Dawn broke like a bruised eye over the mountains, casting long shadows across the shattered band of survivors. Smoke still clung to the sky from where distant fires burned—evidence of Seravos's chaos far behind, yet never far enough.
They had escaped the ambush.
But not unscathed.
Marcel sat at the edge of a shallow creek, hands still trembling. The Memory shard inside him pulsed weakly, but the whispers were quiet for now. A cold breeze skimmed the water, biting into his skin.
> [System Notice: Corruption Stabilized – 28.4%] Memory Usage Cooling. Mental recovery in progress...
He exhaled slowly, grateful for the silence. Every time he used Memory, it clawed at him—wanting more, wanting to become him. And every time, he came closer to losing himself.
Behind him, the camp stirred with tension.
Tarin helped reinforce the perimeter, driving sharpened sticks into the soil with grim focus. Lira handed out what remained of their rations, her face pale but composed. Veyla sat beside Emberjaw, tending to a burn across his flank. The beast had protected her during the breakout—again and again—until his hide smoked and peeled. Yet he hadn't retreated once.
They weren't just tired.
They were fraying.
A sudden shout drew everyone's attention.
Two C-rank survivors had come to blows over a skin of water. One pulled a blade. The other collapsed after a swift punch from a passing B-rank, who said nothing as he walked on, blood dripping from his knuckles.
Even kindness was gone now.
Then came the wind.
Faint but unnatural. It carried more than cold—it brought the scent of war, and with it… ash.
A flare burst in the distant sky—brilliant crimson against the gray.
"Ashveil," Lira said, standing quickly. "That's a distress flare."
They gathered quickly.
Another flare burst—this time golden.
"That's the Empire's color," Veyla murmured. "Reinforcements."
Tarin narrowed his eyes. "Or a cleanup force."
From the bluff, Marcel watched through narrowed eyes as the horizon pulsed.
Ashveil was dying.
Seravos had not pursued them—but his destruction lingered. From afar, they saw what remained of the once-mighty city: its outer walls blackened, watchtowers broken, and skies swarming with unnatural black birds that circled like carrion.
A rumble shook the earth. Columns of fire rose in the far distance—then green light, warped and wrong.
> [System Notice: Residual Aura – S-Class Spell Detected] Radius Interference Affecting Terrain Stability. Evacuation Recommended.
Below, Imperial banners fluttered in the wind—troops had finally arrived.
Hundreds of them.
Steel-shod and disciplined, marked with crimson and gold. War mages encircled Seravos's former foothold while siege beasts pulled arcane artillery into position. The Empire had come to save what remained—not of Ashveil, but the next city. A jewel of trade, the lifeblood of the region.
"They're not here for us," Said Tarin.
Marcel stayed silent.
He understood now. The Empire's strength came with pragmatism—and that meant sacrifices. Ashveil had been a buffer. Now, it was a grave.
Still, their path forward was unclear.
---
The camp remained quiet long after the second Imperial flare faded. Marcel stood at the bluff's edge, gaze locked on the distant skeleton of Ashveil. Its spires were gone, and smoke curled where homes had stood. Yet the Imperial war engine moved with surgical precision—sealing off streets, incinerating corpses, and casting runes that glowed blue and gold across entire districts.
"Any orders, Marcel?" Tarin asked behind him.
He turned slowly. "We move west."
"Into the scarlands?"
Marcel nodded. "Seravos's presence has weakened the terrain—beasts will avoid it, and the Empire won't pursue us there. For now, that's the safest road."
No one liked it. But no one argued.
They moved at dusk.
The group had thinned—some stayed behind to join the Empire, others slipped away quietly. Now, only twelve remained. Survivors, yes—but hardened, exhausted, and shaped by ruin.
As they passed a burnt field, Veyla walked beside Marcel, her voice low.
"What happens when Memory overtakes you?"
He didn't answer right away. The shard pulsed faintly.
"Then I'll rely on you to stop me."
Veyla didn't laugh. She just nodded.
A sudden pulse swept through the air—warm, golden. All of them stopped. Lira pressed her palm to the earth.
"A gate opened," she whispered. "Somewhere close."
They followed the feeling—down a broken hill path, over twisted trees—and found it.
A glowing ring carved into the stone of an old shrine, pulsing with stable mana. An Imperial summoning gate.
At its center stood a messenger—young, cloaked in silver and red. He held a sealed scroll, trembling slightly as they approached.
"Marcel Jekz?" he asked.
Marcel stepped forward. The man dropped to one knee and handed him the scroll.
"From Captain Velka of Mireholt. You're being summoned."
The messenger vanished in light.
Marcel broke the seal.
Inside were four words:
"Come. Before it's too late."
He passed it to the others.
"We'll rest," he said. "Then we head to Mireholt."
