Section 1:The Hollow Stirs
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The air inside the Hollow had changed.
It wasn't just the silence anymore—it was the weight of it, the way the stone walls seemed to breathe, the way shadows no longer followed natural rules. The cries of the Crying Remains had dulled, but that brought no comfort. Instead, a deeper sound pulsed beneath the surface—like a heartbeat echoing through bones.
Aymelle stood still.
Her tear-shaped blade—still unfamiliar in her hand—trembled not from her grip, but from something else. Something ahead.
Beside her, Meyr knelt beside a pool of black water, fingers grazing the surface. "They're restless," he murmured. "Something's awakened them."
Aymelle's voice was low. "Because of me?"
"Perhaps," Meyr said, standing again. "Or perhaps because of him."
"Elwin," she said without thinking.
Meyr tilted his head, studying her. "You remember more now, don't you?"
She hesitated. "I remember enough. Enough to hurt."
A low, sorrowful moan echoed from the darkness ahead. Not a beast. Not human. Something between—a Crying Remain, awakened before its time.
Aymelle gripped her blade.
The path before them was cracked and uneven, littered with remnants of broken statues and offerings to gods long forgotten. The air was thick with a metallic scent, as if memory itself had begun to bleed.
"What's deeper inside?" she asked.
Meyr's face darkened. "The core. Where the oldest grief sleeps. Where the first tears fell. If you go further, Aymelle… you'll find the truth. But it won't be kind."
Aymelle turned toward the path, her voice quiet but resolute. "I don't need kindness."
"You'll find something else then," he said. "Purpose. Or ruin."
She looked down at the reflection in the black water.
A girl once lost.
Now sharpened by sorrow.
Behind her, the shadows began to shift.
Something ancient had taken notice of her.
And it was coming closer.
Section 2 :The One Who Does Not Forget
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Elwin knelt at the edge of the ruined chapel in Wushan.
His breath came in slow, steady pulses as his fingers traced the charred floor, where faint remnants of sacred runes shimmered beneath soot. This place, once untouched by grief, now bore the same echo of corruption as the Hollow.
"She was here," he whispered.
Behind him, the air shifted. He didn't need to turn—he already recognized the steps. The soft crunch of boots upon ash. The faint clink of silver rings.
"Still chasing ghosts, are we?" came a voice, smooth like oil over steel.
Elwin stood, turning slowly. "Kieran."
The man before him leaned against a fractured column, arms crossed, a mocking smile dancing on his lips. Kieran—the exile, the blade-for-hire who once studied under the same monastery as Elwin. But where Elwin sought salvation, Kieran sought control.
"You're following her into the Hollow?" Kieran asked, eyes glinting. "You always did love hopeless things."
Elwin's hand went to the hilt at his side. "You know what happened to her."
Kieran shrugged. "I know she changed. I know what that place does. You think you're going to pull her out? Save her?" He laughed, low and bitter. "The girl you remember might not exist anymore."
"I'll find her," Elwin said firmly. "Even if I have to become someone else to do it."
For a moment, the chapel fell into silence.
Then Kieran pushed off the column and walked forward, every step casual but calculated. "You're going to need more than resolve. The Crying Remains aren't just curses—they remember. And they're starting to gather."
Elwin frowned. "Gather?"
Kieran's smile vanished. "Something's wrong in the Hollow. They're not scattered anymore. Something… or someone… is pulling them together."
Elwin's blood ran cold. "Who?"
But Kieran was already turning away, his cloak fluttering like wings behind him. "Ask your little oracle when you find her. If she still knows your name."
Then he vanished into the ash, leaving Elwin alone with the silence.
But not for long.
A whisper stirred at the edges of his senses—a cry carried on cursed wind.
It was calling him forward.
Toward the Hollow.
Toward her.
Section 3 :The Echo That Devours
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The cavern pulsed.
Beneath Aymelle's bare feet, the ground felt like a heartbeat—a deep, ancient rhythm that was not her own. The walls shimmered with an iridescent sheen, veins of sorrow-imbued crystal throbbing with pale light. The deeper she ventured into the Source, the less the world obeyed natural laws.
She was no longer certain where "above" or "below" was.
Her breath fogged, not from cold, but from the heavy pressure of memory that lingered in the air.
These were not her memories.
They belonged to the dead.
"You came," a voice rasped—yet it did not echo. It absorbed.
Aymelle's body tensed. She turned slowly, her hand instinctively reaching for the small pendant at her neck.
From the blackened chasm ahead, a shape emerged.
It was not like the others she had faced.
It did not shamble. It did not groan.
It watched.
