An Isekai Story

There is no grandeur in the Throne of Refusal, only design. The chamber stretches wider than most cathedrals, yet bears no carvings, no banners, no scent of incense or spilled blood. It is as though it was carved by subtraction—like something was once here and was meticulously unmade. At its center lies a depression in the stone floor, a circular dais sunk four steps down. There, the throne waits. Not raised, but recessed. Not adorned, but jagged, sculpted from a single wedge of obsidian pulled straight from the mountain’s heart. It faces no audience chamber, no court—only a blank wall, as though the Unmaker turns his back on rule itself. On either side, fallen statues kneel in incomplete defeat: a crumbling warlord, a cracked angel, a melted sorcerer—all once-thrones themselves, now bowed to a throne that rules by refusing. There is no echo in the room, only stillness, and the air hums with something older than victory or loss. This is not a hall of power. It is a verdict.

The throne room yawns like a wound—walls sheer and colorless, the floor perfectly polished but pitted with ancient, unmendable scars. The throne itself is angular and imperfect, a blade of black stone half-buried in the floor like it fell, not was placed. Faint red cracks vein the distant ceiling, casting no light. Dust hangs in the air but never lands. Everything here seems paused—unfinished, but not waiting.