> [System Notice: Memory Pulse Calmed]
[Corruption Level: 27.2%]
[Warning: A-Class Entity Scouting Nearby Region]
Path selection:
[A] Mireholt – Potential Allies, Unknown Threats
[B] Western Wastes – Isolation, Wild Terrain
[C] Return to Ashveil Ruins – High Risk, Potential Secrets]
Marcel closed his eyes.
And made a choice.
---
The journey took five days.
Five days across the shattered edge of the 8th Domain, where the land still pulsed with the dying echoes of Seravos's presence. They avoided imperial patrols and beast-haunted ruins, slipping through ghost towns and scorched valleys where nothing moved—not even the wind. Marcel led in silence, the Memory shard dim but watchful, whispering only when the others slept.
They crossed into the 9th Domain through a temporary Imperial gate—anchored to an old shrine warped by shard energy. The teleportation was fast, brutal, and unkind. It was only their second time crossing space like that, and none of them were A-rank.
The nausea hit first.
Then the vertigo. Tarin stumbled forward, retching into dry grass. Lira clutched her head, blinking away static. Even Veyla collapsed to one knee, her breaths sharp. Only Marcel remained upright, though his vision was fractured—like staring through a cracked lens.
> [System Notice: Gate Traversal Complete]
Warning: Physical and mental imbalance detected. Calibrating sensory input…
[Estimated Recovery Time: 2 hours]
They emerged on the outskirts of Mireholt, the first stronghold of the 9th Domain, a city the can call home.
It was no ordinary city. It was a city they've shed their blood.
But even from here, they felt it.
A pressure in the air. Wrong. Twisted.
Seravos was far behind, still buried in the ruins of Ashveil. But his aura was not. It reached through the wound between domains like a claw. The S+ ranked entity had used the Memory shard as a beacon—and its connection to Marcel remained.
> [System Notice: Residual Aura Detected – Source: Seravos]
Estimated Domain Bleed: Moderate
Effect: Emotional Instability / Shadow Manifestations / Spatial Warping
Advise: Distance recommended
The Memory shard pulsed faintly in agreement. Even it seemed wary.
Marcel kept his voice low. "He knows I'm here."
Veyla's gaze flicked westward. "He'll come."
"Eventually," Marcel said. "But not before the Empire tries to kill him."
---
By the time they reached Mireholt's inner gates, the air was thick with marching drills and magefire tests. The Imperial Army of the 8th Domain had arrived at Ashveil three days prior, positioning siege beasts and high mages to engage Seravos directly. It was too little, too late for Ashveil—but not for the cities that followed.
Now, Mireholt had become a military spine—gathering reports, weapons, and war minds.
The gates opened with slow ceremony. Not for their sakes, but because the message Marcel carried had preceded them.
At the threshold stood a tall man in black and crimson armor, gold trim lining his shoulders. His features were angular, severe, and his stare sharp enough to draw blood. Captain Velka.
"So," he said, eyeing Marcel. "The Shard-Bearer walks with his own legs. I expected a stretcher."
"You'll have to settle for stubborn," Marcel replied.
Velka's lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.
"You weren't summoned for your wit," the captain said. "Follow me."
---
They were led through a narrow hall lined with lumium torches and wards etched deep into stone. The temperature dropped the deeper they went, until the air itself felt metallic.
In the war chamber below, a floating map showed the spread of Seravos's aura—red pulses radiating from Ashveil, bleeding into the surrounding lands. Velka's hand hovered over the boundary between the 8th and 9th.
"He wasn't meant to breach the Veil," Velka said. "But he did. Using you."
Marcel frowned. "I never called him."
"You didn't need to. The shard did. It remembers him."
Behind them, Veyla stirred.
"So what now?" Tarin asked.
Velka's eyes darkened. "Now, we ask whether you're a weapon, a liability, or something worse."
He gestured, and a second map flared into view—showing the western region of the 9th Domain. The Spine of Hollowing. A broken landscape, once sacred, now sick with shadow.
"We've lost three patrols in this zone," Velka said. "Strange terrain distortions. Whispers. A possible second shard."
He tapped a glowing mark. "We believe it's trying to awaken."
Marcel stepped forward. "And you want me to contain it."
Velka didn't deny it. "You've already drawn one. Let's see if you can cage another."
---
Later, Marcel stood alone beneath a high terrace. The wind howled against the ribs of the fallen colossus. Smoke from forges curled through the sky like prayers.
> [System Notice: Mission Branch Unlocked]
Title: Containment Protocol – The Hollow Voice
Shard Class: Unknown (Presumed A+ Tier)
Objective: Delay Awakening / Secure Anchor
Accept Mission? [Yes / No]
He stared at it in silence.
Lira joined him moments later, arms folded. "You heard it, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"What did it say?"
Marcel's eyes didn't leave the skyline.
"It said... welcome back."