A brittle wind howled through the shattered temple, sending dust spiraling into the dim glow of the moonlight. The grand hall, once a place of worship, lay in ruin. The once-pristine marble pillars were cracked, their once-golden inscriptions dulled by centuries of neglect. Statues of Zalmor, the god of death and souls, had been defaced, their hollow eyes staring down at the wreckage. The air carried the scent of decay, though no flesh remained to rot.

  In the heart of the ruined temple, upon the crumbled remains of an altar, a skeletal figure stirred.

  The sound of grinding bone echoed as Ile Mortis moved for the first time in centuries. His fingers, thin and clawed, twitched against the stone surface. Dust fell from his form as he rose, vertebrae cracking into place with each slow, deliberate motion. The dim light of the temple cast eerie shadows upon his skull, the empty sockets where his eyes once resided glowing with a faint, ghostly ember.

  Silence followed. For a long moment, he did not move. He simply existed.

  Then, slowly, his bony fingers wrapped around the hilt of the cursed sword embedded in his chest. The blade, long rusted yet still humming with malevolent energy, shuddered at his touch. The moment he pulled it free, a soundless scream filled the void around him. The blade trembled violently, as if in protest, but Ile held firm. His grip was that of a king, unyielding and absolute.

  The weapon pulsed, its presence clawing at his mind, but he did not waver.

  "I still live," he mused aloud, his voice a dry rasp, more an exhalation than speech.

  No, not alive. Not truly. But existence had been returned to him. He tilted his skull slightly, gazing upon the cursed weapon in his grasp. The blade had no name, for names gave things meaning, and this weapon had long since lost its own. It was a thing of hate, of betrayal, and it had bound itself to him as much as he had bound himself to it.

  The temple had been abandoned for ages. Once, it had been filled with priests who served Zalmor, who whispered prayers to the god of death and guided the dying to their rightful place. Now, only the wind answered him. The city beyond these walls—was it still standing? Did his empire still reign?

  He stepped down from the altar, his footfalls clicking against the cracked stone floor. He felt no pain, no fatigue, no weariness of the soul. Only silence. And yet, something deep within him stirred—a flicker of anger, a sliver of amusement.

  How long had it been?

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  His gaze drifted across the ruined temple, and in the darkness, he spotted a fragmented mirror, its glass broken yet still reflecting the remnants of what once was. He approached it, his skeletal form emerging in pieces within the shattered shards.

  Gone was the flesh of a tyrant king, the cruel eyes that once burned with conquest. All that remained was bone, stripped of its regal adornments, and yet... he did not mourn it. If anything, he felt a strange sense of liberation. There was no pain. No hunger. No fear. Only the echo of what had been and the eternity of what was to come.

  A chuckle rattled through his ribs. "They will be so disappointed," he murmured to the empty temple.

  The world had thought him dead. Perhaps it had even celebrated his downfall. But death had not claimed him fully. The gods had seen fit to return him, to cast him once more into the realm of the living—or what little remained of him. He did not yet know why, nor did he care.

  What mattered was that he still existed.

  And if the world had forgotten him, then he would remind it.

  A sudden whisper slithered through the temple ruins, curling around him like unseen fingers. It was not the wind this time, but something else—something old.

  "You should not be here."

  Ile did not flinch. His skull tilted slightly as he turned to face the darkness.

  "Neither should you," he replied, his voice carrying no fear, only mild amusement.

  A figure emerged from the shadows, draped in black, their form barely distinct from the gloom that surrounded them. Their feet left dark imprints upon the stone, as if reality itself recoiled from their touch. A Beggar of Zalmor. A servant of death itself.

  The Beggar did not move closer, nor did they raise a hand in threat. They simply stood, their tattered cloak shifting like liquid shadow. "Your soul was claimed," they whispered, their voice distant, layered, as if spoken from the depths of many voices at once. "Your fate was sealed. And yet, here you stand."

  Ile Mortis exhaled, a soundless gesture. "Tell Zalmor that I am grateful," he said, tapping a skeletal finger against his temple. "Though I doubt he did this out of kindness."

  The Beggar did not respond immediately. Instead, they studied him, head tilted as if considering something unseen. "This world has long since moved beyond you, Mad King. You are but a specter of a forgotten era."

  "Then let it remember," Ile said, his skull grinning wider. "I was a great man, you know."

  The Beggar made no comment. Instead, they took a step backward, their form beginning to dissolve into the darkness that had birthed them. "Do not mistake this for mercy, Ile Mortis. The dead do not belong among the living. You will find no peace."

  "Good," Ile rasped, turning away. "I never desired peace."

  And with that, the Beggar vanished, leaving only silence in their wake.

  Ile stood alone once more, the cursed blade humming faintly in his grasp. He cast one final glance at the ruined temple, at the shattered remnants of the past that had once been his. Then, with slow, steady steps, he strode toward the grand doors, forcing them open with a resounding creak.

  Beyond them lay the world.

  The empire he once ruled was gone. His people had turned to dust. His enemies had perished in the wake of time.

  But the world still lived.

  And he would walk it once more.

  With the cursed blade in hand and eternity before him, Ile Mortis stepped forward, leaving the ruins of his past behind.

  The Mad King had risen.