape the branches however you wish. I will withdraw for now and observe. I cannot move recklessly anymore."

With that, Void vanished.

The room grew quiet for a moment. Then, a calm yet authoritative voice broke the silence.

"Based on my power, the scale will be immense," Linkir said, taking charge naturally. "We'll create a fragmented realm and warp reality to our needs. Alayot will anchor their souls and form flawless clones. Watch out for key figures—especially those with uncertain morality, like the so-called 'Son of the Planes.' If they survive, assign them high ranks."

She looked to each of her comrades.

"Alayot and I will oversee the branches. Nix, you'll manage the creation of distinct space-time domains for each trial. Leave Junnie to rest—her wounds haven't healed."

She turned, her cold aura pulsing.

"Let's begin."

Everyone rose.

"Dreadborne—born from chaos, forged in chaos… we return all to chaos," Linkir said, her voice emotionless and chilling.

The others echoed her words. Their power surged, and with it, the creation of the trial began.

Meanwhile, outside their domain, the world remained ignorant of what was coming.

Many were excited to join this new force—hoping for strength, influence, or a sense of belonging. Other organizations prepared spies. Investigators moved in secret. Motives varied.

But none of them were ready.

None could predict the horror of the Dreadborne trial.

How many would survive? How many would remain sane?

*******

Meanwhile, in the Federation…

A teenager stepped into his house, dropped his bag on a chair, and joined his parents at the dinner table.

As he ate, he spoke calmly, "Mom, Dad… I want to join that new organization."

Both parents froze.

"Dared, you can't be serious. That group… even our top brass can't compare," his father said, troubled.

"I was never meant to be an assassin," Dared said, his voice distant. "I crave destruction, not silence. This group suits me."

His mother tried to soothe the tension. "Let him go. We'll support him. But Dared… be careful. I feel that power is far more than it seems."

Dared nodded. "Alright, Mom. Dad."

Then he stood and glanced back at them with a cold gaze.

"Give up on the Assassin Organization. You've grown weak."

Without another word, he left for his room.

The father sighed and turned to his wife.

"He'll be fine," she said softly.

"I hope so…" the man replied, his eyes shadowed by memories.

He remembered the golden era of the Assassin Organization, when they were feared in the dark. It all ended on one mission—to kill a boy. They failed.

Overnight, they were crushed.

That boy… would be around the same age as Dared now.

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