Semua Bab The Immortal King: Lord of the Dark Realm: Bab 1 - Bab 10

The year was 2096 — a world draped in neon haze and digital chatter. Hover-buses whispered down the sky lanes, gliding silently above magnetic rails. Billboards breathed and blinked, changing images like thoughts, selling dreams that no one could afford anymore. Even the air smelled synthetic — a cocktail of ozone, engine mist, and recycled rain. At the edge of a half-collapsed bus stand, a man sat — clothes rumpled, hair unwashed, eyes heavy with the kind of pain that comes from living too long. In one hand, he clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey; in the other, a dying cigarette that barely glowed through the drizzle. That man is me. My name — or at least the one I go by this century — is Callum Vire. I've had many names through the centuries, most long forgotten, some carved on tombstones that still bear my face. But these days, most people just call me The Freak. I guess that's my new name for the next hundred years. I took another swig from the bottle, the warmth doing l

Darkness.A silence so vast it felt alive.For a moment — or maybe forever — I was certain I no longer existed.No breath. No pain. No body to hold it.Just thought, floating in a place that wasn't a place at all.Then came the sound — faint, distant — like a thousand whispers woven into wind.They didn't speak words. They remembered them.When I opened my eyes, I expected light — the kind they say greets the dead, warm and blinding, the gates of heaven opening wide.But what I found instead was… blue.A deep, endless blue.Not the blue of oceans or skies, but something heavier. Smoky. Cold.It rolled across the ground in slow waves, swallowing the horizon until it was all there was.I was standing — though I couldn't say how — on what looked like ground, yet it gave beneath my boots like mist.No sun, no moon, no stars.Just a horizon that refused to end.I turned in slow circles, my voice breaking the stillness."Hello?"No answer.The echo came back late, softer, almost thoughtful

I stood frozen in the middle of the street, my chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.The building in front of me blurred through the sting of tears.That voice. That cursed voice.It lied to me.It promised me a chance to avenge my wife's death.A chance to save my daughters.But all I found was loss. The world had moved on without me, my daughters turned to legends, and I… I was nothing but a ghost time had forgotten.A shout broke through my thoughts."Hey! You there!"The same foreman from the wine house stomped toward me, rag in hand, barking orders like an angry hound. "If you're done daydreaming, there's work to be done! Barrels don't roll themselves!"Before I could speak, a sudden commotion erupted at the far end of the street — the clatter of hooves, boots, and metal against stone.Soldiers.They stormed the yard without warning, banners flapping with the crest of some unseen king.The workers froze — then chaos.Barrels overturned, spilling wine like blood across the co

Misery has a sound — the slow echo of years that refuse to end. I lived through it all. I built homes, made families, raised children who carried my eyes and smile — and buried every one of them. I learned not to grow too close, not to hope too much. Because every time I did, time would steal them away. They aged. I didn’t. They died. I couldn’t. After a while, even grief lost its sharpness. It became something quieter — a dull ache that hummed beneath the years, like an old wound that never healed but never quite hurt enough to make you scream anymore. I watched wives wither beside me, friends fade into dust, children grow old and forget the man who never changed. After a while, I stopped trying to explain. I just left — again and again — because staying hurt too much. And yet… I kept looking for an end. That was me in the Battle of Waterloo, 1815 — walking through the smoke and fire as bullets tore the air around me. Men screamed, cannons thundered, bodies fell like rain. I

They said it would take three years.Bu it took eight years.Eight years of equations, prototypes, failures, and cautious optimism. Eight years that — for someone who had lived through centuries — felt longer than any eternity before it.For me, immortality had always been a curse measured in heartbeats, not years. But this wait… this wait taught me something new. Hope, when stretched too long, begins to hurt.And yet, on that morning, as the alarms hummed softly through the Arcadia Complex, I realized the hurt didn’t matter anymore.Because the machine was ready.They’d built it in the heart of the facility — a vast chamber the size of a cathedral, walls lined with reinforced glass and glowing data veins that pulsed like arteries. The air buzzed with energy, almost alive.At the center stood the machine itself — the Chronos Gate.It wasn’t what I expected. No grand sphere or bulky metal box like in the old holo-movies. It was graceful — a massive circular frame of silver and black, s