Marvel: Sin Lord

Inarius's mind swam with disjointed visions, his consciousness flickering like a flame in a storm. His body felt heavy, weighed down by something cold and unyielding, as if invisible chains bound him.

Through the haze, flashes of a scene began to take shape.

Figures cloaked in darkness surrounded him, their forms blending into the oppressive shadows. They moved silently, their long, tattered robes flowing like living smoke. Their faces—or rather, the voids where their faces should have been—were completely hidden beneath deep, impenetrable hoods.

Each figure carried a short, razor-sharp blade, its edge gleaming with an unnatural, cold light. The sight of the blades made Inarius's skin crawl. The way they moved was mechanical, deliberate, and devoid of life, like reapers intent on fulfilling their grim purpose.

They dragged him through the hellish landscape, their grasp like iron clamps on his arms. The volcanic mountain loomed in the distance, but it was the towering spire beside it that drew his unwilling gaze.

The tower stretched endlessly into the fiery sky, its black surface jagged and menacing. At its peak, the flaming eye burned brighter than anything else in this forsaken realm. The eye's gaze seemed to pierce through everything, its malevolent presence an inescapable force that gnawed at Inarius's mind.

Before he could process what was happening, he found himself dragged inside the base of the tower. The air grew colder, the suffocating heat of the outside world replaced by an eerie stillness. The cloaked figures moved in eerie unison, their blades gleaming faintly in the dim, flickering light of the torches that lined the stone walls.

The hallways were impossibly vast, carved from black stone and adorned with grotesque reliefs of suffering souls and writhing demons. Their screams seemed to echo faintly in the distance, a constant reminder of the torment this place harbored.

They reached an enormous set of doors, each adorned with skulls and bones that seemed to shift and twitch under Inarius's blurry gaze. The figures pushed the doors open without effort, revealing a vast throne room.

The chamber was consumed by flames, their glow casting long, flickering shadows across the jagged walls. The air smelled of ash and decay, thick with the stench of death.

At the far end of the room, atop a massive throne carved from black stone and adorned with the skeletal remains of countless victims, sat a being that exuded an overwhelming aura of darkness.

The figure was cloaked in a flowing black robe, its form entirely hidden except for the jagged, spiked armor that adorned its shoulders and chest. The pauldrons looked like they were forged in the depths of hell itself, each spike sharp enough to pierce through steel. Around its neck hung a necklace of skulls, their empty sockets seeming to stare directly at Inarius.

The face—or what should have been a face—was nothing but a void. A hollow, impenetrable darkness where a visage should have been.

Inarius felt the strength drain from his legs as he was thrown unceremoniously to the ground. The impact rattled his bones, but his attention was fixed solely on the figure before him.

The being leaned forward slightly, its presence alone suffocating, as if the weight of a thousand sins pressed down on him.

"Welcome, my son," the being spoke, its voice a cacophony of countless others. It was deep and resonant, each word vibrating through Inarius's very soul. The words were spoken with an unnatural harmony, as though a hundred thousand voices whispered in unison, each laced with menace.

Inarius tried to speak, but no words came out. His throat felt dry, and his mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear.

The being on the throne did not wait for a response. It simply loomed, its gaze—or whatever it used to see—fixed on him, as if waiting for something.

And then, everything went dark again.