In a chasm deeper than any world should allow, where even light dared not breathe, chaos thrived.
Screams.
Agonizing. Human. Inhuman. Some cried in forgotten tongues, some howled with monstrous voices. Their bodies were torn apart, souls shattered, swallowed by the unrelenting shadow that consumed everything.
At the center of it stood Zhel-Vorah.
A god, a monster, a tragedy.
He walked slowly through the writhing mass of beings from countless realities—heroes, tyrants, beasts, immortals. He crushed them all.
Each kill fed his existence. And with every soul devoured, a memory, a power, a voice entered his mind.
He didn't scream. He never screamed.
Instead, he thought.
"So many voices… and still, I hear only one."
His own.
And then, as the final scream faded into silence, Zhel-Vorah closed his eyes.
The void grew still.
His thoughts slipped backward—into a time before the devouring.
Before the darkness.
Long ago, in the sacred realm of the Silver City, the dragons ruled with pride and divine power. Their gleaming towers were cast from stardust and celestial ore, forged by the breath of their father—Solmiras, the True Dragon God.
Solmiras had shaped not only a world but a civilization. From his divine essence, he created not just bodies—but legacies. His power was divided, seeded across bloodlines, artifacts, and living vessels destined to awaken shards of his authority.
Zhel-Vorah was one of them.
Born to the noblest family within Silver City, he should have been revered.
But he was not.
The weakest.
That's what they called him.
His brothers—four dragons with scales like divine armor and claws that could tear time itself—looked down on him. They mocked him. Beat him. Cast him aside like a cracked scale.
His mother, once a holy figure, treated him worse than a stray. Her punishments were not discipline—they were sport.
"You are garbage," she told him once. "A mistake. A burden that should've never been hatched."
Yet Zhel-Vorah, in his innocence, never hated them.
He helped the injured. Spared his attackers. Prayed for those who cursed him.
But fate is never kind to the gentle in kingdoms ruled by might.
One day, he and his four brothers were chosen to compete for the title of Kravlir—The Requiem, a divine power in the dragon society.
It was a battle of honor. A ceremonial trial.
At least, that's what Zhel-Vorah believed.
When the match began, his brothers did not hesitate. They descended upon him like wolves, claws sharp, spells roaring, each trying to land the final blow that would remove the 'shame' of his existence.
Zhel-Vorah could barely stand.
His scales cracked. Wings torn. Blood poured from his mouth.
He knelt, trembling.
Then—the moment that changed him forever.
His eldest brother, eyes ablaze with superiority, raised his sword to strike the final blow.
And Zhel-Vorah, in a flash of panic, drove his own blade forward.
It struck his brother's heart.
The arena froze. The gods who watched gasped. It was not within the rules to kill.
Zhel-Vorah hadn't meant to.
But his brother fell—dead.
And in that instant, something inside Zhel-Vorah… shifted.
He felt warmth. Power. A surge of divine energy, flowing from the corpse into his veins.
The whispers of Solmiras. A flicker of draconic might.
And a thought echoed in his soul:
"I grow stronger… by killing."
The match ended.
But the Silver City declared him a criminal.
They didn't care why he did it. They didn't care how.
He had killed a god-blooded prince.
He was dragged through the sacred streets in chains. His family spat on him. The citizens screamed for execution.
They called him "Devourer."
They buried him in the pit of exile.
But down there… he began to listen to the whisper of power, the gift Solmiras never intended him to unlock.
The darkness of the prison cell felt eternal, as if time itself refused to acknowledge his existence.
Chains. Cold, unyielding chains wrapped around his limbs. Zhel-Vorah, the weak dragon who killed his brother, lay there, battered, bloodied, and broken.
He had been beaten mercilessly, tormented without end. His body had become a canvas of scars—most of them inflicted by the hands of the one who should have cared for him the most his mother.
She stood before him now, her cruel eyes gleaming with contempt. With a vicious laugh, she raised her hand, and with the swiftness of a serpent, she tore at his scales. The pain that erupted from his body was unimaginable, a burning, ripping agony that threatened to consume his very soul.