Tall, wrapped in fragments of mourning cloth, its face hidden behind a cracked porcelain mask etched with runes of grief. Tears flowed endlessly from its eyes—dark crimson, dripping into the stone and vanishing with a hiss.
"A Crying Remain…" Aymelle whispered. "But… more."
The being tilted its head.
"You bear the Mark. You woke the Waters. You dared to remember."
Aymelle's hand clenched. The waters of sorrow stirred behind her ribs, responding not with pain, but with rage. "I remember them all. I won't forget. I won't let this world forget."
The entity's mask split at the center—like a mouth unsealing in a screamless shriek.
Then it lunged.
Aymelle dodged, barely avoiding the slicing arc of a blade formed of fossilized bone. The impact cracked the ground behind her. Her tears welled—not from fear, but from defiance.
"Then weep, Oracle," the creature hissed, "Let your sorrow become your prison."
Aymelle's eyes blazed.
"No," she said softly. "Let my sorrow become my sword."
Her tears fell—four droplets that froze midair, then shot forward like crystal lances, striking the creature's arm and shattering one of the wrappings. It roared—not in pain, but in recognition.
She moved—not with grace, but with conviction.
Her arms swept like wings. The tears she shed no longer dripped but hovered, forming a ring around her—six, seven, nine orbs of condensed lamentation, each humming with resonance.
The Crying Remain circled her, whispering half-formed names and lost lullabies.
Aymelle met its gaze, breathing evenly. "You devoured the voices of the dead to make yourself stronger."
She stepped forward, and the tears followed.
"Now hear their answer."
She flung her arm outward.
The tears exploded.
Sound and sorrow, memory and vengeance, radiated in all directions—striking the chamber with a howl that shook even the deepest roots of the Hollow.
When the dust settled, the creature was on its knees.
Cracks spiderwebbed across its mask. One eye, once flowing crimson, now dripped silver.
"You... are not yet whole," it whispered. "But you will be... the end."
Then it crumbled—leaving behind no body, only a feather, soaked in her own tears.
Aymelle collapsed to her knees.
She had won.
But why, then, did her tears still fall?
Section 4 :The Keeper of Remembered Names
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The rain had ceased in Wushan, but Elwin's boots were still caked in dried mud and silence.
Every step through the outskirts of town felt heavier now—not from fatigue, but from the knowledge that Aymelle had passed through this very path. The locals spoke less now; their eyes darted to the ruins northward with quiet dread.
They knew what he sought.
And they feared it.
At the crumbling edge of a forgotten shrine—one untouched by prayer or offering in decades—Elwin found him.
A man—or what once was a man—sat cross-legged atop a heap of fragmented tombstones. His robes were threadbare, stitched with ivy. Feathers, bone charms, and brass trinkets hung from the branches above him, forming a curtain of whispered winds.
"You are late," the figure rasped.
Elwin approached cautiously. "Do I know you?"
"No," the man replied. "But the wind does. The stones do. And the names you carry in your heart... they scream."
Elwin narrowed his eyes. "You're the one they call the Keeper, aren't you?"
The figure smiled, showing teeth too sharp for a human. "I am what remains when memory refuses to die."
Elwin stepped forward, his hand near his blade. "Tell me where she went."
"Which she?" The Keeper's voice lowered to a whisper. "The girl with tears of silver? Or the one you failed to protect?"
Elwin froze.
"You're toying with me."
"No," said the Keeper. "I'm reminding you. Because you forget—heroes don't just save. They carry. They bleed memory until it devours them."
Elwin's fists clenched. "I don't have time for riddles."
"Then make time," the Keeper snapped, rising with unnatural grace. "The Oracle has awakened something deep within the Source. If you follow without understanding, you will drown in her sorrow… and your own."
The wind stirred.
One of the hanging charms broke loose—spinning in the air before gently landing in Elwin's palm.
It was a fragment of mirror glass.
In its reflection, Elwin saw not himself—but a thousand faces.
Men. Women. Children. Crying. Screaming. Praying.
All lost.
"The Cursed Hollow remembers," the Keeper whispered. "But memory is a blade. You must learn to wield it, not be cut by it."
Elwin's voice was low. "How?"
The Keeper pointed northward. Beyond the shrine, the mountains split open like a wound, revealing a narrow path shrouded in grey mist.
"Enter the Hollow's Breath. There you will find the Voice-Eater—the one who consumed the cries of those lost. Defeat it… and you may hear her again."
"Elwin," the Keeper added, just as he turned to go, "your grief is not weakness. It is your weapon. But only if you choose to let it cut."
Then the Keeper faded—like dust in a sunbeam, leaving behind only silence and the path.
Elwin did not hesitate.
With blade at his back and grief in his chest, he walked toward the mist.
Toward the place where even names forget themselves.