"Worthless. You are nothing," she hissed as she pulled another scale from his back, the blood spilling like crimson rivers.
Zhel-Vorah gritted his teeth, refusing to scream, refusing to show weakness. But as she splashed water onto his open wounds, the true torture began. The water—laced with dark, venomous ingredients known only to the highest torturers in the kingdom—coursed into his flesh. The pain was like a thousand needles, each one digging deeper into his very soul.
He couldn't breathe. The agony choked him, gnawed at him, as his vision swam and blurred.
But then, his mother turned away, her expression one of boredom as she gave a dismissive gesture. "Pathetic. I grow tired of you."
She left without a second glance, the door slamming behind her with finality.
Zhel-Vorah lay there, shaking, his body trembling from the pain. But there was no escape, no hope. Not anymore.
Or so he thought.
A soft footstep echoed in the silence of the cold, stone prison. A figure approached, moving with graceful steps that contrasted the heavy air of despair.
A woman.
Blonde hair. A soft smile.
Zhel-Vorah's heart lurched in confusion, his blurred vision focusing on her. This woman… he recognized her. It was the one who had always shown him kindness, the one who had never looked at him with disdain. The one who had whispered words of comfort when the world seemed to turn against him.
She had been his savior. His mother's maid.
But as she drew closer, something changed.
She bent down and, without a word, pressed her finger into his wounds. The pain flared again, even more excruciating than before. Zhel-Vorah gasped, but this time, there was no resistance, no defiance in him. His heart sank.
"You…" he began, his voice hoarse. "Why?"
The woman's expression hardened. "You really are pathetic, aren't you?" she murmured. "But it's not your fault. You've never known the truth."
Her words struck him like a thunderbolt, her tone carrying a finality he couldn't ignore.
"I never loved you, Zhel-Vorah," she continued, her cold eyes now devoid of any warmth. "I never cared for you. Not once."
A sickening realization crashed through Zhel-Vorah's mind.
"I was ordered by Solmiras… and your family." She stepped back, a cruel smirk curling on her lips. "I've tried to kill you countless times, but I never could. But this time... it will be different."
The pieces fell into place like a shattered mirror. Solmiras. His true creator. His family had betrayed him—every single one of them. The mother who had tortured him, the brothers who had abandoned him, the woman who had been his only semblance of care…
She had never been his ally. She was just another weapon wielded by his family to break him.
Zhel-Vorah felt the weight of his grief dissolve into a cold, searing rage. His heart, once tender and full of compassion, hardened like stone.
The chains—those cursed chains that had bound him—no longer mattered.
With a roar of fury, Zhel-Vorah shattered the chains that held him in place. The prison walls trembled as his power surged with an intensity he had never known before. The scent of blood, the taste of betrayal, and the surge of his inner strength awakened something ancient within him.
He looked at the woman one last time.
"You were never my mother," he whispered coldly. "And you will be the last of them to betray me."
Before she could react, Zhel-Vorah's claws shot out, striking with deadly precision. His hand wrapped around her throat as his grip tightened, and in a flash of blinding speed, he crushed her life out of her.
The woman's body went limp, her eyes wide in shock and disbelief as the last breath left her lungs.
Zhel-Vorah stood over her lifeless form, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
He had killed her.
The final thread of his humanity had been severed.
He stepped forward, his powerful form now free of the chains that had held him captive for so long. The prison door swung open, its ancient hinges groaning in protest. The path to freedom was clear.
As he walked out into the world, the cold, empty air of exile met his face. But for the first time in his life, he was no longer a prisoner.
"This world… will fall to me," Zhel-Vorah murmured under his breath.
And so, he left the prison, leaving behind the shattered remains of his past—his family, his kindness, his innocence.
He was no longer the weak dragon who had been tortured by his family.
He was Zhel-Vorah, the Devourer.
And he would consume everything.
Now, in the present, surrounded by the ashes of a thousand devoured souls, Zhel-Vorah opened his eyes.
They glowed with dark crimson fire.
"No more chains. No more mercy. I am the vessel of devouring."
"I am the lost power of Solmiras."
"And I will consume this world… one scream at a time."